Sophomore Campaign Read Online Free PDF Page A

direction of Mickey, who stood impatiently behind a line of others all waiting to try their luck at the Milk Bottle Toss.
    â€œAre you kiddin’ me, Murph?” Woody complained. “Is that what he told you?”
    Murph shrugged his shoulders and frowned.
    â€œWhat a dirty son of a bitch. That stupid mother—”
    â€œHey, don’t go getting yourself all crazy now, Woody,” Murph warned. “That’s not why I told you. It is what it is. Mickey’s not playing. I tried. Nothing more I can do. I’m not happy about it, but that’s it. It was a good run, but that’s it.” He tilted his head to the side, his lips retracting just enough to reveal a row of teeth that formed a bitter parody of a smile. “It’s fine, Woody. Really. I just needed to tell someone, that’s all.”
    Woody prattled on about a team meeting with Dennison and how all of them should force the cantankerous owner to do the right thing, but Murph only half listened. None of it mattered. From where he stood, it was simple. No Mickey, no Murph.
    Under that same black sky, now big and bright with the sudden awakening of winking stars, Mickey stepped to the front of the blue and white canopied booth, picked up one of the hard rubber balls and rolled it in his hand. It felt good, like a jaunty drive through a familiar neighborhood. He smiled. His eyes darted wildly from sideto side, his entire body tingling, jolted to life by currents of memory. He placed the hand with the ball firmly in the other, rolled his arms, wound and fired, scattering the display of bottles as if they had been struck by a missile. The tiny crowd of onlookers erupted in applause. Mickey smiled again, as if he knew how extraordinary the blow appeared to the crowd, then picked up another ball and proceeded to dismantle the next pyramid of bottles, sending the burgeoning throng that had formed around the boy into bristling vibrations of animation and awe.
    â€œDo it again, son,” one of the men in the crowd pleaded. “Please.” The captivated stranger placed a quarter on the counter and rubbed his hands together furiously. Mickey looked at him with quizzical silence, then noticed the dirt under the man’s fingernails. He shot up both eye brows and wrinkled his nose.
    â€œYou a farmer?” Mickey asked.
    â€œHow’s that?” the man replied.
    â€œMickey grew up on a farm. Back in Indiana. Had me a big ole pig named Oscar. He were mine.”
    Immediately, there came from the man a look of impatient bewilderment. “I ain’t no farmer son,” he said. “I build houses. You know, with wood, nails. All that stuff. But pay me no mind now. I just want to see you knock them bottles over again. What do ya say?”
    Mickey’s eyes tightened and became fixed and intent in their gaze, a penetrating stare that narrowed in once again on the man’s fingernails.
    â€œMickey will do it,” he said smiling. “Then I will show you Oscar. I got a picture of him. In my pocket.”
    Mickey’s elation rose precipitously as the sudden attention and adulation stirred in him feelings of joyful days now gone. He sighed nervously. He thought he heard the fain’t echo of stamping feet and his name being screamed by the masses in rhythmic time.Standing now behind a mask of momentary aplomb, the boy seemed to flourish beneath the starlight. He licked his lips and looked forward, like a hunter eyeing his prey. Then he rolled his arms and began firing the rubber balls, one after another. He was perfect every time. Each ball that whizzed through the air, obliterating another pyramid of bottles, was like the song of Hera’s sirens—made the passers-by not only stop talking but slow down, pause, and ultimately join in the spectacle unfolding before them. With a swarm of onlookers now fully mesmerized, Mickey continued to do the impossible. Each one of his tosses found its mark,