Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Mordecai Brown
Page 128
“Brownie. Your turn.”
He jogged in slowly, not for show but because that was the speed his legs allowed. The crowd recognized him, and the cheer that rose wasn’t the roar of 1908 or 1909. It was something warmer, more grateful; an acknowledgment of years, not dominance.
The batter was Fred Merkle, who had his own history with the Cubs. Brown studied him, then nodded to the catcher.
First pitch: a curve that didn’t quite bite. Foul ball.
Second pitch: a fastball that wasn’t fast enough. Merkle didn’t swing. It fooled Merkle and was called a strike.
Brown stepped off the mound, rubbed the ball, and exhaled. He knew what he had left. He also knew what he didn’t.
Third pitch: the knuckled curve, the one he could still summon when everything aligned; fingers, wrist, memory, stubbornness.
Merkle swung over it. Strike three.
The crowd rose. Brown didn’t pump a fist or grin. He just asked for the ball back.
He got out of the inning, but Chance didn’t send him back for the seventh. Brown didn’t argue. He sat on the bench, breathing hard, sweat cooling on his neck.