Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 52

wagons rattled past. A newsboy shouted something about the stockyards. A pair of factory girls hurried by, whispering about the Cubs as if they were discussing a new play at the Majestic.

“Brownie’s up today,” one of them said.

He didn’t turn, but he smiled.

The park was still mostly empty when he arrived. Groundskeeper Charlie Kuhn was watering the infield, the hose arcing in the morning light like a silver rope. The dirt smelled rich and damp; good pitching dirt, Brown thought. Dirt that wouldn’t produce bad hops, dirt that would a cleat cleanly, dirt that wouldn’t betray him on a bunt.

Reulbach was already there, sitting on the dugout bench with his long legs stretched out, whittling a piece of pine into something that might eventually resemble a bat.

“You’re early,” Reulbach said without looking up.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Brown replied.

“Thinking about Detroit already?”

Brown shrugged. “Thinking about everything.”

Reulbach snorted. “You worry too much for a man who never loses.”