My watchdogs lead me back to their room in The Dorm and tell me to get changed for baseball. I’m still not planning to play, but Shane informs me it’s the only time we’re allowed to wear shorts, whether you’re playing or not. The rest of the time, shorts are considered sinful, just like everything else that’s good.
Sinful or not, my Nike athletic shorts are a welcome relief from the Khaki pants, which keep sticking to my legs in the brutal humidity. It might only be April, but it’s as steamy as mid-July in Atlanta. “The air you wear,” my mom used to call it. But in Nowhere, Mississippi, it feels like the air wears you.
With our legs now bare and sinful, the three of us head back outside and join the line of boys marching like ants down the ridge toward the ballfield.
“I hate baseball se
