Billy's brother Clyde, a left -handed pitcher, often used to pitch to Henry. There was another younger kid in a different part of Mobile, Magazine Point, named McCovey, and people were already talking about keeping an eye on him, as well as another kid, Charley Pride, who wasn't sure if he wanted to be a baseball player or a musician.
Mobile's obsession with baseball was like something out of an old movie. Many of the factories in the city sponsored company teams, as did other industries. The men who played were grown and grizzled; they were welders and riveters and boilermakers in their mid-twenties and early thirties who ran down ?y balls and threw in on the hands. Interspersed on these teams were some teenagers. Some of the kids could play, while others were bodies who ?lled out the ros¬ters on days when numbers were short.
For a time, Henry played with the Pritchett Athletics, earning two dollars per game, and then he joined the Black Bears for three bucks a game. The traveling Negro League teams would come into town and play the industrial teams, and as a ?fteen-year-old, Henry would play against Negro League competition. He played in?eld mostly, third base and shortstop, and as much as how he wielded the bat, players remembered the odd, slingshot style he used to throw the baseball, wide and to the side—"three o'clock," Billy Williams said. Williams himself played against the adults, ?rst on the Mobile Black Shippers as a teenager, and also on the Mobile Black Bears, the Negro equivalent of the minor-league Mobile Bears. Saturdays and Sundays would showcase doubleheaders. There was also another team, in a different part of the city, the Mobile Mohawks. The games were scheduled for 3:00 p.m., just after church. Willie McCovey played for the Mobile Buckeyes.
Periodically, Henry would have a chance to play in a game and dream a little bit bigger. Other times, he would have his ambitions temporarily broken, like the time he showed up at an open tryout held by the mighty Brooklyn Dodgers but couldn't generate the nerve to stand up for himself and get in the batter's box. The older kids intimidated him and he skulked off the ?eld without ever hold¬ing the bat in his hands.
The story might have ended right there except for two important but underplayed factors: the con?dence Henry possessed in himself to hit any pitch from any pitcher, and the sureness of a man named Ed Scott, who had been watching Henry since 1950, when Henry was sixteen. Henry was not a prodigy and had played in only a hand¬ful of organized games. Billy Williams remembered his demeanor as unchanged even then. "A lot of guys were playing a helluva baseball game. Every day, he didn't stand out. He was just good."
There were bigger kids and more con?dent ones who might have been further along in their development at the time, but there was something about the way the ball sounded when Henry hit it, a sound the untrained ear might have missed. Ed Scott was convinced that the raw talent Henry displayed on the dusty sandlots of Toulminville might just be suf?cient to allow him to play baseball at the next level.