Always, as soon as Tobie set foot inside the cramped little shack known as the Dugout, he felt as if he had slipped back into a place that he thought was only preserved in a corner of his imagination. Glancing around the shack, he felt half his age, a boy again whose single interest in life was baseball.

The walls were plastered with pennants from all the current franchises, as well as some obsolete ones, with yellowed photographs of legends like Honus Wagner and Tris Speaker and Rogers Hornsby. The air smelled of rosin because of the clump of bags on sale at the end of the counter. And mingled with the smell of rosin was the cherry-scented pipe tobacco blend smoked by Alec, the proprietor of the Dugout, who sat near the middle of the counter, talking with a customer.

Alec was in his late fifties, with a corona of coarse white hair that seeped out from under the old St. Louis Brown cap he was wearing. He wore a different cap nearly every day, advertising his merchandise. Casually he nodded as Tobie walked over to the bat rack along the far wall. "Here to take some swings?" he asked.

Tobie grinned faintly. "Still want to see if I have my eye, I guess."

"That's something easy to lose all right, even for the best of hitters."

He noticed, as Alec was speaking, that his right wrist was wrapped in an elastic bandage. "What happened to your hand? You get in the way of a knuckleball or something?"

He grimaced. "Hell, at my age, as Stan Musial said once, a person can get hurt just standing around."

Tobie laughed then picked from the rack the 32 ounce black Louisville Slugger he had used the last couple of times he was here to take batting practice. Most of the bats in the rack were aluminum, which Tobie regarded as alien in his hands as cricket bats, because when he grew up playing baseball all bats were made of wood. Once he took a few cuts with one of the aluminum bats but the sound it made as it struck a ball was a dull plink that he didn't associate with the game of baseball but with leaded bottles falling off a shelf onto the floor. It was a strange, flat, curious sound that was absolutely foreign to the diamonds he had played on as a youngster.

After paying Alec, he shouldered the black bat and went outside to the batting cages. There were half a dozen of them, stretched in a ragged row to the right of the shack. The first two cages were occupied by a couple of American Legion players with strong shoulders and even stronger wrists who were ripping line drives to all fields. Shyly he stepped past them, wondering if they were wondering what someone his age was doing out here, and headed to the last cage. He was old enough to be their father, he thought to himself, almost in disbelief.

Before stepping into the cage, he removed his suit jacket and folded it on the bench, tucked his necktie inside his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Briefly he leaned against the bench, stretching his legs. Then, balancing the bat across his shoulders, he twisted slowly from side to side, trying to get limber.

"You hit that one right at the shortstop," one of the boys hollered to the other, laughing.

"Not a chance."

"You did too."

"I hit 'em where they ain't," he insisted, recalling the famous maxim of Wee Willie Keeler.

Trying to ignore their chatter, Tobie assumed his stance then began to swing the bat, slowly, methodically, at imaginary fastballs crossing the middle of the plate. He felt relaxed, strong, sure of himself. Once he got in the cage, he was confident, he'd pound one line drive after another out of the infield. "Streaks of lightning," as an old coach of his used to call them.

When he was the age of the boys in the first two cages, there was scarcely anything he liked to do more than hit, especially when he was in one of those grooves when the ball seemed as large as a grapefruit as it came across the plate. He was a pretty good contact hitter in his day, if he did say so himself, but now his day was gone of course. He was not a kid anymore, able to play baseball all summer long. He had a wife and daughter to look after and support, with responsibilities those two boys hadn't even thought about yet in their young lives. Still, he enjoyed taking batting practice almost as much as he did when he was their age, perhaps because he could pretend things were again as carefree as they had seemed when he was a boy.

His arms limber, he entered the cage and took a deep breath, trying to silence the bees swarming inside his stomach. Carefully he planted his feet in the batter's box, the left one first, digging his right toe into the dirt. Then he started to touch the tip of his bat on the edge of home plate but quickly drew it back, remembering the concern of Ted Williams that the bat might collect some dirt and then become heavier. Cocking his wrists, he settled into his stance, ready to swing.

The first pitch thrown by the machine was a fastball over the plate and he pulled it down the third base line. The next pitch was letter high and he snapped his wrists and fouled it off the screen. He nailed the next three pitches, however, pounding one for extra bases he was sure. He smiled with satisfaction, hitting the ball where it was pitched, just as he had tried to do when he played American Legion ball.

