Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 33

First pitch: curveball, strike one.

Second pitch: another curve, tighter, meaner, strike two.

The batter stepped out, muttering.

Brown waited. He liked that part; the waiting. It made the hitter think too much.

Then he threw a third curve, this one starting at the man’s shoulder and bending wickedly across the plate. The batter froze. The umpire rang him up with a flourish.

Brown walked off the mound without a smile, but inside he felt something warm and steady. Not triumph; something better. Belonging.

The Cubs won 3–1. The fog burned off by the time Brown left the park, replaced by a pale gold evening light that made the city look almost gentle.

As he walked toward the streetcar, a boy ran up to him, breathless.

“Mr. Brown! Did you mean to throw all those curves?”

Brown looked down at the boy’s wide eyes and shrugged.