Frank felt completely invigorated as he emerged from the tunnel, leaving behind the cloudy concourse of smokers. Stopping at the end of the veranda, he rested his hands on the white metal railing, warm to the touch from the afternoon sun, and watched Union Steel Ballpark coming to life.

The stadium was already three-quarters full. People continued to flow through the entry tunnels at ground level and climbed the rows to their seats.

Amid the steady chatter, people coughed and hacked and whooped... sounds that were becoming more common these days. In each section of the ballpark, a scattering of patrons wore white breathing masks.

The Spanish Flu had already spread waves of deaths across America. Doctors were calling it in an epidemic, and even a small town like Hester wasn't immune to the virus as new cases were popping up every day.

Frank exhaled a long breath. These fans had no idea what was about to happen. He'd already spoken to Coach Taylor and the players. The team knew exactly what they needed to do to get Henry and Willy back. Still, there was no guarantee that they would be allowed to return.

The thought of what might go wrong sent a nervous chill across Frank's shoulders, despite being warmly dressed in a dark chocolate sports coat and trousers, plus a fedora atop his head to shade his eyes from the sun.

Frank eased his way through the crowds of fans, winding his way towards the owner's box above the home dugout. He had intentionally taken a longer route. His stomach knotted, each step bringing him closer to the man that he hadn't talked to in the past several days.

In the mill, Frank would hurry right past his father without saying a word. It served him right. Frank was giving the old man the same treatment that he had given to colored people all his life.

Richard Bell sat in the owner's box, wearing a stylish three-piece navy suit with silver pinstripes. He took a puff of a thick Cuban cigar and the end glowed a bright orange.

An uncomfortable cloud hung between them, as Frank settled into the seat beside his father. He averted his eyes, trying to steady his nerves. He felt like the old man could see right through him and knew he was up to something.

No, there was no way.

Frank inhaled a calming breath and plastered a somber look over his face before meeting his father's eyes. He gave a curt nod.

Richard returned the gesture, revealing a watchful expression behind probing eyes. "Don't look so glum. You did the right thing, sending those Negroes on their way." Clasping a hand over his hill of a belly, he leaned back in his seat, watching the rapidly filling benches. "Trust me. None of those white fans filling our seats will miss either one of them."

Frank's brows knitted. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Human nature," Richard said. "Like attracts like."

"Oh," Frank said with a coy smile. "And I thought opposites attract."

They were both silent for a moment, watching as both sides of the ballpark swelled with black and white faces.

Richard took another puff from his cigar.

Dozens of colored fans waved signs in support of Henry. And a few white fans did too.

The noise level in the ballpark climbed, as the remaining patrons found their seats and waited for the game to start.

The tuxedoed announcer waddled along the first base line. He tipped his derby hat at Frank and Richard before raising the black and gold megaphone to his lips. "Alright, Ladies and Gentleman! Welcome to the first game of the Steel Mill League Playoffs between the Oil City Hustlers and the Hester Pioneers!"

The crowd cheered wildly, and a chorus of sign holders booed on Henry's behalf.

The Hustlers were batting first. The umpires took their spots, as the Pioneers filled their positions on the field. Jake took over for Henry at shortstop, and Garrett Hayes set up at first base in Big Willy's absence.

Dale paced on the pitcher's mound, waiting for the Hustlers to send out their first batter.

A stocky young man with light brown hair jogged over to home plate, bat in hand.

The announcer shouted, "Batting first for the Hustlers of Oil City, Stolie Diggs!"

Frank focused as Dale readied himself for the pitch. If this plan succeeded, it would get his father, Mr. Heiler, and all of those fools on the board to see how wrong they had been to cast Henry and Willy aside. Frank's heart thrummed as Dale wound up, and released an easy pitch – one without the typical heat behind his throws.

Diggs whacked a high lob over Dale's head.

"Damn it!" Richard cried.

Frank stifled a laugh, almost choking.

Diggs took off running. For a big guy, he was pretty darn fast. As he neared first base, the ball was already on its way down.

An easy catch for Jake.

