“Play better,” Sloan always said. “Jes play better.”

“Gentlemen, we play better by practicing,” Mister JayMac said. “By thinking about what we’ve done that didn’t work. By reviewing from all sides what actually may.”

“Thinking too much’ll kill you faster than a jilted honey with a Smith and Wesson,” Charlie Snow said. Snow had the best ballplaying instincts on the club. He flowed from one spot to another and hit with the grace of an otter sliding off a rock.

“Think beforehand,” Mister JayMac said. “Not during. Most bush leaguers never go up cause they don’t want to put in the before and after work necessary to improve.”

“Other clubs don’t do this,” Fanning said. “They use bus trips to cool down and have some fun.”

“Good teams do it,” Mister JayMac said. “Who among yall wants to copy the Boll Weevils?”

Darius said, “The K. C. Monarchs do it. The Birmingham Barons do it.” Colored clubs, both of them.

“Yeah,” said Sloan. “And look where they are. Right at the top o the baseball world.”

Anyway, Mister JayMac guided us through that three-game skull session for better than an hour. He asked Fadeaway to explain why he’d slacked off towards the end of Sunday’s game. He told Evans to get Snow to teach him how to bunt.

“I know how to bunt. I jes didn’t get it done Sunday.”

“Then you don’t know how to bunt. All you can do is fake the stance and pop out backwards.”

“Fine him!” Hoey shouted from a seat or two behind Jumbo and me. “Fine the sorry peckerwood!”

The Bomber rolled past drought-stricken cattle pastures and peanut fields, rattling like a gypsy’s wagon. Most of us had pushed our windows up, and the air blowing through still had a vague morning coolness.

Lon Musselwhite lurched up the aisle. “Hear ye! Hear ye! The Rolling Assizes of the Hellbender Bureau of CVL Justice is now in session! The Honorable Judge Lionel K. Musselwhite presiding.”

“Lionel?” Skinny said. “His name’s Lionel?”

“Baseball-Latin for Muscles,” Hoey said.

Almost everybody else clapped or stamped. Muscles held up his hand. Darius glanced back and cried, “Stop! Yall gon bust the bottom outta this boat!” That helped some. So did Mister JayMac lifting his hands and making stifle-it gestures.

But the hubbub went on, and the Bomber did seem about ready to burst open and spill us onto the blacktop. In the pasture whipping past, moon-faced cows watched us go by.

Muscles said, “Sergeant-at-Arms Clerval, ten-HUT!”

Jumbo got up, his head turtle-ducked to keep from scraping the ceiling.

“Sergeant-at-Arms Clerval, remove from this assembly anyone whose behavior upsets the scales of justice,” Muscles said. “Toss em out a window.”

“Yessir.” Jumbo didn’t smile. Even in his clumsy stoop, he towered like a grizzly. It was half a joke and half a real threat. When everyone got quiet, he sat back down.

Muscles said, “Mr Evans, a party of some probity and maybe even unimpeachable expertise has accused you of-”

“Brown noser!” Hoey shouted.

Muscles ignored him. “-a demonstrated ignorance of the art of bunting. How do you plead?”

“Give him a defense attorney!” Quip Parris said.

“Turkey Sloan,” Evans said. “Give me Turkey.”

“Nyland Sloan, the court hereby appoints you to defend the incompetent accused,” Muscles said. “Mr Dunnagin, you must prosecute.”

Sloan traded places with Fanning so he could talk with Evans, and Muscles asked anyone willing to witness to say so. Sosebee, Fanning, and Sudikoff agreed to testify for Evans; Nutter, Curriden, Hoey, and Snow to speak against.

“How does your client plead?” Muscles asked Sloan.

Sloan stood up and said, “Your Honor, Mr Evans thinks these whole proceedings reek of kangaroo dung. The fix is in. A skinny kid from Brunswick ”-he meant Dobbs-”grabbed his starting role thout so much as a by-your-leave n-”

“A by-your-leave?” Mister JayMac roared. “Mr Dobbs beat Mr Evans like a drum! What’s this by-your-leave folderol?”

