"You remember all them stories I told you?"

"Yes."

"You make sure you remember them. You can tell Petey and Little Carl, when they get old enough to listen. You sure you remember?"

Peggy smiled. This was a long standing ritual with Grampa. "Well, maybe you could tell me again, just in case I forgot a few things."

"Yeah, well...you remember about the baseball bats? Louisville Sluggers, they was...beautiful things..."

Millie was having a difficult time with this baby. There had been two still-births between Mac and the one she was carrying now: Remembering this made her hover over Mac, fussing at him constantly. Jake finally called his cousin Henry up north in Monticello, asking if he could send Mac up there for the summer.

"Millie's going to drive this boy crazy," he explained. "Mac's 12 years old, he doesn't need to be mother-henned to death and that's what Millie's doing."

Henry said that Mac would be welcome, and Jake drove him up the following weekend. Henry's son John was a year younger than Mac. They envisioned a whole summer exploring together, wading in creeks, fishing for blue-gill in the lake, playing baseball in the north pasture.

Henry explained to Mac that he would be expected to help John with chores. "This is a working farm," he said. "John knows what needs to be done, and he'll be happy for the help."

With two of them doing the chores, they had more time to play than when there was only one. Before dawn they would quietly go outside to milk the cows, slop the pigs and feed the chickens. With four hands, they found only one trip to the henhouse was necessary to get all the eggs in to Nellie. This meant they could begin their adventures immediately after breakfast instead of waiting.

"I'm headin' into town," Henry told them one morning. "You boys want to come with me? I have to go to Mr. Avery's store."

After breakfast, Mac and John crawled into the back of the truck, shouting every time the truck jounced in a rut. There was a canvas tarp in the back which kept their bruises to a minimum, but it was still a fine bouncy ride.

Right inside the door at Mr. Avery's store was a brand new display of baseball bats, the polished wood gleaming in the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Mac and John each picked one up, balancing it in their hands, feeling the smooth cool wood. Mac swung the bat, marveling over its balance. "My Pa says these are the best bats ever made," he said. He fingered the logo, Louisville Slugger, which had been burned into the bat. "He says when he played for the Cincinnati Redstockings, he'd only use a Louisville Slugger."

"I bet I could hit the ball a mile with this," John said wistfully. "I bet it would just sail away and never get found."

They caressed the bats, thinking of baseball games and crowds of people cheering them on. Mac pictured himself in the coveted uniform of Cincinnati, posing at the plate, daring the pitcher to strike him out. The crowd would cheer and call out his name, knowing that the Great Mac Hamilton would get a home run, like always. He imagined that bat resting in the Baseball Hall of Fame, with his picture above it. "The Great Mac Hamilton hit 2000 home runs with this bat," the sign would read. "An unbeaten record."

John pictured himself in the locker room, after scoring all the runs for his team and bringing home the penant. Reporters would jostled around him, begging him to tell them his secret--was it all in the bat? How could he perform those miraculous feats on the diamond? Little boys, their eyes full of stars and hope, would wait for him outside the locker room. "Hey, Mr. Hamilton, sir, could you sign my glove?" they'd ask. "You're the greatest, Mr. Hamilton," they would say, respectfully. "Call me John," he'd tell them, maybe tousling their hair a little. "I used to be just like you, and look where I am! You keep practicing, and someday I'll ask you for your autograph." He would sign the glove with a flourish, always careful to get the boy's name on there. They would call him, John Hamilton, a Hero For Today's Youth.

Mac and John looked at each other silently. No words, just a shared thought: they had to have these bats.

John looked over to the counter where his father and Mr. Avery were deep in conversation. He nodded. Still carrying their bats, John and Mac walked out to the truck, carefully concealing the bats under the tarp.

They were quieter on the way home, the bouncing wasn't as exhilarating as before. They waited until Uncle Henry strolled into the barn before retrieving the bats, before they ran off to the north pasture.

