Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 172

one more time, and sat for a moment on the wooden bench outside the office. The air smelled of warm tar and cut grass.

This was the part of the day he never spoke of; not to reporters, not to friends, not even to his wife. It lasted only a few seconds, but it came every evening as reliably as the freight whistle from the yards.

He would close his eyes, lean back, and let himself remember.

Not the whole game. Not the tension or the strategy or the roar of the crowd. Just the moment; that moment, when the last out was made at the Polo Grounds on October 8, 1908. When his teammates surged toward him, shouting, laughing, pounding his back. When they lifted him; awkwardly, joyfully, onto their shoulders and carried him off the field like a conquering hero.

He could still feel the sway of their steps. Still hear the echo of the cheers. Still see the sky above the grandstand, pale and bright and impossibly wide.

It lasted maybe three seconds. Five at most.

Then he opened his eyes, stood up, and headed home.

Tomorrow he’d unlock the pumps again. But tonight, for that brief flicker of memory, he was young, triumphant, and carried high.