His Name is Roger
Bang.
I still hear it, like it never left. That bullet cut through the air like it had a mission—and when it found Roger, it caught him square in the chest. And just like that... he was on the ground.
It had been a clear day, wide and blue, Reverend... but the moment that bullet rang out, it was like God Himself broke down crying. The rain came fast and hard, and as it poured down on Roger, the red just kept spreading across his chest—like the sky couldn’t bear to watch what happened.
Roger wasn’t perfect. He had his struggles—his demons, like we all do. But what I remember most is the boy underneath it all. Sweet as they come, loyal in ways that mattered... and yeah, he had a temper. But it came from a place of love, not anger.
“May I bore you with my story, Reverend?”
“You may, my child.”
It was 1852 when I first met Roger, and the sun had been so fierce that day, like it wanted us gone.
Poppa had brought me to Aunt Dede’s house—he was helpin’ patch up her barn, something about a beam sagging like a tired old back. I didn’t mind. I liked Aunt Dede, even if she could talk a person into exhaustion. Her place always smelled like wet hay and old wood, and the porch boards creaked like they had secrets.
Roddy—my cousin—had already started up a game of cops and robbers with a colored boy by the time I arrived. Roddy was hollerin’ rules mid-run, the kind that changed depending on whether he was winnin’.
The first words I ever said to Roger were, “You’re hit.”
“Am not,” he shot back without missin’ a beat.
The air was hot enough to fry good sense, sweat gluing our clothes to us, flies dancing around our heads like they were in on some joke. But Roddy didn’t notice. He was in his own world, puffin’ out his chest like he was sheriff of the yard.
“Yes, you is—I shot you, Roger,” he insisted, arms flappin’ like that made him more right.
Roger crossed his arms. “Well, I don’t care, I know I wasn’t shot and besides, I’m not going to trust the word of some gir—”
Whack.
Aunt Dede’s wooden spoon came outta nowhere, like it had teleported straight from her apron pocket. It smacked the back of Roger’s head with a crack that echoed off the barn.
“That is Diane, my niece, you hear?” she snapped, spoon still raised like a sheriff’s badge. That old spoon had seen more battles than a soldier—whacked Roddy for swearing, smacked a rooster once for crowing too early. If Aunt Dede ever took up arms, I’d put money on her. “You will call her Miss Diane. And you, Richard—what have I told you about your grammar?”
Roddy rolled his eyes so hard I swore he saw last Tuesday.
“He don’t gotta do all that, Aunt Dede,” I said quickly, trying to save him by distracting Aunt Dede, because Lord knows what would happen if she stayed focused. “Ain’t no sense in pretendin’ I’m anyone important.”
“But ain’t ‘Miss’ for ladies who are married?” Roger asked, bold as brass, not even lookin’ at me.
Aunt Dede gave him a look sharp enough to skin a cat. “I do not care if it’s for the Queen of France or a beggar. You greet her proper, Roger. It’s rude to leave a lady waitin’.”
Funny, I thought. She ain’t greeted me once either.
Roger let out a huff like manners were something painful. Then he stuck out his hand—real stiff, mockingly formal.
“Hello, Miss Diane. I’m Roger. Roger Rosewood Sherman. And you are?”
He didn’t say it rudely. But he didn’t say it like he meant it either. Just enough sass to make me wonder if he was tryin’ to get me to sass back.
I narrowed my eyes, put on my best prim voice, grabbed the end of my dress, and shook his hand. There was something odd about him—like he was already hating me before even meeting me. “Well, Mr. Sherman, I’m Diane. Diane Serene Thorne.”
He gave my hand two quick squeezes—like a secret handshake or a test of strength—then let go without a word. The silence sat there a second, long enough to turn awkward.
Roddy, of course, couldn’t let it lie. “Ma, now that they greeted and whatnot, can we get back to playin’?”
“I assume so, Roddy,” Aunt Dede said, turnin’ back toward the house. “I swear—where did I go wrong with his grammar...”
I watched her disappear toward the barn, still mutterin’ to herself. I always did love hearin’ her talk, even when she was fussin’. I’m glad Poppa brought me here. I just wished Roger would’ve been a little kinder.
“Well Roger, wanna keep playing? Or play somethin’ else so we can include Di-Di?” Roddy said, trying to get both of our attention.
But Roger was somewhere else. Staring off, squinting like he was tryin’ to read the future in the treeline. A few seconds passed before he blinked hard and shook it off.
