Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 90
sun was low over West Side Grounds, turning the infield dirt the color of old copper. Groundskeeper Charlie Kuhn was raking the mound, humming tunelessly, and Brown watched the rake’s teeth comb through the clay like someone smoothing a troubled brow.
Brown flexed his right hand; the famous one, the one that had made him, and felt the familiar tug in the knotted joints. It wasn’t pain exactly. More like a whisper. A reminder. He’d thrown more innings in the last three years than most men would dare imagine, and the arm had always answered. But now, in the quiet moments, he could sense something shifting. Not failing, just ...... changing. As if the arm knew something he didn’t yet.
Frank Chance walked out from the dugout, hat pushed back, chewing on a toothpick. “You’re still out here,” he said, not accusing, not worried; just noticing, the way Chance always noticed.
“Just thinking,” Brown replied.
Chance snorted. “That’s dangerous for a pitcher.”
Brown smiled, but only a little. “Worse for a hitter. Feels different this year, Frank.”