Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 32

By the third inning, the outfielders were ghosts. Brown could barely see Jimmy Slagle in center, only the faint outline of his cap. Chance shouted instructions that dissolved into the mist.

A Giants runner reached second on a misplayed fly ball. Slagle swore he never saw it until it thudded near his feet. Brown didn’t blame him. The fog was playing tricks on everyone.

With two outs, a sharp grounder came back to the mound. Brown snagged it cleanly with his good hand, but the runner on second broke for third. Brown hesitated; just a heartbeat, then fired. The throw sailed true, but the fog swallowed the last twenty feet of its flight. The crowd gasped, unsure whether the ball had reached third or vanished into another dimension.

Then the umpire’s arm shot up. Out.

The fog lifted just enough for Brown to see Chance grinning at him, a rare, unguarded grin that made Brown feel, for the first time, like he truly belonged on this team.

In the seventh, with the Cubs clinging to a one run lead, Brown faced a Giants hitter who’d been jawing at him all afternoon. The man stepped into the box and said, “You can’t throw that curve for a strike twice.”

Brown didn’t answer. He just nodded to Kling, his catcher.