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precise moment when McClard began endeavoring to do just that.
    Britton could only protect Sweet for so long. Baseball would have to do the rest.

4

“Practice Is Optional”
    The recruiting began in earnest some months later, on a snowy January night in 1970. Worn out after work, Sweet made the short walk from his apartment on Front Street to Claire’s Place. Just down from the bank and across from the railroad tracks, Claire’s was the kind of small, smoky bar where people went to do some serious drinking. Canvas hunting coats hung from the stools like drapery, and a few beat-up booths gave way to a cigarette-stained pool table in the back, not far from a card table where locals played a game called pitch, a descendent of euchre. The bar had seen its share of fights, especially on Saturday nights, but it was relatively quiet on this afternoon. The regulars were present, of course, a row of old-timers atop their designated stools, settled in from three to seven P.M . each afternoon. There were the Panchot brothers from the grain elevator across the street, and Big Joanne, as well as Stan Farlow and Roger Goin, whom everyone just called “Get.” And, at the end of the bar, Comet Johns, who proudly drank nothing but Michelob. Since the bar stocked only one twelve-pack of such a high-end beer at any given time, Sweet and his buddies loved to tweak Comet by walking into the bar and announcing loudly, “One Michelob down here, please!”
    On this afternoon, Sweet ordered his regular, a Pabst. He drank it not because he loved the beer but because, at a quarter, it cost a dime less than premium beers like Budweiser and Schlitz. As he cracked open the can, he heard a voice.
    â€œHey, Sweet, you always drink alone?”
    Sweet looked up and smiled. It was Bob Shartzer. The two men had spent some good nights drinking together, and were friendly. Shartzer pulled up a stool next to Sweet and order a Pabst himself.
    â€œSo, you hear the boys still don’t have a baseball coach?”
    Sweet had and, frankly, it didn’t surprise him. There were few less-desirable gigs at Macon High. Baseball may have been the national pastime, fueled by the popularity of players like Bob Gibson, Pete Rose, and Carl Yastrzemski, but central Illinois was football and basketball territory. Even track was more popular at Macon High, and with good reason. There was little to no fan support for the baseball team; games were often rained out; and, despite some promising young players, the Ironmen had a long history of losing. Three years earlier, the Ironmen had gone the entire season and managed only one win—and that came on a forfeit when the opposing team thought it had a home rather than an away game. The Macon boys celebrated anyway.
    The job of head coach had become viewed as an enlistment of sorts at Macon High—serve your time and get out. In the previous three years, the boys had gone through three coaches, the latest of whom, Jack Burns, claimed, with little dispute, to know “not a shit” about the game. Even the players were dubious. One of the town’s most talented boys, a junior named Mark Miller, had opted not to come out for the team as a freshman and sophomore, saying he was too worn out from football. No one much blamed him. Dale Otta, the team’s junior shortstop, sat in bed at night wondering why no one wanted to coach the team.
    Now it was two weeks before the season and Macon once again needed a new coach. Britton had canvassed the faculty and come up empty, in part because he could offer little incentive. Though the job required longer hours and plenty of travel, it came with only a 3 percent bump in salary. Eventually, the parents of the players had decided to take matters into their own hands, which explained why Bob Shartzer was at Claire’s.
    â€œYou know,” Shartzer continued, taking a deep swig of his beer. “Me and the Glans were thinking you’d