Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 151

In the summer of 1918, Mordecai Brown found himself once again on the mound; not in the grandeur of the Polo Grounds or West Side Grounds, but in the more intimate, dusty ballparks of the American Association. Columbus was hot and humid that July, and the Senators were in Louisville for a weekend series. Brown, now 40, was scheduled to pitch the Saturday game.

The crowd at Eclipse Park was unusually large, and when Brown emerged from the dugout to warm up, a ripple of applause spread through the stands. Louisville fans, many of whom had seen him pitch in his prime, rose to their feet. It was not the roar of a pennant race, but the warm, human sound of memory.

Brown tipped his cap, then turned to the catcher. His windup was slower now, more deliberate, but the ball still snapped into the mitt with a hiss. The Louisville leadoff man stepped in, and Brown struck him out on three pitches. The crowd cheered again, louder this time.

In the fourth inning, with two men on and one out, Brown faced a young slugger who’d been tearing up the league. The kid fouled off two curveballs, then stepped out of the box to glare at Brown. Mordecai smiled faintly. He threw a third curve, slower, wider, and the batter lunged, missing it entirely. The crowd erupted.