Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 121
the way Chance said “our boys,” as if Brown were something else; older, separate, a specialist now.
The Cubs were still good, still dangerous, but not the juggernaut of ’06–’10. Brown felt it in his arm. Not pain; he never complained of pain, but a kind of looseness, as if the gears inside him weren’t meshing quite as tightly as they once had.
By the fourth inning, the Cardinals had already pushed three runs across. The crowd was restless. Chance paced. Reulbach looked rattled. And Brown, sitting on the bench with his right hand wrapped around a warm towel, knew what was coming before Chance even turned.
“Get loose, Mordy.”
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He walked to the bullpen with the same deliberate gait he used on the mound, the gait of a man who had learned long ago that nothing good came from hurrying. He threw a dozen pitches; fastballs that sank like they were weighted, curves that broke late and sharp, and then he was called in.
The Cardinals’ cleanup hitter, Ed Konetchy, was waiting. Big man. Strong wrists. Brown had faced him enough to know he liked the ball low and in. So to confuse him, Brown gave him low and