He was introduced to the Dugout nearly seven months ago by Ralph, who played second base for his old Legion team. The place had only been open a few weeks then and one Saturday afternoon, as a lark, Ralph suggested they go over and take some cuts. Somewhat reluctantly he agreed, despite not having swung a bat in years. And to his surprise his eye remained sharp, and quickly he began making solid contact with the ball, hitting it hard and deep. Before long, both of them seemed as sure of their skills as ever and even did some situation hitting, taking turns at trying to hit the ball where the other one said it should be hit. To his delight, Tobie won a pitcher of beer afterward because his hitting was a little more accurate than Ralph's.

"Back back back back back back," one of the boys stammered as the ball arced across the pale blue sky and headed over the left field wall. "Gone!" At once, the two boys erupted into cheers, making it sound as if their entire team were huddled around their cages.

Home run hitters are tyrant, Tobie believed, defining everything in terms of sheer power. Not like him and Ralph who were content to hit the ball where the situation demanded it be hit.

Grimacing, he lowered his right shoulder and lined the ball into what would have been the hole between first and second. He smiled, recalling another coach of his who used to say, time and again, "God gets you to the plate, but once you're there you're on your own."

Although he had been to the cages numerous times, he had never returned with Ralph, but always came alone because he was often in a bleak mood worrying about something or other. Certainly it was preferable to sitting in some bar and drinking himself into oblivion. In the cages he became so absorbed with hitting he didn't have time to brood on whatever was bothering him. He had to stay alert or else he might swing at a ball and miss.

"Damn," he swore as he chopping a little bleeder along the foul line.

He was out here just last Thursday and hit for an hour, trying to forget an angry exchange he had at work with his supervisor. And over the past few weeks he found himself in the cages after quarrelling with his wife, after receiving another speeding ticket, and after losing quite a bit of money at the racetrack. This was where he often came when he sought refuge from his tribulations, a place of concealment and rest where he could forget what was gnawing at him.

*

Any moment now, Tobie figured, slicing a foul ball, the service at the church would be over. Then everyone there would be on their way to the cemetery, their clothes reeking of incense and smoke, the smell of the church probably remaining with them for at least a couple of days.

He was also supposed to be at the funeral of Matty Sisler, an old friend from high school, had even received permission from his supervisor to take the afternoon off in order to be there. He wore his dark blue linen suit today, along with a sedate burgundy tie. His shoes were gleaming. And he was on his way to the service when all of a sudden he decided not to cross over the bridge to town and instead swung around and drove to the batting cages.

Matty took his own life, dying in his car from carbon monoxide poisoning. Tobie was shocked when he learned of his death. It had been nearly a year since he last saw him, but it was hard to believe he could have grown so despondent in that time to do what he did. He had always seemed so vibrant and full of promise, never one to take less than the most from what was offered to him. He even whispered at the top of his voice.

Tobie came to the cages because he didn't want to think about what happened to his old friend. There, he hoped he would become so engrossed in hitting baseballs that he would not be able to dwell on the say and despairing thoughts that he was sure would torment him at the service. Besides, the person who did what Matty did wasn't anyone he knew in high school, he rationalized, so there was no point then of thinking about someone who had become a stranger. And for a while he managed to keep Matty out of his thoughts as he concentrated on getting good wood on the baseballs sizzling across the corners of the plate. His eyes became dark smudges. Soon his shirt even became dark with sweat, clinging to his back and shoulders. An airplane grumbled overhead but he scarcely noticed it.

He was pleased with his efforts today in the cage, thought he was stroking the bat as well as he had in a long time. His swing was fluid and compact, with some sting behind it for a change. He hit a few short, lazy balls in the air, but mostly he was cracking line drives into the outfield.

After a while, despite his resistance, Matty began to intrude on his thoughts, particularly when he nailed a ball deep into center field. Then he imagined his old friend chasing it down and snaring it in the web of his cracked yellow glove, just as he had done so many times when he played center field on the same Legion team as Tobie and Ralph. Curiously he didn't mind the intrusions and after a while even began to encourage them, picturing his friend running after more and more of the balls he hit into the outfield. He figured it was more appropriate to pay his final respects to Matty inside the cage than at the church or cemetery because here he was able to remember him when he was young and strong and seldom made any mistakes.

And so, by the end of the afternoon, nearly every time he got good wood on the ball he saw Matty again, roaming across center field with the sun in his eyes.