With one out and one on, Isom hit a home run over the right field fence and we went ahead 3–2. Then Sam singled and Antoine doubled him home. I flied out but Antoine went to third and Doc hit one over the first baseman’s head. 5–2. Tiny yanked Froggy and a new pitcher warmed up.

Talcott Lloyd pushed his way through the crowd near the dugout.

“Isom! C.J.! You’re a-doin it! Shit, you’re fuckin em ten ways to sundown! Shit!”

He reached out and grasped our hands.

“Ever damn miner from Felco is rootin for Annadel! You better believe it! Davidson dont tell us what to do!”

“You wasnt so cocksure before the game,” I teased.

“Hell, I didnt know you’d hit Froggy like that. Damn, you boys owned him.”

“Come on and sit the bench,” Isom said. “Bring us luck.”

“Naw! Me and my buddies is workin somethin up. We got our pistols with us, and after you win, we’re goin to shoot em off. Scare the hell outen old man Davidson.”

“He’ll fire your ass!” I said, alarmed.

“Dont care! I’ll kick his.”

We watched him sort his way back through the crowd.

“Damn fool crazy when he’s drinkin,” Isom said. “And sometimes when he aint drinkin.”

“He worse since he come back from France?”

“Let’s just say he dont seem to care about much.” Isom spat a brown stream of tobacco juice. “One thing he aint done yet is beat Pricie. Long as that’s so, he’s still yet my kin by marriage.”

Sam Gore tired in the seventh. I could tell the zip was gone offn his fastball, and he hung a curveball that Carmello Angelelli slashed for a triple. Carmello’s daddy homered and it was 5–4, Annadel. Then Joe Tibbs took four straight balls and trotted to first base.

We gathered around Sam, who kicked at the mound and wouldn’t look at any of us. His eyes glistened with tears.

“Had to expect it,” Doc consoled him. “You cant shut down them Angelellis forever.”

“Arm’s hurtin,” Sam muttered. “It’s weary.”

“Better bring in Antoine,” said Ralph Day, our catcher.

“Jesus!” said Antoine. “O’Malley up.”

“Wait!” Isom held up his hands. “I got an idea. Let Sam pitch to O’Malley.”

“You crazy?” We screamed it together.

“But look here,” Isom insisted. “We know O’Malley can hit good pitchin. What we dont know is, can he hit bad pitchin. I bet he cant. He been in the majors too long.”

“Play ball!” the umpire cried.

The Davidson fans cheered, clapped impatiently, rhythmically. A group in the corner of the first base bleachers chanted, “Choke niggers choke! Choke niggers choke!”

“You want him, Sam?” Isom asked.

“Sure I want him.”

“Give him change-ups. I mean real change-ups, like a girl would throw. Put an arch in it, drop it in.”