A kid of 11 can run a long time, no matter how much he has played during the day. The car lights would swing onto our street, and we would run back and forth, making singles, doubles, triples and always sliding in safely.
One time, on a sure single off of Indiana Avenue, Fenn and I collided at the swings. I turned into him and we both went down in a pile. The car whipped past. We were out.
There were other outs. Fenn tried for a double home run on a car that turned into a driveway four houses up the street. Butch got caught by a surprise car while he was running on one the other way. We were forced to slow down, play more conservatively. Three outs and you lost all your runs.
I knew it was an extraordinary night when I ran for a double on Fenn's dad's car. He was going to work. It was morning! Clear across the park we could see Old Man Wilkes raking his garage fire.
Fenn said, "He's going to be sorry when it's all gone. He won't have anything to burn tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow."
"Yeah, well, if I ever pull over my garage and burn it, I hope somebody puts me away."
"What about chasing kids in your Plymouth, trying to run them down?" Butch asked. He was lying on his sleeping bag with his elbow over his eyes against the new light.
"Yeah, well, that part might not be too bad."
"How many runs you got?" I asked Butch.