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leafed through it, studying the sketches that displayed proper technique for fielding a grounder, and the correct batting stance. I was drawn to sketches of a hand gripping a ball, with the fingers in different positions along the seams. This chapter explained all the various twists and downward turns you could accomplish with these grips, and by flipping your wrist at just the right moment.
    I was surprised I’d never seen George reading this book, and wondered why he’d kept it hidden, as we all knew how much he loved baseball. But when I got around to the remaining papers, the reason became clear. I unfolded what turned out to be letters, which were stacked in chronological order. They were from a man named Stanley Murphy who lived in St. Louis, Missouri. And he was a baseball scout.
    It seemed that George had met an assistant of Mr. Murphy’s in the fall of 1914, on one of George’s trips to Omaha, where Dad sometimes traveled to sell calves. That year had been the first that he’d allowed George to make the trip for him. Mr. Murphy’s assistant had given George a tryout, and George made a big impression. In the last letter, dated just two weeks before George’s death, Mr. Murphy spoke of George’s pending trip to St. Louis. “You’ll notice I have enclosed a train ticket. That’s how much faith I have that we’re going to like what we see.” The yellow ticket was still tucked into the folds of the letter—its price, $2.10, prominently displayed in one corner.
    I sat with my eyes closed, trying to comprehend what these letters implied. There was no one I knew who seemed more suited to living on the ranch than my brother George. I thought. I thought he loved it out here. Like everyone in our county, I had expected George to take over the ranch when my folks were too old or too tired. No other possibility had ever entered my mind. And I didn’t understand. The mystery haunted me enough that for a short time, I considered going to St. Louis myself. After all, Mr. Murphy had never met George. I could pretend to be George. They would eventually figure out that I wasn’t, of course. But by then, maybe I would understand the attraction.
    A week or so later, I wrote to Mr. Murphy. I explained who I was, and told him that George had drowned. I returned his ticket, and after pondering whether it was appropriate, I asked whether George had told him for sure that he was interested in playing pro ball. A month later, I received this letter:
    Dear Mr. Arbuckle,
    I’m very sorry to hear about George. I believe he had a lot of promise. And I wondered why we hadn’t heard from him. I am returning the ticket. I want you to keep it. And if you ever wonder what being a professional ballplayer might be like, please write to me. I’ll give you a tryout. My condolences to your family.
    Stanley Murphy
    The letter disappointed me. He didn’t answer the most important question. I wanted to hear Mr. Murphy report that George had changed his mind, that he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the ranch. I ended up stashing the letters in a coffee can, along with the ticket. And I buried the can in a corner of the barn.
    “C’mon, boy.” I buried my heels into Ahab’s flanks, and he reared and heaved forward twice. His front hooves caught the bank with the second lunge, and the momentum carried him right up the slope, into the pasture, where he settled into a comfortable trot. A light dew brightened the grass. Blue-white clumps of sagebrush, immune to the moisture, squatted stubbornly, as unchanging as stone.
    I came to the top of a ridge where the view always left me breathless, with our world opening up in front of me. I climbed from Ahab’s back and gazed out across the flowing sea of green. Only the distant, square brown outline of a homestead cabin, an occasional lone tree, and a cluster of cattle broke up the expanse of green. The deserted cabin reminded me of the day that the wife of the young couple marched up to our