During the War Between the States, Thomas pressed cannonballs over his head to strengthen his throwing arm. He swung iron bars to improve his batting swing. He figured by the time the war was over, if he didn’t get killed in the process, he’d be ready for a season of baseball back home with the boys, the boys that were left alive and had all their fingers and toes intact, that is.

“Might take six months to a year to figure out who’s coming back and who ain’t,” he thought.

In the meantime, he made himself ready. He organized games in camp when the war permitted, when there was a lull in the fighting. Sometimes they’d play right up to the moment of the attack, then scatter and get their guns and switch games. They took neither more seriously than the other though. Winning was winning and losing was considered damned unfortunate. To get up a game, Thomas would post a sign out front of the mess tent at breakfast, tell everybody where and when to show up. And they did. Sometimes they’d have fifteen men in the field, fifteen more waiting to swing the bat. They’d play for hours, just passing the time. That’s how baseball became America’s pastime.