One Shot at Forever by Chris Ballard

discus, the ground behind second base was a minefield of divots and crevices. Thus any ball that reached the outfield on the ground was liable to change direction unexpectedly or, worse, hit a crater and stop dead.
    The infield wasn’t much better. The mound was a flat patch of dirt, and the loose soil of the basepaths housed so many rocks that Sweet asked the players to periodically comb it with five-gallon buckets in hand. More often than not, the buckets were full in no time.
    On this day, the usual challenges were compounded by a game-time temperature of 39 degrees that felt even colder due to a brutal wind. It roared in off the barren cornfields, tearing off the boys’ hats during warm-ups and giving new meaning to the term “wild pitch.” Games had been called on account of wind in central Illinois plenty of times before, and this one probably should have been, too. Still, both coaches agreed it was better to at least try to play.
    As the game began, Sweet occasionally glanced over at the sideline, waiting for fans to arrive for the home opener. He knew there wouldn’t be many, especially early in the season and on such a cold afternoon, but even he was surprised by how lonely it was. In all, maybe a dozen people showed up. Since there were no bleachers, most stood by the fence or sat wrapped in blankets on folding chairs. All of them were parents.
    Maybe that was for the best. Macon struggled early, unable to read the conditions. Balls ricocheted off gloves and routine throws sailed wide. Shartzer uncorked a wild pitch and the errors piled up, three in all. On offense, the Ironmen couldn’t sustain a rally. In seven innings they managed only two runs on four hits while Pana scored four on six hits. It was little comfort that all four Pana runs were unearned.
    Afterward, the Macon players dispersed into the night, stewing about the errors and hoping the loss wasn’t the start of another long season. Sweet showered at the gym and drove back to the house in Decatur where he’d recently begun renting a room, replaying the game in his head the whole way.
    He wasn’t too worried, at least not yet, but he knew if the team lost a couple more games it wouldn’t take long for people in Macon to begin branding him a failure. Then again, he’d been called worse.
    Some months earlier, a parent walked into a Macon school board meeting, looking agitated. Held at 7:30 P.M . in the high school library, the monthly meetings were usually quiet affairs. The seven members were joined by a treasurer, the principal, and the superintendent. Meetings lasted an hour or so and the board voted on proposals using a simple “yea” or “nay” procedure. Monthly finances were discussed, expenditures recorded, and school matters debated. Most of the time, matters tended toward the mundane. “It was mutually agreed upon that no further consideration be given to the purchase of another lawnmower,” read the minutes for June 16, 1969, “and that the superintendent hire a boy in the community to mow the grass with present facilities at the salary of $1.50 an hour.”
    Occasionally, as on this night, townspeople attended. Most of the time, they came to ask the school for something: money for a graduation float, better concessions, new textbooks. This parent, however, had a grander concern. When called upon, he stood up, looked around the room, and made a proclamation. “You’ve got to get rid of Lynn Sweet,” he said. “That man is a communist.”
    Roger Britton was taken aback. He’d heard plenty of accusations leveled at Sweet. One time, Sweet and Ernie Miller walked out of Claire’s and, seeing pigeons perched on the grain elevator, grabbed a hunting shotgun from a friend’s car, took aim, and fired. That led to a fine of $50 for Sweet for “possession of a loaded and uncased gun,” and $35 for Miller. Another time, McClard became livid when