That’d be bad luck. He was excited now. He’d done well on this first afternoon of tryouts. The day was overcast and cool, and a few small patches of snow were still melting in the shady spots near the left-field fence. But the baseball diamond was clear and mostly dry. A trickle of sweat ran from Jimmy’s unruly hair onto his cheek. He quickly wiped it away. The muscular kid that Jimmy had just struck out was frowning as he put his bat in the rack. “What was your name again?” the kid asked. Jimmy tossed his mitt onto the rickety wooden bench and smiled. Not many kids had bothered talking to him since his arrival in town. “Jimmy Fleming,” he said eagerly. “My friends back home call me Flem.” The kid made a sour face and said, “Flem?” He thought for a second, squinting and giving the lanky newcomer a good looking-over. “I don’t know where ‘back home’ is, but to me phlegm is something you hack up and spit out.” And he did just that to demonstrate. “Home is Pennsylvania.
