The Casebook of Justice and Dixon.

The Case of the Hail Mary Pass, Part 1

The name is Justice, Jack Justice.

I have never been much of a sporting type, and I'm sorry if that seems like a surprise.

I know I maintain an aura of overt manliness that is the hallmark of my profession, and you

might be forgiven for thinking that extends into all of the typical male pursuits.

However, the lifestyle of a private detective is not one that could be described as healthy

in nature. Late nights, cheap whiskey, and the tendency to be occasionally shot

being among some of the perils of the trade, and none of them offering much of an opportunity

for exercise.

I wasn't always thus, of course. As a lad down on the farm, I played a good deal of stickball,

and was considered quite a prospect by the local hayse-eed leagues.

I could never seem to get

the hang of a fatter bat, however, and that was largely the end of my athletic career. I still made it

out to an occasional ball game, except I guess I hadn't really since my old pal Fred Hawthorne had

ridden off into the sunset, but it was something we had always enjoyed, though it was more out of camaraderie and

Freddy's passion for red-hots. Likewise, I went to the fights now and again, but that was based

on the twin pleasures of casual gambling, and seeing people who were not me get punched in the

head. That is about as far as it went, most of the time. Certainly I took no particular interest

in the game of football

for a variety of reasons. Not to be pendantic, but it was hardly ever played with the feet,

unlike the game the kids had played years before while I sat watching in a muddy field in England

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