Municipal park diamond number three was hosting eight-year-olds on Saturday morning. The pitcher was smaller than his own bat. He threw a baseball four feet into the dirt. Behind the plate stood Bob. Bob weighed two hundred and sixty pounds and owned an auto glass franchise. Bob dropped his shoulder, tore off his steel mask, and twisted his entire torso toward the heavens. STEEEEE-RIKE, Bob detonated. The sound blew dust off the plate and scattered a flock of geese fifty yards away. A father sitting in a folding chair behind me wearing wraparound oakley sunglasses yelled: Open your good eye, Bob. That was in the dirt. A cold rage gripped my chest. In my culture, the magistrate presiding over the contest represents the supreme law of the domain. To insult the magistrate from the comfort of a lawn chair is high treason. I rose from the grass. I approached the fence, pointed a rigid finger at the father, and spoke in the thunderous tone of an imperial court prosecutor: Silence, dishonorable peasant. The magistrate has declared the strike. If you dispute his divine eye, meet me behind the batting cages with wooden dowels. The father stopped chewing his sunflower seeds. He stared at my kimono. He slowly lowered his sunglasses. The entire bleacher section fell completely silent. The eight-year-old batter looked at me with open mouth. Bob slowly lifted his iron mask. He looked at the father. He looked at me. Then Bob marched to the backstop, pressed his belly against the chain links, and pointed a sausage-like finger at the father. You hear that, Larry? Bob bellowed. The samurai knows the rulebook. My strike zone extends from the shoelaces to the chin, and if you question it again, my associate here is going to escort you to the parking lot. Your associate? Larry squeaked. Bob turned to me. Keep an eye on him, Nobunaga, Bob growled. Larry is always chirping when his boy is down zero and two. I dropped to one knee and bowed until my forehead touched the galvanized wire. Understood, Chief Magistrate, I declared. For the next four innings, I did not watch the game. I stood directly behind Larry's folding chair with my arms crossed and my chin raised. Whenever Bob called a ball three feet outside a strike, I glared into the back of Larry's neck until he physically winced. Larry did not say another word. He ate his seeds in trembling silence. At the end of the sixth inning, Bob handed me a hot dog wrapped in silver foil through the umpire gate. Good hustle, Nobunaga, Bob said. We got the nine-year-old tournament in Noblesville next weekend. Ten bucks a game and all the blue Gatorade you can carry. Be at the field by seven. I bowed to the magistrate. I do not understand the infield fly rule. I do not know what a balk is. Yet next Saturday, I will be in Noblesville. If Larry shows his face, justice will be swift.

Municipal bond asset managers are finding opportunities in the rout that tore through markets this month, with cheaper valuations and the highest yields in years drawing investors