Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 83

finished tamping the infield and long before the first streetcar rattled up with fans.

He wasn’t scheduled to pitch that afternoon. Ruelbach was. For the Pirates, Camnitz had the ball, and deservedly so. Howie was in the middle of the best run of his life, his curveball snapping like a whip. But Brown had his own reasons for being at the park before anyone else.

He wanted to watch Honus Wagner hit.

Wagner was already there, of course. The man seemed to live in the batter’s box. He stood at the plate in his heavy wool uniform, sleeves rolled up, taking slow, deliberate swings as if he were carving something invisible out of the air. Brown leaned on the railing and watched the bat come through the zone with that strange, unhurried violence Wagner had; no wasted motion, no theatrics, just the purest collision of wood and intention.

“Morning, Brownie,” Wagner called without turning. “You’re early for a man not pitching.”

Brown smiled. “Wanted to see how a fellow hits .339 without ever looking like he’s trying.”

Wagner chuckled. “Trying’s the surest way to miss.”