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from the elbow. But these girls were whipping the ball back and forth so fast and so skillfully, I could barely see it.
    That was saying something, because the ball they were using was enormous. It looked evenbigger than a softball. It was more like a small melon.
    Then I noticed that the pitcher for the Chicks—Connie Wisniewski—was out of this world. The tallest player on the field, she would windmill her long right arm once, twice, sometimes three revolutions before releasing an underhand rocket toward home plate. She must have been throwing seventy or eighty miles per hour. The ball smacked into Mickey Maguire’s mitt with a pop that could be heard all around the ballpark. It was a beautiful thing to see. I began to think that I might have to change my opinion about girls playing baseball.
    Fans of all sorts were coming up to the front row railing to watch the players up close.
    â€œTeeny!” an adoring little girl hollered. “Teeny Petras, can I have your autograph?”
    â€œI like your curves, Connie!” an older guy hooted after sticking two fingers in his mouth to make a shrieking whistle. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
    â€œMarry me, Mickey!” shouted another guy.
    â€œThanks for the offer, bud,” Mickey Maguire shot back with a laugh. “But I’m already married.”
    â€œIf you got a husband,” shouted a guy in a baseball cap who looked like he’d had one too many, “why ain’tcha home cookin’ dinner for him?”
    I turned to look at the heckler.
    â€œHer husband is in Italy,” I said, “fighting for your freedom.”
    â€œWhat do you know?” the guy replied. “You’redressed up like a chicken!” The guys next to him, who looked just as drunk, laughed appreciatively.
    â€œLet ’em razz me,” Mickey told me. “I can handle myself.”
    â€œOh, big girl,” one of the drunks yelled sarcastically. “She can handle herself. A woman’s place is at home!”
    Mickey took off her mask and spit in the direction of the drunk guys. “Yeah, she said, “home plate .”
    â€œNext thing you know,” the first guy said, “they’ll have a monkey at short, a giraffe at third base, and a trained seal in center field!”
    He and his friends thought that was brilliantly clever, and they congratulated themselves on their originality by clinking beers.
    â€œAh, blow it out your rear end,” Mickey snorted, turning away from them to concentrate on Connie Wisniewski’s fastballs.
    I wondered about the men in the stands. If the able-bodied American men were fighting the war in Europe or the South Pacific, who were these guys? They must be too old to be drafted, too young, or have something wrong with them, I concluded. I noticed a few guys in Army uniforms who were missing legs. They were probably just back from the war.
    I was staring into the crowd when a kid came down to the first row right in front of me. He was about my size and looked about my age, but he was smoking a cigarette.
    â€œI’m here,” he said to me. “You can take off the chicken suit.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWhat are you—deaf? I said take off the chicken suit. I’m the new mascot. Get the picture? Now wise up and take off the suit or I’ll take it off for you.”
    I don’t like being ordered around by kids, and I didn’t like this kid’s attitude. What was he going to do—jump over the fence and rip the chicken suit off me?
    â€œYou’re late,” I told him. “The early bird gets the worm, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
    â€œSez who?” the kid said. “They told me the job was mine!”
    â€œYeah, well, the next time somebody offers you a job, maybe you ought to think about showing up on time. They couldn’t depend on you, so they hired me.”
    â€œThat ain’t fair!”
    â€œHey, life isn’t