Over and over, they took turns pitching and hitting. The ball sailed farther than either of them had hit it before. The bats were magic, they agreed. They pitched and hit, narrating their accomplishments, as the sun slid down lower in the sky.

"Boys?" Henry was standing by the pasture gate. "Where did you get those bats?"

Mac and John stared at each other, stricken. "Uh, Mr. Avery said we could have them," John stammered.

Henry unlatched the gate and walked over to them. He easily took the bats from their sweaty hands, his face stern. "Boys, I know better. You stole those bats from Mr. Avery, didn't you?"

"Yes sir," they mumbled, staring down at the grass.

"Well, you boys walk into town and tell him what you've done," Henry said. "You tell him that you're sorry and that I'll be in later this week to return the bats." He stalked away from them, the bats hefted over his shoulder.

"Pa! You want us to go now? We'll miss dinner!" John called out after him.

"You shoulda thought about that before stealing these bats," Henry said over his shoulder. "Get goin' or else you'll be walking in the dark."

Mac and John trudged down the road into town. It was a long walk, almost 3 miles, but it wasn't long enough. Too soon, they were standing outside of Mr. Avery's store. "I'll tell him," Mac said. "I'm the oldest."

"Mr. Avery? I have something to confess," Mac said, his voice trembling. "Me and John, we took a couple of those Louisville Sluggers today. We didn't pay for them."

Mr. Avery peered back at them from behind the counter. "I can't believe that Henry or Jake Hamilton's sons would steal," he pronounced. The boys hung their heads, faces flaming. Mr. Avery continued, "I've known your family for over twenty years, and there's never been a Hamilton what stole." He shook his head mournfully. "John, your daddy must be awful shamed about now."

"Yessir," John muttered.

"Uh, it wasn't John," Mac tried to explain, his voice cracking. "It was my idea, sir."

"You're a Hamilton, too, son," Mr. Avery reminded him. "Your daddy's gonna be unhappy when he comes to get you." He sighed, shaking his head again. "I just can't believe it--Hamilton's stealing."

"We're real sorry," Mac burst out. "Uncle Henry said to tell you that he'll be in later this week to return the bats."

"Did you play with'em?"

"Yessir," John and Mac mumbled, staring back at the floor.

"I can't sell no used bats. You tell Henry that for me. I reckon he'll take care of it."

Stumbling over more apologies, Mac and John backed out of the store and started home.

"Pa's gonna have to pay for those bats," John said. "I ain't got no money, so Pa's gonna have to pay for them."

"I guess my Pa will have to pay him back when he comes to get me," Mac added, his voice trembling.

"Pa might whip us," John kicked a pebble out of his way, taking no pleasure in its soaring flight. "Ma says I'm too old for a whipping, but I ain't never stole before. He might whip us."

They trudged along as slowly as possible, dreading the arrival home.

"You ever been whipped before?" Mac finally asked.

"Once. I smarted off to Ma, and she whipped me with a wooden spoon. Pa's never whipped me, but he's threatened. He always said he'd cut a switch off that tree in the side yard and just wear it out on me. You ever been whipped?"

"No. Pa's swatted at me, but he's never given me a real whipping."

They could see the farmhouse and barn in the distance. The sun was in its last few minutes, and they could see the lights glowing in the windows.

"You reckon we could just go in front and go up to your room?" Mac asked hopefully.

"No. Pa would just come up and get us, and he might be madder if we tried to hide. We might as well get it over with."

They hovered outside the kitchen door for a moment, trying desperately to find some courage. Nellie solved the problem by opening the door herself. "You boys go out to the barn," she said gently. "Henry wants to talk to you out there."

"Ohh," John moaned. "We're getting a whipping. Pa always said he'd take me in the barn and tan me."

They stumbled across the yard to the barn, their stomachs tied into cold little knots.

"Pa?" John called out. "Me and Mac's back from Mr. Avery's."

Henry was milking one of the cows, not bothering to look up at the boys. "You told him about the bats?"

"Yessir," they answered.

