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We used to have a Fourth of July baseball game at the ranch, before Viking/Penguin started touring me in June. We played hardball in the pasture behind our house, and I covered the windows and skylights with wooden shutters to protect the glass from the many wayward foul balls. We finally had to shut the game down, but by the time we did, we were averaging a crowd of more than 150 people. Everybody played-from seven to seventy-and there was an unstated agreement between the catchers that we would drop the third strike on every child under thirteen, so it took about an hour to bat around the line-up.

Most of us played in our cowboy hats and boots, and we sported shorts and legs that hadn't seen the light of day since Casey Tibbs had been a toddler. During one game, when I was catching and had Buck Brannaman at the plate I signaled the twenty-year-old American Legion pitcher we had on the mound for a fastball-Buck is the original Horse Whisperer and a natural athlete, so I thought he could take the heat. The pitcher looked in at my one extended finger; the first time I'd given the sign all day. The kid shrugged, pulled one from way back in the wheel house, and unloaded. Fortunately, I had the glove in the right spot, because there wasn't much time to move. I figure it was in the low nineties. Buck, who hadn't moved the bat from his shoulder, turned to look down at me and ask, "What the hell was that?"