I sat alone in the bleachers and watched the Methodists score three more in the eighth. I dreamed of the day when I’d be out there, hitting home runs and making incredible plays in center field. Those wretched Methodists wouldn’t have a chance when I got big enough.

They won eleven to eight, and for the fifth year in a row Pappy had led the Baptists to defeat. The players shook hands and laughed when the game was over, then headed to the shade, where iced tea was waiting. Pappy didn’t smile or laugh, nor did he shake hands with anybody. He disappeared for a while, and I knew he would pout for a week.

The Cardinals lost, too, three to zero. They finished the season four games behind the Giants and eight games behind the Brooklyn Dodgers, who would face the Yankees in an all-New York World Series.

The leftovers were gathered and hauled back to the cars and trucks. The tables were cleaned, and the litter was picked up. I helped Mr. Duffy Lewis rake the mound and home plate, and when we finished, the field looked as good as ever. It took an hour to say goodbye to everyone. There were the usual threats from the losing team about what would happen next year, and the usual taunts from the winners. As far as I could tell, no one was upset but Pappy.

As we left town I thought about the end of the season. Baseball began in the spring, when we planted and when hopes were high. It sustained us through the summer, often our only diversion from the drudgery of the fields. We listened to each game, then talked about the plays and the players and the strategies until we listened to the next one. It was very much a part of our daily lives for six months, then it was gone. Just like the cotton.

I was sad by the time we arrived home. No games to listen to on the front porch. Six months without the voice of Harry Caray. Six months with no Stan Musial. I got my glove and went for a long walk down a field road, tossing the ball in the air, wondering what I would do until April.

For the first time in my life, baseball broke my heart.

The heat broke in the first few days of October. The nights became cool, and the rides to the fields in the early morning were chilly. The stifling humidity was gone, and the sun lost its glare. By midday it was hot again, but not August-hot, and by dark the air was light. We waited, but the heat did not return. The seasons were changing; the days grew shorter.

Since the sun didn’t sap our strength as much, we worked harder and picked more. And, of course, the change in weather was all Pappy needed to embrace yet another level of concern. With winter just around the corner, he now remembered tales of staring at rows and rows of muddy, rotting, and unpicked cotton on Christmas Day.

After a month in the fields, I missed school. Classes would resume at the end of October, and I began thinking of how nice it would be to sit at a desk all day, surrounded by friends instead of cotton stalks, and with no Spruills to worry about. Now that baseball was over, I had to dream about something. It was a tribute to my desperation to be left with only school to long for.

My return to school would be glorious because I would be wearing my shiny new Cardinals baseball jacket. Hidden inside my cigar box in the top drawer of my bureau was the grand sum of $14.50, the result of hard work and frugal spending. I was reluctantly tithing money to the church and investing wisely in Saturday movies and popcorn, but for the most part my wages were being tucked safely away next to my Stan Musial baseball card and the pearl-handled pocketknife that Ricky gave me the day he left for Korea.

I wanted to order the jacket from Sears, Roebuck, but my mother insisted I wait until the harvest was over. We were still negotiating this. Shipping took two weeks, and I was determined to return to class decked out in Cardinal red.

Stick Powers was waiting for us late one afternoon. I was with Gran and my mother, and we had left the fields a few minutes ahead of the others. As always, Stick was sitting under a tree, the one next to Pappy’s truck, and his sleepy eyes betrayed the fact that he’d been napping.

He tipped his hat to my mother and Gran and said, “Afternoon, Ruth, Kathleen.”

“Hello, Stick,” Gran said. “What can we do for you?”

“Lookin’ for Eli or Jesse.”

“They’ll be along shortly. Somethin’ the matter?”

Stick chewed on the blade of grass protruding from his lips and took a long look at the fields as if he were burdened with heavy news that might or might not be suitable for women.

“What is it, Stick?” Gran asked. With a boy off in the war, every visit by a man in a uniform was frightening. In 1944 one of Stick’s predecessors had delivered the news that my father had been wounded at Anzio.

Stick looked at the women and decided they could be trusted. He said, “That eldest Sisco boy, Grady, the one in prison for killin’ a man over in Jonesboro, well, he escaped last week. They say he’s back in these parts.”

For a moment the women said nothing. Gran was relieved that the news wasn’t about Ricky. My mother was bored with the whole Sisco mess.

“You’d better tell Eli,” Gran said. “We need to fix supper.”

They excused themselves and went into the house. Stick watched them, no doubt thinking about supper.

“Who’d he kill?” I asked Stick as soon as the women were inside.

“I don’t know.”

“How’d he kill him?”

“Beat ‘im with a shovel’s what I heard.”

“Wow, must’ve been some fight.”

“I guess.”

“You think he’s comin’ after Hank?”

“Look, I’d better go see Eli. Where exactly is he?”

I pointed to a spot deep in the fields. The cotton trailer was barely visible.

“That’s a far piece,” Stick mumbled. “Reckon I can drive down there?”;

“Sure,” I said, already heading for the patrol car. We got in.

“Don’t touch anything,” Stick said when we were settled into the front seat. I gawked at the switches and radio, and of course Stick had to make the most of the moment. “This here’s the radio,” he said, picking up the mike. “This here flips on the siren, this the lights.” He grabbed a handle on the dash and said, “This here’s the spotlight.”

“Who do you talk to on the radio?” I asked.

“HQ mainly. That’s headquarters.”

“Where’s headquarters?”

“Over in Jonesboro.”

“Can you call ‘em right now?”

Stick reluctantly grabbed the mike, stuck it to his mouth, cocked his head sideways, and, with a frown, said, “Unit four to base. Come in.” His voice was lower, and his words were faster, with much more importance.

We waited. When HQ didn’t respond, he cocked his head to the other side, pressed the button on the mike, and repeated, “Unit four to base. Come in.”

“You’re unit four?” I asked.

“That’s me.”

“How many units are there?”

“Depends.”

I stared at the radio and waited for HQ to acknowledge Stick. It seemed impossible to me that a person sitting in Jonesboro could talk directly to him, and that Stick could talk back.

In theory that was how it was supposed to work, but evidently HQ wasn’t too concerned with Stick’s whereabouts. For the third time he said into the mike, “Unit four to base. Come in.” His words had a little more bite to them now.

And for the third time HQ ignored him. After a few long seconds, he slapped the mike back onto the radio and said, “It’s probably ol’ Theodore, asleep again.”

“Who’s Theodore?” I asked.

“One of the dispatchers. He sleeps half the time.”

So do you, I thought to myself. “Can you turn on the siren?” I asked.

“Nope. It might scare your momma.”

“What about the lights?”

“Nope, they burn up the battery.” He reached for the ignition; the engine grunted and strained but wouldn’t turn over.