“Dago,” Bill said, “what do’yer think?” His cap was waxed with clay and oil; a season’s worth of fretzing had creased the brim into a steeple. It sat high on his wet head, pointing toward the bridge. A line of trolleys rolled above the ballfield.

“I think I’ll put it in the creek,” Vic said. “Don’t you worry your pink cheeks.”

Tenth Street climbed up Fountain Hill toward the mill along the baseline. The bridge made pine tar shadows almost touching third, the space between the arches looked like mitted fingers.

“Eat shit,” the pitcher said. “I think I’ll put it in your mom.”

Betty sat with June behind the backstop.

“Listen, Bet,” Vic said, “it ain’t polite to stare.”

“I ain’t staring, neither,” she said, “least of all at you.”

“You was starin’ when we was at the pool, Bet. Don’t lie around your sister.” June latched knots of grass and clover into chains.

“Must you be so common? In front of children, really.”

“Don’t get your socks all dirty.”

“Sissy don’t lie, neither, Dago,” June said through missing teeth. Their older brother, Apple, got up from the bench.

“Jesus,” said the pitcher. “Here come the old gray mare. Sit your ass down, Potter!”

Apple called Vic over. “Quit yer showing off.”

Vic looked at the bridge. “Apps, we got all day.” Hardtops skimmed above the concrete chutes.

“Dago,” Bill said, “this Swede’s a cold dead fish.”

The pitcher licked his fingers. “We playing ball or what? Quit yer jerking off.”

“Watch close, Bet-Bet,” Vic said. “Stop staring at my ass.”

“Like fun,” Bet said and stood. “June, we’re going home.”

“Come on, Bet. Stop yer foolin’. It’s goin’ in the creek.”

Vic stepped in the box. The Swede flashed milk-white teeth and bent in wild angles. His front leg pointed to the bridge, his knee came to his nose, Bill thought the pitcher’s arms would reach back down the block.

“Jesus, Gustav,” Vic said. “If I could stretch like that I’d never leave the house. Assumin’ you can find it.”

The pitch came high and out. “That was gratis, Gustav. Come on, don’t fuck this up.”

The catcher threw back from the squat. “You like the view there, don’t you? Keep your balls out of my face.”

“Come on Dago,” Bill said. “Put it in the crick!”

“Don’t worry your pink cheeks.”

“Focus, Dago,” Apple scolded.

“Focus, Dago, focus.” Bill’s hat was in his hands.

Strike one felt high, inside. Gustav showed his teeth. Vic stepped out and swung. Gustav touched the rubber.

“This is all what you call formality,” Vic said. “The whole thing’s been decided. Hitler and the Duce? They’re joined at the hip.” He looked back at Betty. “Ain’t your Pap named Fritz?”

“Vulgar,” she said. “Really.”

“Victor,” he said, “Victor. Like the Dago king.”

Strike two was down the middle. “Your Majesty,” the Swede said, “has a funny way of scoring.”

“Let’s put this thing to bed.”

Ball two was high and in. “I beg your royal pardon.”

Vic stepped out to swing. He looked back at Betty through the diamond chain. “I’m signing up.”

“For summer school?”

“I’m signing up. The Navy.”

“Victor,” Bet said, “really?”

He stepped back in the box. Gustav touched the rubber. Victor drove a fastball into Tenth.

“Loosen up! You’re out in front,” Apple hollered from the bench. “Keep your goddamn pants on!”

“They won’t take you, Dago,” Bill said. “You gotta be eighteen.”

Gustav touched the rubber. “Dagos all talk shit.”

“Mangia, Scandie. You can eat it. I said I’m signing up.”

“Dago, they won’t take you.”

“I didn’t say tomorrow.”

“Always talking shit.” Gustav began the stretch. Ball three was at Vic’s chin. “Free dental work,” the Swede said. “Fix that fucking jaw. Your mouth goes wop, wop, wop.”

“Shut up and pitch, big herring. Go fuck a rutabaga.”

June crowned her older sister with a ring of daisy chains. “June,” she said, “that’s lovely. Thank you very much.”

“Vic is king of Dagos. You can be the queen!”

Vic watched Gustav’s hands, tracked the ball through his rotation. Glove to groin, head to hip, the kick and angle home. Betty noticed Victor’s stirrups, the dirt on his white socks. Apple pressed in on the chainlink, Bill chewed on his hat.

On the bridge, the sailcloth tops of Bantam jeeps glanced in and out of view. Streetcars clanged above the infield chatter, and the whistle at the millyard, out of play beyond the creek and foul pole willows, turned over its new shift.

“Get ready, Dago,” Bet said.

The runners moved on contact, the stitching spun in long red lines, the yellow hide got hung up in the trees. Betty stood and strained to see the winding come down in the creek.

“Clap for Victor, June,” she said, smoothing out her skirt.