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chain-link backstop, and the pitcher’s mound was no greater than any other petrified mound out there, “this situation is all about mind over reality. That’s the trick. Remember, if you put your mind to it, you can do better than reality.”
    By now we were both staring off into white space.
    “I am ready to put my mind to that,” he said.
    Sometimes, when it is cold, you have to connect perfectly to avoid the worst feeling in all the world. The buzzing electrified stinging of the hands after hitting the ball one eighth of an inch too high or low of the sweet spot. It would hurt less if, when you saw the pitch coming, you simply dropped the bat and smacked the ball with your bare hand. And if you really mess up and catch it either high up on the handle or way out on the very tip of the bat because one of the slickmasters like Butchie or Quin can’t resist throwing the funny stuff in February, well, it’s almost enough to put a guy off baseball for good.
    Right, I know. Right about here is where I lose most people. I get the look, and the whole, aren’t-you-taking-this-thing-a-little-too-seriously jag.
    No. I am not. What really matters? It could be a million different things, and I don’t necessarily have to appreciate what matters to somebody, except that I can appreciate that something does. Right, so, when I am hitting after a baseball, all I can tell you is that is what matters to me, and when I start my swing everything else there is falls away. School, family, friends and food and sky and grass are all gone to nowhere because I exist and the ball exists and that’s pure.
    Imagine the thing that matters. Imagine disappearing entirely into your thing that matters, needing that feeling. And then, zinnngggg.
    It bites you. It hurts you so bad that you have to throw the bat on the ground, the same bat that has to be pried out of your hands some July days. That is not fair. Your own dog shouldn’t maul you, and your bat shouldn’t sting you. That’s the world not right, right there.
    I guessed Napoleon Charlie Ellis would like to avoid that feeling. He would need to be sheltered from the elements to start off.
    “A batting what? ” Napoleon said as we left the city proper on the bus north.
    “Cage. It’s a practice facility. Somebody invented this thing so that you could practice baseball against live pitching—well, sort of live—all day, all night, all year even if you were totally friendless and everything. Total baseball. Brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.”
    “I will not be getting in any cage.”
    I had still not figured out Napoleon’s style. He sounded so proper and serious whether he was doing Hail Marys at church or telling you about the rice and beans and fish he fed his dog.
    “No, no, man it’s not that kind of—”
    “My uncle back in Dominica told me this would happen. He said if we dared come to this place, some white man would try to put me in a cage. ...”
    “That is so unfair... that hardly ever—”
    The way he laughed, even, was so controlled you had to pay real close attention to catch him doing it to you. Napoleon Charlie Ellis was very good at being controlled. I would have to get better at paying attention.
    “Fine,” I said. “Wait ’til you get conked on the head with a pitch, then it’s gonna be my turn to laugh.”
    “No it won’t, because I will not be getting in any cage, Richard.”
    I knew there would be this initial slow period, an introductory phase. This was new to him, after all, this was foreign. But it was baseball. Even though Napoleon wasn’t a regular player, I knew he had to be familiar with the game. And once familiar, well, like I said, this was baseball.
    “You gotta love it,” I said.
    “No, actually. I don’t got ta. ”
    It was possible I was being mocked. But I’d have to let that slide because there were bigger issues at hand.
    “Can you just trust me, Napoleon? Please? If you just give it a chance I am certain you are