But Jake didn't catch the ball. Instead, he watched the baseball and let it thud to the grass, a few feet in front of him. Then the Cowboy dropped to one knee.

Richard turned to Frank in shock. "What is he doing?"

Frank shrugged and attempted to stop the grin trying to press its way onto his face. "I'm not sure."

Richard turned his attention back to the game just in time to see Dale drop to a knee. Followed by Garrett at first base. Soon, every Pioneer – in both the infield and the outfield – was kneeling, making no attempt to pick up the baseball or to tag the batter out.

Stolie Diggs rounded all of the bases unhindered.

Richard swore under his breath, as Diggs crossed home plate with a head scratcher of a look on his face. Even his teammates and coaches looked perplexed.

The crowd was deathly quiet, save for Richard who was still swearing. "Frank, what is that team of yours doing?" he demanded. "Why are they all out there kneeling like a bunch of ninnies?!"

Frank smiled softly. "Just listen."

And sure enough, the Pioneers began to say something. It was low at first, and rose to an energized chant.

"Henry ... Henry ... Henry ..."

Frank swelled with pride. All of these boys were doing this to bring Henry back. They were willing to throw the game and maybe even take heaps of criticism. They wanted Henry back, not just to win, but because he was their teammate, and he deserved to be a Pioneer. These boys were doing what was right.

In the stands, the black fans had risen to their feet, and they began to chant as well.

"Henry ... Henry ... Henry ..."

Henry's name was an electrified chorus now. The energy spread feverishly until nearly all of the fans were on their feet, shouting and pumping their fists. The mantra rose, swelling and arching around Frank and Richard, shouted out with purpose and passion.

Standing up, Frank surveyed the scene. Not only had all of the colored fans joined the Pioneers' chant, but almost all of the white fans had join in as well. In this moment, Frank understood the unity that was possible in this small community.

Henry had become more than just a player to the people of Hester. He had become a symbol of strength, and black and white folks alike were universally inspired by his desire to play baseball. And more than anything, they wanted him back on the ball field ... where he belonged.

Frank glanced at his father. How was he taking this all in?

Richard scowled and shook his head. He turned his gaze to the field where Coach Taylor was involved in an animated discussion with the head umpire. The players were still kneeling and chanting, their faces set with determination.

"Frank! What have you done?!" Richard snapped. "You're always going and doing the most damned impulsive things! You're going to run this mill into the ground with this foolishness! You can't just act on a whim! I know you've gone and put these boys up to this!"

"Do you really?" Frank demanded. "Do you really think that I pushed the players to do this? Look at them! Look at them out there. They want Henry back. They can clearly see that Henry deserves to be on the team! Why can't you see that too?"

"Frank, do you want to see Union Steel go down? Do you know how hard I've worked to build this company into what it is?"

"Father, you've worked hard. I know that, but-"

"No, Frank! I don't think you do know that! Why would you risk your career, your reputation, and the entire company over a couple Negroes? Why can't you leave well enough alone and make things easy on yourself?"

"Father, sometimes doing what's right isn't easy."

"This isn't the right thing!"

"And why not?" Frank demanded. "Why can't it be?"

Richard opened his mouth to answer, but then stopped. He narrowed his eyes and sat forward a bit in his seat. "Oh no, this can't be good."

The head umpire, Ted Ginley, was storming towards them, and he looked pretty angry. In the background, Coach Taylor shrugged like a big bear with a grin. If Frank didn't know any better, Coach was having fun with this.

Richard set his cigar in the ashtray built into the arm of his chair. He rose to his feet, and Frank followed him out of the owner's box. The two of them headed down onto the field to meet the umpire.

Ginley started shouting before he had even reached them. "What are you Bells doing? Get these boys in line before I force you all to forfeit the game! I don't know what this is, but it's ridiculous and it's a waste of everybody's time!"

"I know, Ted." Richard sighed. "I don't know what foolhardy idea these boys have got into their heads."

Ginley's face drew tight. "Well, you better get it out of their heads!"

"I will. We're going to take care of it. Just give us a minute. Please."

