TWELVE
ROCK ISLAND, ILLINOISArt Powell got there an hour and a half before the game was scheduled to start at one o’clock, a Friday afternoon contest between a barnstorming colored crew and a decent local semi-pro white bunch said to have a Triple A ringer hurling for them. From the stands along the first-base side, Powell saw the barnstormers step onto the field. To his surprise, he recognized the manager right off, a man he had played with, drunk with, and managed against in the Caribbean and the Mexican winter leagues.
“Cap! Hey, Cap!” Powell called out, leaning over the rusted metal rail.
Ted Garrett turned around and trotted over. His face glowed when he saw his old friend. “Well now, Art Powell. s**t, man. Good to see yuh. How long’s it been?”
They shook hands. Garrett spat tobac
