Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Mordecai Brown
Page 91
Chance sat beside him, elbows on knees. “You’ve thrown more baseballs than a man ought to. But you’re still better than almost anyone alive. Don’t go borrowing trouble.”
Brown didn’t answer. He watched Kuhn tamp the mound, watched the dust rise and drift. He thought about the 343 innings the year before, the 25 wins he’d already stacked up this season, the way the ball sometimes came out of his hand now with a fraction less bite unless he coaxed it. He thought about King Cole’s sudden brilliance, Mathewson’s eternal precision, and the way the league seemed to be getting younger while he stayed the same age only on paper.
Chance stood, slapped Brown lightly on the shoulder. “Get inside. We’ve got another one tomorrow.”
Brown rose slowly, brushing dirt from his trousers. As he walked toward the clubhouse, he glanced back at the mound; his mound, and felt a strange mix of pride and foreboding. The season was still theirs to take, and he would give everything he had left. But he knew, in that quiet, private way a man knows his own limits, that the arm was beginning to speak a new language.
Not surrender. Not yet.
Just time, tapping gently at the door.