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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 120 Fenn was in reality a large kid on the Red Hats who already, at age twelve, had a beard, the players voted heavily for Fenn. "And he has to play in the game." "Right. At least for a minute. That's the rule for All Star Games." Our game is tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock. Edison League, which is our league, is playing against a team from clear across town, the All Stars from Holladay. I'm starting at second base. After five more turns, Butch pinches the bit at the top of the bat and removes it. Looking at the measure on the drill, we see we're in just over seven inches. Butch starts up again. It takes half an hour until he's buried the bit, and the shank is rankling the top of the bat. We've gone as far as we can go. The table is covered with a mound of golden spirals of wood. I tip the bat and tap out the sawdust. Emptied, the bat weighs a few ounces. After I wave it around like a wand, Butch takes it from me and puts his eye to the hole in the top as if it is a telescope. "I think we're all right," he says. "The Piston Bat, the only Piston Bat in the world," he says it in capital letters. We pour two tablespoons of baby powder in the cavity. "Graphite is a better lubricant," Butch says. Then he goes back into the secret recesses of his room and returns with a four inch length of steel pipe. He hands it to me. "Lead |