Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 146

Brown knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way the catcher avoided his gaze.

When the manager finally approached, Brown handed him the ball without protest. “Did what I could,” he said.

“I know,” the manager answered, and he meant it.

Brown walked back to the dugout, past the young pitchers who didn’t know what to say. He sat at the far end of the bench, watching the rest of the game unfold like a man observing his own shadow.

Afterward, in the quiet of the clubhouse, he unwrapped his fingers; those famous, crooked tools that had once baffled the league. They looked the same as ever, but they no longer obeyed him with the old precision. He flexed them gently, as if trying to remember a language he used to speak fluently.

He dressed slowly, listening to the muffled chatter of teammates who still believed next year would be better. Brown wasn’t sure he believed anything about next year.

But as he stepped outside into the cooling evening, he paused. A boy waited by the gate with a scuffed baseball and a pencil.

“Mr. Brown,” the boy said, “could you sign?”