Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 140
The Federal League crowds were different; louder, looser, half convinced they were watching a rebellion in progress. Brown liked them. They reminded him of the fans back home in Indiana: opinionated, loyal, and unafraid to shout advice at a man who’d been pitching since McKinley was president.
That afternoon the Whales were locked in a tight one with the Kansas City Packers. Joe Tinker, managing now, walked over from the dugout with that familiar half smile.
“Brownie,” he said, “you feel like turning back the clock for an inning?”
Brown spat, flexed the crooked fingers that had made him famous, and said, “Clock never stopped for me.”
Tinker laughed. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
The call came in the eighth. The Whales were clinging to a one run lead, two men on, one out, and the Packers’ best left handed hitter stepping in. The crowd stirred when they saw Brown walking in from the bullpen; some in recognition, some in disbelief. A few kids near the rail shouted, “Three Finger! Show ’em how it’s done!”
He tipped his cap, more out of habit than showmanship.