Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 163
didn’t even move like other professionals’. It moved like something alive.
“See that?” he said quietly to McGivern. “That’s what happens when you let the ball do the work.”
McGivern nodded, though he wasn’t sure what that meant.
Game Time
The Browns were playing Danville, a club that could hit a little and pitch a little and field a little; just enough to be dangerous to a team that couldn’t hit at all. Brown wasn’t scheduled to pitch, but the managers when Brown didn’t want to be one, Charles O'Berta and Howard Daringer, really not more than a set of bookkeepers in a uniform, asked if he felt up to it.
Brown shrugged. “I’m always up to it.”
He took the mound to modest applause. Terre Haute fans didn’t roar much anymore; they’d seen too many losing summers. But they knew Brown, and they knew this might be one of the last times they’d see him pitch in their colors.
The first inning was rough. A bloop single. A walk. A grounder that McGivern booted. One run scored, then another on a