Chapter 9On Saturday morning, six- and seven-year-olds in blue and white uniforms dot the baseball field, wearing expressions far too serious for such youthful faces. Joey stands on the pitcher's mound, kicking at the dirt as he has undoubtedly seen done on television. I wonder if he knows why he is kicking at the dirt, and if he is going to adjust himself and spit tobacco next.
He gives the signaling catcher a confident nod, and then winds up to pitch. Joey shows the batter his best evil eye as he holds the ball and his glove together, and then rears up on one foot. The recipient of this psychological warfare is a neighbor of ours. He is a nice kid, but this is great theater. Joey throws a fastball, high and outside, that the batter swings at far too late. Strike one. This poor kid is so
