Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 159
Afternoon game
The Browns were playing a team from up near Brazil, Indiana. The crowd was decent; factory men on their day off, families with picnic baskets, a few old timers who remembered Brown’s first games on this very field back in 1901.
Brown wasn’t scheduled to pitch, but in the sixth inning their starter lost the strike zone entirely. The boys looked toward the bench. Brown sighed, rolled his shoulders, and began loosening up.
He took the mound to a warm ripple of applause. Not the roar of Chicago, not the packed houses of the Federal League Whale days; just a hometown sound, affectionate and forgiving.
His first pitch was slow. His second was slower. But the ball still bent, still dipped, still behaved like it had a mind of its own. The batter swung over it and looked back at him with a kind of startled respect.
Brown tipped his cap.
He worked three innings, gave up a run, struck out two. Nothing heroic. Nothing that would make the papers. But the boys settled down behind him, and the Browns held on to win 5–4.
Evening