Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 155

They shared a dry laugh. The war, the flu, the travel restrictions; everything felt provisional. Even the season itself seemed like a rumor.

In the afternoon, Brown walked home through quiet streets. A pharmacy had a sign in the window; “Masks Recommended.” A church bell tolled for a funeral. A boy played marbles alone on the sidewalk.

Back at home, Brown sat on the porch with another cup of coffee, watching the light fade. His arm throbbed, but not in a way that frightened him. It was the ache of a man who had pitched more innings than most men ever dream of.

He thought about the years when the crowds roared, when the Cubs were kings, when his curveball bent like a trick of the wind. He didn’t miss the glory so much as the certainty; the sense that tomorrow’s game would come, and the next, and the next.

Now everything felt borrowed.

As dusk settled, a neighbor boy approached with a scuffed baseball. “Mr. Brown,” he said, “could you show me how to throw that pitch? The one that drops?”

Brown smiled. “I can show you how I do it,” he said. “But you’ll have to find your own way.”