"What did he say?"

"He said he can't sell no used bats," John answered, his voice quavering.

"I figured. Well, I guess we better settle this now, right?" Henry stood up, carefully moving the pail so the cow wouldn't kick it over. Mac and John backed up, Mac wishing desperately that his pants offered more padding.

"You boys are too old to whip," Henry said, still not looking at them. He walked over to the wall, pulling two long handled hoes off their hooks.

Mac and John looked at each other, near tears in their relief.

"You're too old to whip," Henry continued, "but you're too old to get away with this, too. I'm gonna have to pay Mr. Avery for those bats 'cause he can't sell them. So I think that you boys are gonna have to work to earn those bats." He handed each boy a hoe, motioning toward the barn door. "Come on."

Silently, Mac and John followed Henry, the hoes propped up on their shoulders.

"See that corn patch? You boys have to keep that corn patch free of weeds for the rest of the summer."

Mac and John looked at each other, disbelieving. Keep a thirty by thirty corn patch weed-free? That was it?

"That's all?" John asked, hesitant. "We just have to weed the corn?"

"You have to keep it free of weeds," Henry corrected. "All summer." He smiled slightly. "Weeds like corn patches. You can start it tomorrow."

The boys put the hoes back on their hooks and went in the house. They whispered back and forth to each other that night, expressing their relief, exchanging giddy exclamations of suprise. They hadn't expected theivery to carry such a light punishment.

The next morning, after their regular chores, John and Mac retrieved their hoes. "You start here," Mac instructed, "and I'll start at the other corner. We'll meet in the middle. You want to go fishing this afternoon?"

They started hacking away at the ground and weeds, confident that a few hours work would find them at the lake with their fishing poles.

It had been a dry summer and the ground was baked as hard as cement. The weeds were tenacious, refusing to relinquish their hold on the earth. When Nellie called the boys in for lunch, they had each only hoed 2 rows--much less than half of the patch.

"I don't think we'll be going fishing today," Mac said slowly. "Maybe tomorrow."

Two days later, they met in the middle of the now weed-free corn patch. John had blisters on his hands, while Mac was just too tired to even contemplate fishing.

"You boys have done a good job on the corn," Henry told them over dinner. "Remember, just keep it clear for the rest of the summer."

"Yessir," they agreed.

That night, as John and Mac slept, exhausted, the heavens opened and rain soaked the newly hoed corn patch. What had been dried clods of dirt was now slick mud--and more weeds. They seemed to spring up overnight, threatening to take over the patch and choke the corn.

The pattern continued: Mac and John would get the weeds cleared from the patch, the rain would come and the weeds returned. Now, in addition to struggling with the weeds, they had to fight the mud which tried to suck them into the ground.

Jake drove up in early September with the news that Mac had a new baby sister and that school was to start in a week. Henry showed Jake the corn patch, explaining the story of Mr. Avery and the bats. Jake nodded his approval, agreeing that the boys needed to learn how to earn what they wanted.

Mac leaned against Jake's truck, waiting for the two men to finish their conversation. All he wanted was to get back home to Seymour, away from the now hated corn patch.

"They done real good," Henry told Jake. "They never asked if they could let the hoeing go for the day, they just did the work." Henry smiled over at Mac, who was too tired to smile back. "I think they earned those bats, don't you?" He ambled over to his own truck, pulling one of the bats out from under the tarp. "Now it's yours," he explained. "You've worked hard for it, and now you can have it." He handed Mac the bat, then reached into his back pocket. "Now, you and John did a lot more work on that patch then just the amount I had to pay for the bat. So I'm giving your Daddy $10 for you. When you get back to Seymour, you can buy yourself a new glove and ball."

Mac's eyes widened. The struggle with the weeds, the despised daily battle with the mud was forgotten as he realized that for the first time in his life, he would own a brand new glove and a brand new bat. "Thanks, Uncle Henry!" he said fervently. "Oh boy, a new glove! Wait till the guys back home see this!"