Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 141
On the mound, he took a moment. The Federal League ball felt a little different, the seams a touch lower, but he’d learned long ago that every league, every park, every season had its own personality. You adjusted or you went home.
The batter dug in. Brown nodded at the sign.
First pitch: a curve that started at the hip and bent late, almost mischievous. Strike one.
The crowd leaned forward.
Second pitch: a fastball; well, Brown’s version of a fastball now, tight and low. Foul tip. Strike two.
The batter stepped out, annoyed. Brown waited, breathing evenly, letting the moment settle. He could feel the old rhythm returning, the one he thought he’d left behind in the National League years ago.
The catcher signaled for the drop curve, the pitch that had made Brown a legend. Brown hesitated. His hand ached. His shoulder felt like a rusted hinge. He shook him off only to get back the same signal. But, the second time he nodded.
He threw it.