Ginley pursed his lips. He pointed a finger at Richard, jabbing it to punctuate his words. "You got two minutes, Bell! You two get your team together!" Then he spun on his heel and stomped back toward Coach Taylor.

Richard ran both of his hands through his hair, and raked his eyes over the field, taking the scene in before turning to his son. "This is ridiculous, Frank. I know you've got something to do with it. Now, get out there and fix it! Get them to do what we pay them for! They're being paid to play ball! I don't need them grandstanding and getting all of these ideas about protesting!"

"You know there's a simple solution to all of this. Those players want Henry back ... and Willy too. It's a package deal." Frank gave a slight grin.

"I really couldn't care less what they want," Richard snapped. "I don't know why they've got it in their heads that they have some sort of an influence over the matter. They should be happy that they've got jobs. They're being paid to play ball! After all the trouble they've given me here, I ought to fire the lot of them and hire a whole new baseball team! But the first person that I should fire is you! What kind of leader are you? If you can't set a decent example, then I don't see why you should keep your job at all!"

Frank shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping through his lips.

"What?!" Richard snapped. "What are you laughing at?!"

"You're so set in your ways," Frank said with a sigh. "I had hope for you. I thought that this protest might help you to see that your view of blacks and whites is all wrong."

Richard snorted. "So you did plan this! And now you want to tell me what's right or wrong?"

"No," Frank said, feigning a voice of defeat. "I know I can't tell you either way. I suppose I knew all along that you might respond this way. I guess I can't get through to you, but maybe this will."

Frank reached into his pocket and withdrew the photograph that he'd been carrying since Peter had sent him that letter explaining how his life had been saved. He placed it into Richard's hand.

"A picture of Peter? Why are you handing me this?" Richard's eyes darted to Frank's and there was abject alarm blaring in them. "Did something happen to Peter? Is everything okay?"

"No, no, no," Frank interjected, waved his hands briskly in the air. "Peter is okay."

Richard shut his eyes and put a hand to his heart, visibly relieved.

"I didn't mean to frighten you. But that's just it, Peter did have a scare recently. He's doing fine. That's why I didn't see any reason to worry you with it. But if you're going to stay so stuck on color, then you leave me with no choice."

Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He handed the paper to his father.

"What's this? Your resignation letter?" Richard's expression teemed with anger. He snatched the letter from Frank, the paper crackling from the force with which it changed hands. He unfolded the paper ... Peter's letter. His eyes flew over the page. Then he began to read in earnest. And then he began tremble.

Frank said, "Peter was almost killed, but one of the colored men that he was leading saved him. That soldier laid down his life for Peter. A colored man died to save your grandson. That man didn't see Peter as being so different from him just because of the shade of his skin. Color didn't matter." Frank sighed and said in a quieter tone. "And it shouldn't matter now."

Richard's expression softened, and he remained silent. He held Peter's photo in his hand. Finally, he looked up, his mouth quivering as he nodded.

"Let him play."

Frank's eyes widened. "Really? Henry can play? And what about Big Willy?"

"Play them both," Richard said. "And damn the fines!"

"That's great, Father!"

Frank gave his father a hug ... as odd as it felt. Richard patted his son on the back and that seemed awkward too. Frank released his father, looked upon him from a fresh perspective. There had been good in him all along.

Richard gave a small smile. "Well, I think we've had enough trouble from all this. Besides, I mean ... if a black man could save my grandson ..." He trailed off and looked away, blinking his eyes rapidly.

Frank's heart swelled inside his chest. He turned and gave a discreet signal to Coach Taylor, as he and Richard made their way back to the owner's box.

Moments later, Henry and Big Willy emerged from the Pioneers' dugout, grins splitting their faces. They jogged out onto the field.

The stadium around them exploded in applause and cheers. The Henry signs waved in full force.

The Pioneers rose from their knees and started clapping, hand to glove. Even Jake.

Henry marched up to Jake, and the Cowboy extended his hand. They shook like old friends. As if the harsh past between them had been forgiven.

Big Willy took over at first base, and Garrett gave the big guy a hearty clap on the arm.

And the noise from the crowd was so loud, you could barely hear the umpire shout.

"PLAY BALL!"