the passing of another negro leaguer...

Before Connie Johnson faced the Boston Red Sox, the coaches gave him a scouting report on every player. When the session ended, Johnson noticed they hadn't mentioned one hitter. “What about Ted Williams?” he asked. The coaches walked away.
“It was clear,” Johnson said, “that I was on my own.”
The first time he faced Ted Williams, he threw a curveball and Williams smashed it down the right-field line for a double. “OK,” Connie said to himself, “he likes those curveballs.”
Next time up, he threw a fastball. Williams pounded that one for another double.
“Well,” Connie thought, “I guess he likes fastballs too.”
And so, the third time Ted Williams came to the plate, Connie Johnson waited. And he waited. He just stood on the mound, and he looked as scared as the 17-year-old pitching for beer all those years before. People in the dugout shouted, “Pitch the ball!” Williams glared hard. Johnson kept looking around. He checked out people in the stands. He would not pitch.
Until … he saw Ted Williams hands' drop. Just a little.
And in that instant, he threw a fastball right over the heart of the plate. Johnson wasn't scared. He was playing possum. Williams swung hard. He always swung hard.
And Ted Williams popped out. As he jogged to first, he was angry and amused and maybe a little impressed too. Williams looked over as he headed back to the dugout. And Connie Johnson would not forget that look, not for the rest of his life.