Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 84

They talked a little; about the league, about the Giants breathing down everyone’s necks, about the Cubs’ ridiculous pitching staff and how they somehow kept winning even when their bats went cold. Brown didn’t mention that he still felt a tug in his chest every time he saw the old infield of Tinker, Evers, Chance, and Steinfeldt turn a double play with that uncanny, wordless precision.

He remembered.

As the sun climbed, the Pirates trickled in. Fred Clarke arrived last, as usual, looking like a man who had slept in his uniform and still expected to win by six runs. He nodded at Brown.

“You throwing today?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then don’t bother Wagner. He’s getting too uncomfortable.”

Wagner snorted. “You want him to pitch to me? He’ll ruin my average.”

Clarke grinned. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

So Brown took the mound; just for batting practice, just for a few minutes, and Wagner stepped in. Brown didn’t throw hard. He