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brutal conditions. Historically, Macon’s weather cycle was uncannily in sync with the baseball season, the rains increasing through the spring and peaking in late May, during the heart of the schedule. Early season games were often held in a light drizzle or, if it happened to be dry, a 45-degree temperature that felt ten degrees colder due to the winds tearing across the Illinois plains. Snowfall had forced many a March practice inside, where the boys made do with tennis balls and Wiffle balls in the cramped gym. Because of all the cancellations, Macon sometimes played as few as eight conference games a year.
    By these standards, Sweet’s first day was downright temperate, plagued by only an early morning shower. As the boys warmed up on the waterlogged grass under a weak spring sun, Sweet stood near the backstop with his glove under his arm. Scanning the field, he mulled potential lineups.
    On the mound, throwing half-speed, was Doug Tomlinson. A senior, Tomlinson was the closest Macon High had to a big man on campus—a star on the basketball team, the quarterback of the football team, and a member of the National Honor Society. He was both Macon’s best returning hitter and its ace, armed with an overpowering fastball and an effective curveball. Tall and handsome, with dark hair, droopy eyes, and broad shoulders, Tomlinson was the kind of kid for whom it seemed everything came easily. Even so, as the only remaining starter from the 1968 team that won only one game, he of all the boys most felt the weight of the team’s history.
    Behind the plate, thick and imperturbable, squatted junior Dean Otta. Sweet had never seen a catcher quite like Dean. A tough country boy, he eschewed signs, instead telling his pitchers to “just throw it up there and I’ll catch it.” This might have proved disastrous had Otta not possessed an eerie ability to stop most any pitch. He blocked balls with his body, snared them above his head, and, if they sailed too far off the plate, was known to catch them barehanded.
    Out at shortstop, his brother, Dale, scooped up grounders. Though twins, the two were easy to tell apart. While Dean was wide and solid with a wedge for a jaw, Dale was tall, thin, and light on his feet. He’d led the team in batting average as a freshman and finished his sophomore year tied with Tomlinson for the best mark, all while displaying one of the best arms on the team. A serious, introverted boy, Dale provided a counterbalance to some of his fun-loving teammates. Sweet expected him to emerge as a team leader, if not a vocal one.
    To Dale’s right, chin jutting out, Steve Shartzer emitted a steady stream of smack talk. Shark had grown into a strong-armed third baseman, talented hitter, and imposing pitcher. He was also perhaps the cockiest sixteen-year-old Sweet had ever met. Still, the coach had developed a soft spot for the boy.
    Next to Shartzer, taking turns at third base and in the outfield, was wispy junior John Heneberry, the last of the team’s trio of starting pitchers. So lanky as to appear almost undernourished, Heneberry had missed all his sophomore season with mono. He mystified Sweet. Even though the other boys swore he had great stuff, to Sweet’s eye the kid had one of the weaker arms on the team. At one point, Sweet wondered aloud why Heneberry kept practicing his changeup. Finally one of the boys had told him that wasn’t Heneberry’s changeup. It was his fastball.
    Across the diamond, doling out grounders, was first baseman Jeff Glan. In most respects, Glan was the opposite of the prototypical tall, homer-bashing corner infielder. Only five-foot-seven, he was primarily a singles hitter. Not blessed with speed, he had a habit of throwing his chin back when he ran, making it look as if his head might topple off its mooring at any instant. The son of a farmer who worked a second job at the Pittsburgh Plate Glass factory, he was also the best student on