I’ve been called a thief, a rebel, an upstart, a traitor, and—maybe this one won’t come as a surprise based on the others—Prisoner 83A0956.

But mostly I go by Batter, a good family name passed down like a cherished ring, although not from my father or grandfather or even an important distant relative, but from a dog.

I never met the dog I was named for; he died just before I was born. But I’ve always wondered if he would have preferred a different name. King, Spot. Maybe Rex. The problem with being named Batter is that it’s not really a name; it’s a word. Some assume it’s preppy, like Banks or Bennett; others insist it must have foreign roots. Still others ask (cautiously) if my dad was “really into baseball” or if my mom “enjoys baking.”

Besides my name, I’m unusual in one other way. I’m an identical twin. I don’t bring it up much and for good reason: my brother was stillborn. Before you feel sorry for me, just know that the same thing happened to Elvis Presley; his brother didn’t make it either. There are things in life you can’t control; it’s nobody’s fault. Still, whenever I hear “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” I know why Elvis recorded it.

As for what I’m in for, I’m not really supposed to say without my attorney present, but I can tell you this: whenever a fellow prisoner asks me about my crime and I tell them, they’re visibly unimpressed. It’s not until I mention that this was actually my second crime—my first was back in the sixties and involved drugs—that I get any respect at all.