“Stella,” he said, as his fork speared another lunch lamb chop, “today I will prove for all time that I’m the best semipro pitcher and the best hitter ever seen in these parts.”

Stella, who at 28 had consistently failed to prod her beau into a formal commitment to matrimony, was more given to tart comment than soothing pronouncements. “Ty Cobb must be out of his mind with jealousy.”

Skid—a nickname derived from a nose shaped like a playground slide—responded only to what suited his hearing. “I should never have given up professional baseball.”

“Wasn’t it the other way around?”

“The Dog Who Knew Baseball”Lewis S. SalsburgFall 1971

Skid kept to his one-track mind while continuing to feed his slight physique. “Today, starting at three o’clock. I am going to win the Championship of the State for the old home town. Pass the ketchup.”

“There will be eight other players on the field, modest one.”

“Me and Pepper could do it alone.”

“My dear Kelly. Your Pepper is still a dog . . .”

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The Dog Who Knew Baseball The Saturday Evening Post