Michael Clear pinned the sign-up sheet to the post behind home plate and waited. The paper had twenty numbered lines. Every line was blank. He had been the town's baseball coach for six days, and he still did not have a single player. The field around him was small but honest. Stephanie and her brother-in-law had hired him on a handshake and a promise. They wanted a team good enough to put Donnellila on a map that did not yet include it. They had built him a diamond to prove they meant it. Crisp chalk lines ran from a plate no one had swung at. The bases sat square and clean. A batting cage stood at the edge of the grass with two bats leaning against the netting. Michael had spent the morning walking the settlement with a stack of flyers. He had knocked on the schoolhouse door. He had stopped at the forge, the greenhouse, the library. Every adult he met was already someone. Blacksmith. Farmer. Teacher. Judge. Soldier. They shook his hand, wished him luck, and went back to work. He sat on the dugout bench and stared at the empty sheet. He had coached in three towns before this one. He had never started with nothing. In each of those places, boys had shown up before he did. Here, no one had ever played the game. That was the problem. They did not know what he was selling. Michael stood, picked up a bat, and walked to the plate. He tossed a ball into the air and hit it. The crack carried across the field and past the fence line. A boy carrying a bucket stopped on the path and looked up. Then a girl behind him stopped too. Michael hit another. The ball rose, hung, and dropped near second base. By the fourth swing, four children stood at the fence. By the tenth, eleven. A few adults drifted over from the road. Michael set the bat down and walked to the sign-up sheet. He carried it to the fence and held it out with a pencil. "You don't have to know how," he said. "That's my job. I need names." The first boy took the pencil. He printed his name in careful block letters. He passed it to the girl behind him. She signed and passed it on. The pencil moved down the fence line. When it came back to Michael, the sheet had fourteen names on it. Three were adults. He looked at the list. Fourteen was enough for a team. It was not enough for the kind of team Stephanie had asked for. And the names were only names. None of them had ever thrown a pitch, tagged a base, or read a sign. Michael folded the sheet into his pocket. Practice started tomorrow at sunrise. He had a roster now. He had no idea if any of them could play.