Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 54
You throw it because of what happened to you, not in spite of it. That’s your gift.”
Brown looked down at the hand; crooked, scarred, miraculous.
“Besides,” Chance added, “we’re not chasing anyone this year. They’re all chasing us.”
A cheer rose suddenly from the gates as the first wave of fans poured in; men in straw hats, boys with scorecards, women carrying parasols. The city was ready. The season was rolling downhill like a runaway wagon. And Brown felt something settle inside him, something steady and sure.
He walked back toward the dugout with Chance, the noise swelling around them.
“Frank,” he said quietly, “I think today’s going to be a good one.”
Chance clapped him on the shoulder. “For you, Brownie, they usually are.”
And as he stepped onto the field that afternoon; sun high, crowd roaring, the pennant race already bending heavily toward Chicago; Mordecai Brown felt the strange, familiar certainty that the game belonged to him, at least for the next nine innings.