Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 31

At West Side Grounds, the fog clung low over the outfield grass, turning the distant bleachers into a smudge. Frank Chance was already on the field, pacing the baseline with the restless energy of a man who believed every minute not spent winning was a minute wasted.

“You ready, Brown?” Chance called, not looking up.

Brown nodded. He didn’t waste words before a start. He saved everything for the mound.

The Giants were in town, McGraw’s men, loud and sure of themselves. They’d already beaten the Cubs enough times that season to make every meeting feel like a dare. Christy Mathewson wasn’t pitching that day, but his presence hung over the series like a standard the Giants carried everywhere.

Brown took the mound in the first inning and felt the fog on his skin; cool, damp, almost intimate. The ball felt heavier than usual, the seams slick. He rubbed it against his uniform until it rasped.

The first batter swung late on a fastball that wasn’t really fast, just alive. The second chopped a curve into the dirt. The third fouled off three pitches before Brown slipped a knuckle curve past him, the ball tumbling like it had lost its way in the fog.