“Sorry, Mister JayMac,” Sloan said. “Just a formal legal way of speaking. It don’t mean pig tracks, actually.”

“Then you admit it’s a lie,” Mister JayMac said.

“Sir, you’re out of order,” Muscles said. “Mr Sloan, how does your useless scumbag of a client plead?”

“Objection!” Evans said.

“Shut up,” Muscles said. “I mean, hush. Overruled. I can’t say anything objectionable. I’m the judge.”

Sloan stretched out one arm and cleared his throat:

“The question is, Can Trapdoor bunt?

Does he know how, or is it a stunt

When he assumes the stance and then

Allows the ball to bruise his shin

Or bounce off his bat like popping corn?

Does he deserve our ruth or scorn?”

“For Christ’s sake, Turkey, how’re you pleading the sap?” Hoey said. “We aint got time for the goddamn Iliad.”

Sloan blinked and continued:

“Is a player who cannot bunt

A guilty lout or a innosunt

Victim of our expectations?

Blame we him or those vile matrons

Who sewed the ball to such a trim

Its twisting seams bamboozled him,

Causing him to look a lout

By poking it up, for an out?

So how pleads Evans this fine day?

Like this: Nolo contendere.”

“Okay,” Muscles said. “Mr Evans, I hereby fine you two bits and sentence you to practice bunting with Mr Snow.”

“Wait a sec,” Hoey said. “Don’t I get to present my testimony against the bastid?”

“Yeah,” Curriden said. “What about Nutter and me? Evans can’t bunt any bettern he can fart ‘ America the Beautiful.’ ”

“He doesn’t say otherwise,” Muscles said. “I’ve assessed the fine and stated the penalty. Case closed. Court continues in session, however. Next case!”

The Bomber groaned along, belching and smoking. Nobody said anything. I looked out the window. A line of oaks or elms split one of the rising pastures. Their branches dripped with Spanish moss. Red-winged blackbirds perched on the weeds in the roadside ditch; puzzled cattle looked out from hardwood clumps along the pasture ridge. Despite the bus’s growling, I felt nearly peaceful enough to fall asleep.

“Cmon, you guys,” Muscles said. “Next case!”

Jerry Wayne Sosebee stood up. “Awright.” He swallowed. “I accuse Jumbo and young Boles there of hoodwinking the boss. He gives em special road privileges that hurt team morale and affect how we play.”

A flight of locusts wheeled through my gut. The bus went quiet as a morgue.

Mister JayMac turned in his seat. “Hoodwinked?”

Only Hoey got a kick out of Sosebee’s accusation. “Jerry Wayne thinks Dumbo and Jumbo mumbo-jumboed you, sir.”

A couple of players sniggered. Guys with sense, though, hung on bent tenterhooks and bided their time.

“Do you really believe a speechless flea like Mr Boles could hoodwink me into anything, Mr Sosebee?” Mister JayMac said.

“Sir, I jes don’t believe Mr Boles cain’t talk. I think he could if he tried.”

“Case thown out,” Muscles said. “Mr Sosebee has based his accusation on ill will and prejudice. Therefore-”

“No, no,” Mister JayMac said. “I assume Mr Sosebee plans to demonstrate how Messieurs Clerval and Boles hood-winked me?”

“Well, mebbe Dumbo didn’t,” Sosebee said. “He’s jes flying on Jumbo’s coattails.”

“You excuse Mr Boles from your accusation?” Muscles said.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, the real favorite in this business is ol Goliath there.”

“And you see yourself as David?” Mister JayMac said.

“Nosir. Well, mebbe,” Sosebee said. “Jumbo needs to be brought down, though. Somebody has to do it.”

“Brought down? From what?” Mister JayMac said. “Leading us in home runs and RBIs? Playing his bag bettern any other first baseman in the league?”

“Taking advantage and stirring up ill will,” Sosebee said.

“You must be talking about yourself, Jerry Wayne,” said Lamar Knowles. Wow. Knowles never came down on anybody. If you pulled a merkle, he’d sidle over and tell you to forget it.