“We could go play ball,” Roddy offered casually, already walking like the whole thing had been his idea from the start. “Heard the Gibbs brothers set up down past the cotton lot. Got a real bat and everythin’.”
Roger’s whole face lit up, a grin creeping in before he could stop it.
“Roddy, I don’t think that’s a good idea after all. Little John is—”
And just like that, we were running—Roddy yanking me by the wrist, Roger kicking up dust like a storm on legs. I stumbled once, laughing despite myself. There’s a kind of freedom only Roddy knows, when the air smells like summer and Roddy has his mind made up.
The “ballfield” was a sorry excuse for one—just a stretch of patchy grass and weeds behind the church. Fence half-falling. No proper bases, just scraps of feed sack weighed down with bricks. But to us, it might as well have been Yankee Stadium.
The Gibbs brothers were already there—Will and Little John arguing over who got to pitch while Tom climbed the fence just to jump back down again like a lunatic. They all stopped when they saw us.
“Dibs on pitchin’!” Roddy hollered.
“You can’t just call dibs!” Will snapped, hands on his hips.
“You can if you call it first,” Roger fired back, already rolling up his sleeves like he was about to host the game and win it.
There was a moment of quiet—a test, maybe. But no one argued.
“Di-Di can be ref,” Roddy added, pointing at me like I’d volunteered.
I gave him the side-eye, arms crossed, but said nothing.
Will handed me a raggedy red kerchief, frayed at the corners. “You wave this when there’s a score,” he said shyly.
“Like royalty,” I muttered, half amused, half annoyed.
The game started like most of ’em do—loud, messy, boys shouting rules mid-run, the ball skipping like it had a grudge. Everyone barefoot or near to it, dust flying with every stomp.
But then Roger stepped up to bat.
He looked taller somehow. The way he gripped that cracked old bat—like it was an extension of him. Little John looked pissed while he was waiting to pitch.
The pitch came fast, and Roger didn’t hesitate. Crack. The ball soared. It hung in the air like it forgot about gravity, sailing clear over the fence and into the ditch behind the church.
Roger dropped the bat and raised both arms, triumphant. “That’s how you do it!” he shouted, jogging the bases like a champ. “Ain’t nobody hittin’ like me today!”
There were a few scattered whoops. Some muttered curses. But one boy—Little John—just stared, jaw tight.
“You think you somethin’, huh boy?” he said, The cheers fading fast. Roger was grinning, but I saw the tightness in Little John’s shoulders, the way he stepped like the ground owed him something. The air thickened. I’ve seen that look in dogs before they bite..
Roger grinned, still catching his breath. “Ain’t think—I know.”
That did it.
Little John struck, fast and dirty. His fist cracked across Roger’s face with a sound that made my stomach drop. Roger staggered back, blood already bubbling at his bottom lip. A tooth clattered onto the dirt near second base.
“You lucky we let you play at all,” Little John hissed. “Damn n*gger.”
I swear—time froze.
Little John’s words had barely settled in the air before Roger moved. No hesitation, no warning. Just a blur of fists and fury—like he had been waiting for this.
He launched himself at Little John with a roar that didn’t sound like it belonged to a boy but a man. They hit the ground hard, dirt kicking up in clouds as Roger pummeled him. Blow after blow. Knuckles cracking skull. Little John shrieked, scrambled, tried to cover up—but Roger was relentless, raining down every ounce of anger and pride he’d had.
Will rushed in, grabbing Roger by the collar, yanking with all his might—but Roger twisted, dragged him down too. Then Roddy came flying from the side like a cannonball, slamming into Will with a grunt.
Tom screamed. Will cried out in pain.
The ballfield was gone now—this was war. Grunts. Scratches. The sharp snap of something breaking.
And then, finally, silence.
Roger rose from the mess, staggering to his feet. His shirt was torn, lip split, knuckles raw. Blood—his and not—dripped from his hands. But he stood tall. Straighter than I’d ever seen. Fire still burned behind his eyes, unashamed and unafraid.
“My name ain’t ‘boy,’” he said, voice low but clear as Sunday prayer. “It’s Roger Sherman.”
The sun blazed above, casting his dark skin in gold and shadow, highlighting the red streaked across his mouth like war paint. For a moment, he looked like a statue—something ancient, carved from courage.
And despite how he’d sassed me, teased me, gotten under my skin—my heart fluttered. Just for a breath.
But then a glint. Cold and bright.
The silver caught the sun.
And everything stopped, even the flies went quiet.
Little John stood swaying, bloody, panting, wild-eyed—and in his hand, shaking but sure, was lifting a revolver.
