Flack had already started back from second, and he was fast, and the moment Luther fired that ball toward first, Whiteman tagged up from third. And Flack, yes, Flack was very fast, but Luther had some sort of cannon in that skinny body of his and that ball shrieked over the green field and Flack trampled the ground like a stagecoach and then went airborne as the ball slapped into Aeneus James’s glove, and Aeneus, the big guy Ruth had first encountered playing center field when he’d come out of the trees, swept his long arm down as Flack slid on his chest toward first and the tag hit him high on the shoulder and then his hand touched the bag.

Aeneus lowered his free hand to Flack, but Flack ignored it and stood up.

Aeneus tossed the ball back to Sticky Joe.

Flack dusted off his pants and stood on the first base bag. He placed his hands on his knees and planted his right foot toward second.

Sticky Joe stared over at him from the mound.

Aeneus James said, “What you doing, suh?”

Flack said, “What’s that?” his voice a little too bright.

Aeneus James said, “Just wondering why you still here, suh.”

Flack said, “It’s where a man stands when he’s on first, boy.”

Aeneus James looked exhausted suddenly, as if he’d just come home from a fourteen-hour workday to discover somebody’d stolen his couch.

Ruth thought: Oh, Jesus, no.

“You was out, suh.”

“Talking about, boy? I was safe.”

“Man was safe, nigger.” This from Ebby Wilson, standing beside Ruth all of a sudden. “Could see it from a mile off.”

Now some colored guys came over, asking what the holdup was.

Aeneus said, “Man says he was safe.”

“What?” Cameron Morgan ambled over from second. “You’ve got to be funning.”

“Watch your tone, boy.”

“I watch whatever I want.”

“That so?”

“I do believe.”

“Man was safe. With change.”

“That man was out,” Sticky Joe said softly. “No disrespect to you, Mr. Flack, but you were out, sir.”

Flack placed his hands behind his back and approached Sticky Joe. He cocked his head at the smaller man. He took a sniff of the air for some reason.

“You think I’m standing on first because I got confused? Huh?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“What do you think, then, boy?”

“Think you was out, sir.”

Everybody was at first base now—the nine guys from each team and the nine coloreds who’d taken seats after the new game had been drawn up.

Ruth heard “out.” He heard “safe.” Over and over. He heard “boy” and “nigger” and “nigra” and “field hand.” And then he heard someone call his name.

He looked over, saw Stuffy McInnis looking at him and pointing at the bag. “Gidge, you were closest. Flack says he’s safe. Ebby had a good eye on it, and he says he’s safe. You tell us, Babe. Safe or out?”

Babe had never seen so many angry colored faces this close. Eighteen of them. Big flat noses, lead-pipe muscles in their arms and legs, teardrops of sweat in their tight hair. He’d liked everything he’d seen in these ones, but he still didn’t like how they looked at you like they knew something about you that they weren’t going to tell. How those eyes sized you up fast and then went all droopy and faraway.