The hour was late and the motel parking lot was a jumble of cars, but they were out there anyway, a group of time-worn black men whipping a baseball around with sweet abandon, razzing and wisecracking and carrying on like kids. It had always been like this: the joy of the game transcending rock-hard diamonds and fading light.
Four decades ago, they worked their magic in the Negro Baseball Leagues, playing their own game while white men ruled the sport. Tonight they were back together again in Ashland, Ky. (pop. 29,000), for the third...
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