Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 53

Brown didn’t answer. He walked out to the mound instead, the same mound he’d carved into a personal workshop over the past two seasons. He crouched, scooped a handful of dirt, rubbed it between his fingers. The hand felt good today; strong, alive, ready.

He threw a few warmup pitches to backup and bullpen catcher Jack Hardy, just letting the ball talk back to him. The first one sailed a little high. The second snapped in with that late, impossible break that hitters swore defied physics. The third was perfect; low, mean, and eager.

That was when Frank Chance appeared behind him, arms folded, jaw set in that way that made him look like he’d been carved out of a railroad tie.

“You’re sharp,” Chance said.

“Trying to be.”

“You don’t need to try. Just be who you are.”

Brown turned the ball over in his hand. “Sometimes I wonder if they’ll figure me out.”

Chance stepped closer. “Brownie, if they haven’t figured you out by now, they never will. You throw a ball no one else can throw.