I was sitting in Sama’s, near the rear, with my back to the door, drinking coffee and grading papers, hard-copy, the old-fashioned way.
My neighbor entered, sat down opposite me, and asked me what I was doing.
“Reading student papers. I’m teaching a course this spring,” I explained. “I get to teach one a year in retirement.”
“So,” my neighbor asked, “what course?”
“A baseball class. It’s called, “Segregation in America: Baseball’s Negro Leagues.”