The next pitch, a curve ball, hung like it was drapes and O’Malley was on it. There was a crack, and the ball towered over the outfield. The wind had it again but it would do no good this time.

A second crack. The ball disappeared. Black fragments sprayed in all directions. Something struck my upturned face and fell to my shoulder. I plucked at it, held it up. It was a singed strip of cowhide.

The crowd was stunned into silence. I heard a high whoop beyond the outfield fence.

“Ball game’s over!”

Talcott Lloyd held his pistol high over his head. He whooped again.

“Ball game’s over, Mr. Davidson! You dont run things no more!”

All hell broke loose. I was scared that the Davidson police would shoot Talcott, but when I leaped the fence I saw him toss down the pistol. He spied me and yelled, “C.J.! Did you see that shot? Them’s ten to one odds, brother! Hot damn!”

He was still laughing when the police wrestled him to the ground and handcuffed him. The stands emptied and fistfights broke out. I dodged some irate Davidson fans and got back onto the field. The teams stood in a bunch near home plate. Sam Gore and Joe Tibbs wrestled on the ground. Lytton Davidson, surrounded by police, yelled at Isom.

“Just what I expected! You people are crazy! You can’t do things this way!”

“He was a goddamn ringer!” Isom screamed back. “He werent legal in the first place!”

Tiny Sanders throwed down his cap and stomped it.

“It was a home run!” he yelled at the umpire. “It’s 9 to 6!”

I pushed my way between them. “Hit never cleared the fence. I was under it. Hit never cleared the fence.”

“It would have!” Davidson’s face was beet-red. I never seen him up close before. He was so short he barely rose up to my tits.

Isom grabbed the umpire, spun him around. “O’Malley’s a goddamn ringer,” he repeated.

The umpire throwed up his hands. “I’m a-callin this here game! You bastards can tote it home in a poke!”

Davidson opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He glared at me.

“This is my property,” he said in a voice like ice. “Get off it. I want you and your team on the first train out.” He turned to a policeman. “Clear this field. Send these people home.”

We separated Sam and Joe Tibbs, who were rolling on the ground and doing little damage to one another. Sullenly we gathered our bats and gloves, tossed them into canvas bags.

“We beat them bastards,” Antoine said. “I know we did.”

“Damn straight,” Isom agreed.