“How many chocolates you got?” I asked, looking at the collection of ice cream coolers just waiting in the shade.

She smiled and said, “Oh, I don’t know. Several.”

“Did Mrs. Cooper bring her peanut butter ice cream?” Dewayne asked.

“She did,” Mrs. Flanagan said and pointed to a cooler in the middle of the pack. Mrs. Cooper somehow mixed chocolate and peanut butter in her ice cream, and the results were incredible. Folks clamored for it all year round. The year before, two teenaged boys, one a Baptist and one a Methodist, almost came to blows over who would get the next serving. While peace was being restored by the Reverend Orr, Dewayne managed to grab two bowls of the stuff. He charged down the street with them and hid behind a shed, where he devoured every drop. He talked of little else for a month.

Mrs. Cooper was a widow. She lived in a pretty little house two blocks behind Pop and Pearl’s store, and when she needed yard work done she’d simply make a cooler of peanut butter ice cream. Teenagers would materialize from nowhere, and she had the neatest yard in town. Even grown men had been known to stop by and pull a few weeds.

“You’ll have to wait,” Mrs. Flanagan said.

“Till when?” I asked.

“Till everyone is finished.”

We waited forever. Some of the older boys and the younger men began stretching their muscles and tossing baseballs in the outfield. The adults talked and visited and talked and visited, and I was certain the ice cream was melting. The two umpires arrived from Monette, and this sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd. They, of course, had to be fed first, and for a while they were more concerned with fried chicken than with baseball. Slowly, the quilts and umbrellas were taken from the outfield. The picnic was ending. It was almost time for the game.

The ladies gathered around the dessert table and began serving us. Finally Dewayne got his peanut butter ice cream. I opted for two scoops of chocolate over one of Mrs. Lou Kiner’s fudge brownies. For twenty minutes there was a near-riot around the dessert table, but order was maintained. Both preachers stood in the midst of the pack, both eating as much ice cream as anybody else. The umpires declined, citing the heat as the reason that they should finally stop eating.

Someone shouted, “Play ball!” and the crowd moved toward the backstop. The Methodists were coached by Mr. Duffy Lewis, a farmer out west of town and, according to Pappy, a man of limited baseball intelligence. But after four losses in a row, Pappy’s low opinion of Mr. Lewis had become almost muted. The umpires called the two coaches to a meeting behind home plate, and for a long time they discussed Black Oak’s version of the rules of baseball. They pointed to fences and poles and limbs overhanging the field-each had its own rules and its own history. Pappy disagreed with most of what the umpires said, and the haggling went on and on.

The Baptists had been the home team the year before, so we hit first. The Methodist pitcher was Buck Prescott, son of Mr. Sap Prescott, one of the largest landowners in Craighead County. Buck was in his early twenties and had attended Arkansas State for two years, something that was quite rare. He had tried to pitch in college, but there had been some problems with the coach. He was left-handed, threw nothing but curveballs, and had beaten us the year before, nine to two. When he walked out to the mound, I knew we were in for a long day. His first pitch was a slow, looping curveball that was high and outside but called a strike anyway, and Pappy was already yapping at the umpire. Buck walked the first two batters, struck out the next two, then retired my father on a fly ball to center field.

Our pitcher was Duke Ridley, a young farmer with seven kids and a fastball even I could hit. He claimed he once pitched in Alaska during the war, but this had not been verified. Pappy thought it was a lie, and after watching him get shelled the year before, I had serious doubts, too. He walked the first three batters while throwing only one strike, and I thought Pappy might charge the mound and maim him. Their cleanup batter popped up to the catcher. The next guy flied out to shallow left. We got lucky when their number-six batter, Mr. Lester Hurdle, at age fifty-two the oldest player on either roster, hit a long fly ball to right, where our fielder, Bennie Jenkins, gloveless and shoeless, caught it with his bare hands.

The game settled into a pitcher’s duel, not necessarily because the pitching was sharp, but more because neither team could hit. We drifted back to the ice cream, where the last melting remnants were being dished out. By the third inning the ladies of both denominations had grouped into small clusters of conversation and, for them, the game was of lesser importance. Somewhere not far away, a car radio was on, and I could hear Harry Caray. The Cardinals were playing the Cubs in the final game of the season.

As Dewayne and I retreated from the dessert table with our last cups of ice cream, we walked behind a quilt where half a dozen young women were resting and talking. “Well, how old is Libby?” I heard one of them say.

I stopped, took a bite, and looked beyond them at the game as if I weren’t the least bit interested in what they were saying.

“She’s just fifteen,” another said.

“She’s a Latcher. She’ll have another one soon.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Boy’s what I heard.”

“And the daddy?”

“Not a clue. She won’t tell anybody.”

“Come on,” Dewayne said, hitting me with his elbow. We moved away and walked to the first-base dugout. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or scared. Word was out that the Latcher baby had arrived, but its father had not been identified.

It wouldn’t be long, I thought. And we’d be ruined. I’d have a cousin who was a Latcher, and everybody would know it.

The tight pitching duel ended in the fifth inning when both teams erupted for six runs. For thirty minutes baseballs were flying everywhere-line drives, wild throws, balls in the outfield gaps. We changed pitchers twice, and I knew we were in trouble when Pappy went to the mound and pointed at my father. He was not a pitcher, but at that point there was no one left. He kept his pitches low, though, and we were soon out of the inning.

“Musial’s pitching!” someone yelled. It was either a joke or a mistake. Stan Musial was a lot of things, but he’d never pitched before. We ran behind the bleachers to where the cars were parked. A small crowd was closing in on a ‘48 Dodge owned by Mr. Rafe Henry. Its radio was at full volume, and Harry Caray was wild-Stan the Man was indeed on the mound, pitching against the Cubs, against Frankie Baumholtz, the man he’d battled all year for the hitting title. The crowd at Sportsman’s Park was delirious. Harry was yelling into the microphone. We were shocked at the thought of Musial on the mound.

Baumholtz hit a ground ball to third, and they sent Musial back to center field. I ran to the first-base dugout and told Pappy that Stan the Man had actually pitched, but he didn’t believe me. I told my father, and he looked suspicious, too. The Methodists were up eight to six, in the bottom of the seventh, and the Baptist dugout was tense. A good flood would have caused less concern, at least at that moment.

It was at least ninety-five degrees. The players were soaked with sweat, their clean overalls and white Sunday shirts stuck to their skin. They were moving slower-paying the price for all that fried chicken and potato salad-and not hustling enough to suit Pappy.

Dewayne’s father wasn’t playing, so they left after a couple of hours. A few others drifted away. The Mexicans were still under their tree by the right-field foul pole, but they were sprawled out now and appeared to be sleeping. The ladies were even more involved with their shade-tree gossip; they could not have cared less who won the game.