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your eyes and ears open,” he advised. “Be unselfish, modest, humble, and cooperative. Wingraciously and lose sportingly. Take the hard knocks as a matter of course, and blame none for your mistakes or shortcomings. Does everybody remember the signs?”
    â€œYou bet!”
    â€œGood! Now let’s show ’em what we’re made of!”
    The team whooped and ran out to their positions, with the home crowd cheering them on.
    Connie Wisniewski whipped in a few warm-uppitches. The leadoff batter for the Peaches, a tall, skinny girl, watched carefully as if she was trying to figure out Connie’s delivery. She tapped her bat against each cleat twice before stepping into the batter’s box.

    The positions of the Chicks.
    I thought about going into the stands to rile up the fans a little, but Max Carey glared at me, so I sat down. With the Chicks in the field, he and I were the only ones in the dugout.
    â€œCome on, Iron Woman!” Mickey Maguire shouted from behind the plate. “Put it in here, you big tomato! Hmmm, baby! She couldn’t hit you if she had a tennis racket!”
    The game hadn’t even begun yet, and Mickey’s uniform was already smudged with dirt. She spit on her hand and wiped it on her dress.
    â€œStrike one!”
    The pitch came in so fast, I didn’t even see it. I just heard a hissing sound as the ball crossed home plate.
    â€œThatababy!” shouted Mickey. “Now give her your rise ball. Let’s see the old slingshot, Connie!”
    The batter stepped out. She may not have seen the first pitch either. When she got back into the batter’s box, she had choked up on the bat and was crouching down. It was obvious that she was trying to make her strike zone smaller.
    Connie windmilled her arm three times and let the ball fly. The pitch was a little high.
    â€œBall one!” called the ump.

    Connie windmilled her arm three times and let the ball fly.
    â€œGood eye!” somebody called from the Peaches bench. “Wait for a good one.”
    â€œGive her your wrinkle now, Connie,” shouted Mickey. “She can’t hit the curve even if she knows it’s coming!”
    Balls two and three followed, much to the dismay of Connie Wisniewski. Mickey whipped theball back to Connie hard, like she wanted to shake her up. When the ump called the next pitch ball four, Mickey wheeled around and flung off her mask.
    â€œListen, you dim-witted blockhead!” she hollered at the umpire. “If you’d stop staring at the batter’s legs for a minute, you might see some strikes!”
    â€œI ain’t starin’ at her legs,” the ump shot back in Mickey’s face, “and if you don’t shut up, you’ll be staring at the inside of the locker room!”
    Mickey laughed and put her mask back on. The batter jogged to first. She did have nice legs.
    The times I’ve played softball, there was no stealing bases, and runners were not even allowed to take a lead until after the pitch crossed the plate. But the runner on first danced off the bag right away and took off for second on the first pitch to the next batter.
    Mickey caught the pitch and gunned it on a line to Ziggy Ziegler, playing second base. The runner slid in along with a cloud of dust. The plate umpire was the only umpire, so he made the call.
    â€œSafe!”
    â€œWe had her by a mile!” Mickey hollered.
    â€œI said safe ,” asserted the ump.
    â€œAh, you’re blind as a bat!” Mickey complained.
    â€œI’m warning you, Maguire! One more word and I’ll throw you outta here!”
    Max Carey whistled for Mickey to come over.
    â€œMick,” he said, sweeping his arm across thedugout. “I don’t have any subs. We can’t afford for you to get ejected from this game.”
    â€œI’m just fooling with him, Max,” Mickey said. “If I kick and scream about the close ones now, maybe he’ll give