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make a pretty good coach.”
    â€œThat so?” Sweet said, trying to sound casual. He knew what was coming next. While plenty of parents at Macon High didn’t approve of his teaching methods, the baseball dads weren’t among them. Sweet had played softball with some and watched Cubs games with others. In turn, the men had seen how their sons responded to Sweet’s English class, and they respected how he maintained control of his students while still making class enjoyable. Some, like junior pitcher John Heneberry’s father, Jack, had heard Sweet was “too out of the ordinary, too much of a hippie longhair.” Still, it wasn’t like they had many other choices.
    For his part, Sweet wasn’t against coaching, and had quietly mulled the option ever since Shartzer had first brought it up at a pig roast. In theory, the job appealed to him. It was the reality that worried him. Coaching baseball would require a large time commitment, and he’d have to fight McClard over every budgetary issue.
    There was also the small matter of the fact that not only had Sweet never coached baseball, but, as he now reminded Bob Shartzer, he’d never coached anything .
    â€œWho cares?” Shartzer replied. “Hell, the boys did fine with Burns.” He paused. “Besides, we got some talent out there, L.C., and you know it.”
    This was true. In 1969, boosted by a group of young players, the Ironmen had built on a mediocre season to go 10–5 and win the school’s first conference title since 1962 . Sweet had wandered by a few of the games and was impressed by how smooth the team looked on the field.
    Despite his claims to the contrary, Sweet actually knew plenty about the game. As a boy, he’d played on military bases, where he developed an easy, compact swing, and a snap throw that he released from his ear, like a catcher. Eventually he became skilled enough that, upon falling in with some baseball players in Champaign, he was invited to try out for a local semipro team during college. To the surprise of everyone, he made it. Though not a power hitter, Sweet had enough pop in his bat to hit the occasional home run, was a fine third baseman, and could take the mound in a pinch. His talent, combined with his fun-loving personality, meant he was always being asked to play for someone, somewhere, whether it was the Eastern Illinois League in Champaign or semipro circuits in southern Illinois. He was never paid for his services—unless you count beers at the tavern afterward—but he played with plenty who were.
    He turned back to Bob Shartzer.
    â€œYou know I love the boys,” Sweet said. “But I’ll have to think about it.”
    And with that, Sweet hoped to slip out of Claire’s and avoid further entreaties. Before he could make his exit, though, reinforcements arrived in the form of Ernie Miller. “If there’s anyone who can get my boy Mark out there to play ball,” Ernie said, “it’s you.” One beer led to two, which led to four and, pretty soon, arms were around shoulders and lineups were being discussed.
    Under a hazy ceiling of cigarette smoke, buoyed by the Pabsts, Sweet began to see the job in a new light. It would require a lot of time, but he was a single guy in Macon—all he had was time. And the more he thought about it, those boys did have potential. It might not be evident to most in the town, but it was to him. They could be good, he thought, real good . All they needed was someone to believe in them.
    A week later, he walked into Britton’s office and made an announcement: He’d take the baseball job.
    If Sweet needed reason to doubt his decision, he got it on March 4, 1970, the first day of practice. After two days of rain , the morning dawned cold, dark, and misty. That afternoon, when Sweet made his way out to the field at 3:30, it was through a marshy outfield.
    The players were accustomed to playing in