SIXTEEN
DES MOINES, IOWA — AUGUSTChester took the last gulp of his warm Dr. Pepper, and set the bottle down. He was in the habit now of writing his mother and Agnes every two or three days. It was easy enough to do with all the time the team spent traveling. Today, sitting on the bus steps across from the ball diamond, he caught the moment to start a fresh letter between an afternoon doubleheader, while his teammates lingered about getting ready for the next game in another twenty minutes. His hitting slump had come to an end. Chester was in a groove, and he was enjoying himself again.
This backwoods boy from Louisiana was bitten, and it happened so fast. He was in love. Not a normal love. He was madly, wildly, head-over-heels in love. He sucked on the end of the ball-point pen, mulling
