Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 99

Brown never complained. That wasn’t his way. But teammates noticed the small tells; the way he sat a little longer after games, the way he flexed the damaged fingers of his right hand as if reminding them of their duty, the way he stared into the middle distance between innings, calculating what he had left.

On one of those September afternoons, with the Cubs grinding through another tight game, Chance walked down the bench and said quietly, “Brownie, you good for today?”

Brown looked up, eyes steady. “If you need me.”

That was all Chance needed to hear.

He brought Brown in on one day’s rest; again. The crowd buzzed, half in awe, half in disbelief. Even in the Deadball era, this was pushing a man to the edge of the natural break every pitcher carries inside him.

Brown took the mound with the calm of a man who had already accepted the terms. His first warmup pitch snapped into the catcher’s mitt with that strange, late-breaking dive only he could produce. The second bent even sharper. Chance exhaled.

For six innings, Brown carved through hitters who had seen him only forty-eight hours earlier. They knew what was coming and still couldn’t square it. His curve; born of accident, refined