Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 25
ninth inning the Giants got to Mordecai and beat the Cardinals, 4-2.
It’s the kind of loss that gnaws at a man; not because he pitched badly, but because Mathewson pitched better. Brown sits on the bench after the game, elbows on his knees, staring at the dirt between his shoes.
Mathewson’s control had been surgical. Every pitch looked like it had been placed with tweezers. Brown had matched him for a while, but one late mistake; a curve that hung just a heartbeat too long, turned into a ringing double.
Walking back to the clubhouse, Brown thinks; “He’s the picture in the papers. The college man. The golden boy. And I’m the fellow with the busted hand who throws a ball that moves funny.”
But then another thought pushes in, quieter but sturdier; “I can beat him. Not by being him; by being me. By making the ball dance the way only I can make it dance.”
He knows Mathewson is the standard. He also knows that the Deadball Era is a long season of small margins, and that he’ll see Christy again. And when he does, he intends to walk off the field with the last word.