Grabbing my bat, I took my time getting to the plate. Hitting was a foreign language to me. To put it succinctly, I sucked like a Hoover.Little Rock b...ought in a scrawny guy to pitch to me, who looked like he might pitch, or might simply fall over in a faint. He was so skinny, I wondered how he could keep his pants up, but he had a tremendous fastball, with no movement. If I could catch up to it, I could hurt them.That was wishful thinking.Good morning. Good afternoon. Good night. Three pitches. Golden hair, blue eyes peeked above the blankets I swaddled them in. Blankets I had made from a tablecloth, the largest piece of cloth I could find that Pa would let me use. He said my efforts to keep them alive were a waste even beat me for it. He said I was slacking on the house and he wouldn’t stand for it. So I kept them in the kindling box behind the stove. They stayed warm there and quiet unless they were hungry which was all to often. When they cried and Pa was in the house I had to. More

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