A Sound of Thunder and Other Stories by Ray Bradbury

girl friend Katherine. She was the one who made the beds at the hotel and cottages every morning, who tapped on your door like a bird and politely asked if you was done dreaming, ‘cause if you was she’d clean away all them old nightmares and bring in a fresh batch—please use them one at a time, thank yoah. Big Poe shook his head, looking at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was there. Then he turned, one hand balancing the bat, his left hand dangling free at his side, to await the trial pitches. They hissed past, spatted into the open mouth of the catcher’s mitt, were hurled back. The umpire grunted. The next pitch was the starter.
    Big Poe let the first ball go by him.
    “Stee-rike!” announced the umpire. Big Poe winked good-naturedly at the white folks. Bang! “Stee-rike two!” cried the umpire.
    The ball came for the third time.
    Big Poe was suddenly a greased machine pivoting; the dangling hand swept up to the butt end of the bat, the bat swiveled, connected with the ball——— Whack! The ball shot up into the sky, away down toward the wavering line of oak trees, down toward the lake, where a white sailboat slid silently by. The crowd yelled, me loudest! There went Uncle George, running on his stubby, wool-stockinged legs, getting smaller with distance.
    Big Poe stood for a moment watching the ball go. Then he began to run. He went around the bases, loping, and on the way home from third base he waved to the colored girls naturally and happily and they waved back, standing on their seats and shrilling.
    Ten minutes later, with the bases loaded and run after run being driven in, and Big Poe coming to bat again, my mother turned to me. “They’re the most inconsiderate people,” she said.
    “But that’s the game,” I said. “They’ve only got two outs.”
    “But the score’s seven to nothing,” my mother protested.
    “Well, just you wait until our men come to bat,” said the lady next to my mother, waving away a fly with a pale blue-veined hand. “Those Negroes are too big for their britches.”
    “Stee-rike two!” said the umpire as Big Poe swung.
    “All the past week at the hotel,” said the woman next to my mother, staring out at Big Poe steadily, “the hotel service has been simply terrible. Those maids don’t talk about a thing save the Cakewalk Jamboree, and whenever you want ice water it takes half an hour to fetch it, they’re so busy sewing.”
    “Ball one!” said the umpire.
    The woman fussed. “I’ll be glad when this week’s over, that’s what I got to say,” she said.
    “Ball two!” said the umpire to Big Poe.
    “Are they going to walk him?” asked my mother of me. “Are they crazy? ” To the woman next to her: “That’s right. They been acting funny all week. Last night I had to tell Big Poe twice to put extra butter on my popcorn. I guess he was trying to save money or something.”
    “Ball three!” said the umpire.
    The lady next to my mother cried out suddenly and fanned herself furiously with her newspaper. “Land, I just thought. Wouldn’t it be awful if they won the game? They might, you know. They might do it.”
    My mother looked at the lake, at the trees, at her hands. “I don’t know why Uncle George had to play. Make a fool of himself. Douglas, you run tell him to quit right now. It’s bad on his heart.”
    “You’re out!” cried the umpire to Big Poe.
    “Ah,” sighed the grandstand.
    The side was retired. Big Poe laid down his bat gently and walked along the base line. The white men pattered in from the field looking red and irritable, with big islands of sweat under their armpits. Big Poe looked over at me. I winked at him. He winked back. Then I knew he wasn’t so dumb.
    He’d struck out on purpose.
    Long Johnson was going to pitch for the colored team.
    He ambled out to the rubber, worked his fingers around in his fists to limber them up.
    First white man to bat was a man named Kodimer, who sold suits in Chicago all year