At the age of seventeen, he had signed a contract with the Cardinals to play professional baseball. But the First War called him, and not long after he came home, his father died. Pappy had no choice but to become a farmer. Pop Watson loved to tell me stories of how great Eli Chandler had been how far he could hit a baseball, how hard he could throw one. I would ask.
Pop tells tales.
Pappy, who was rubbing the baseball in his mammoth hands, cocked his head at the sound of a vehicle. Coming from the west was a truck with a trailer behind it. From a quarter of a mile away we could tell they were hill people. We walked to the shoulder of the road and waited as the driver downshifted, gears crunching and whining as he brought the truck to a stop. I counted seven heads, five in the truck, two in the trailer.