Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 145

you in relief,” he said, not quite meeting Brown’s eyes. “Just be ready.”

“Always am,” Brown replied, though he wasn’t sure it was true anymore.

He watched the first few innings from the dugout, hat low, studying the opposing hitters with the old instinct. He could still see their flaws; still knew when a man was leaning too far forward, or when his hands drifted. But knowing and doing were no longer the same thing.

By the fifth, the Cubs’ starter was unraveling. A walk, a bloop, a sharp single. The manager looked down the bench, past the younger arms, and settled on Brown. Maybe out of respect. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because the season was already sunk and there was no harm in it.

Brown rose slowly, joints stiff, and made the long walk to the mound. The crowd gave a polite murmur; nostalgic, sympathetic, almost embarrassed. He tipped his cap. It was a habit and was expected.

The first batter fouled off two pitches, then lined a double into the gap. Brown exhaled through his nose. The next man grounded out, but the run scored. Another single followed. Then a walk. The manager shifted uneasily on the top step.