Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 63

The train lurched slightly as it crossed a junction. Calvin clutched the scorecard to his chest.

“Mr. Brown,” he said, “I want to be a pitcher someday.”

Brown leaned forward. “Then remember this. You don’t need the best arm. You don’t need the most fingers. You need nerve. And you need to love the work more than the applause.”

Calvin nodded, eyes shining.

The porter reappeared. “Mr. Brown, sir, we’re making up the berths.”

Brown rose. “Time for sleep, Calvin.”

The boy stood too. “Thank you, sir. For talking to me.”

Brown extended his left hand; the whole one, and shook the boy’s. “Keep your eye on the mitt,” he said. “And don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do.”

As Brown walked back toward his berth, the train rocking gently beneath him, he felt something he rarely allowed himself during that tight, brutal pennant race; a moment of quiet pride. Not for the wins, not for the ERA, not for the headlines.

For the boy.