The air crackled with ozone. Brick smokestacks of a knitting mill loomed over the bleachers along the third-base line and behind corrugated tin fencing in the outfield (279 feet to straightaway center). Burdock and pokeweed grew between the ties of an abandoned rail spur. All quiet as the two teams switched positions at the half inning—no claps or cheers, just the low rumble of approaching thunder. Total paid attendance for the Battle of the Sexes Softball Match was 61, not enough to cover expenses. The lead-off hitter was Clothilde Soileau, a slight but compact woman with tightly curled brown hair and the kind of pale, hearts-and-flowers face that caused temples to vibrate back in 1925. In white lettering on the back of her green uniform shirt over the numeral 1, it said simply, TILDY. She raked the dirt around the batter’s box with her spikes, took a few practice cuts, then stepped in, crowding the plate and choking up on the aluminum bat, holding it at a 90-degree angle just behind her right ear.
