Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 133
world was wide and green and waiting. He remembered Mathewson tipping his cap after a duel, remembered the pride of knowing he could beat anyone alive.
Now he pitched in relief more often than not. He could still fool hitters; his ERA proved that, but the Reds lost anyway. A good outing felt like throwing pebbles into a river; the ripples vanished before they reached shore.
One evening in late summer, after a long, grinding game, Brown walked alone from the ballpark toward his boarding house. The streetlamps flickered in the humid air. Somewhere a phonograph played a waltz, thin and warbling.
He paused on the bridge over the canal, leaning on the railing. His knee throbbed. His arm felt heavy. The season was slipping away, and he knew; quietly, without bitterness, that he was slipping with it.
A group of boys ran past, chasing each other with shouts and laughter. One of them recognized him.
“Hey! You’re Three Finger Brown!” The boy grinned, breathless. “My pa says you used to be the best pitcher in the world!”
Brown smiled, small and crooked. “Your pa’s got a long memory.”
The boys dashed off, leaving him alone with the fading echoes.