The Legend of Mickey Tussler Read Online Free PDF Page B

Lefty was a tall, lanky fireballer himself who had, up until now, seemed destined for the majors. He’d led the league in each of the last two seasons in both wins and strikeouts. Most said only his surliness had kept him from the big show for this long. But there was a dearth of good pitching throughout the league. Another good year in the minors and it would be hard for some struggling team not to pick him up. A recent injury to his left elbow, however, had taken some velocity off his fastball and rattled his confidence. His recent decline was, as all the papers reported, a large part of what ailed the Brewers. Sitting at his locker, he had one eye on Mickey and the other locked on the equipment boy, Larry.
    â€œI don’t understand what happened today, Larry,” he lamented, his long fingers curled tightly around the seams of a pearl white baseball. “This is how I always hold my curveball. Don’t this look right to you?”
    The first thing they all noticed was Mickey’s size. At six foot five, 250 pounds, he was easily the biggest guy on the team. They wondered how such a big kid could possess enough agility to throw a baseball. And all of them worried secretly about his ability to hit one. This was especially true of Woodrow Danvers.
    Woody Danvers was the Brewers’ hard-hitting third baseman. He wasn’t particularly big himself, but he was barrel-chested and had bulging forearms and lightning-fast wrists. His long-ball prowess and boyish good looks made him a real crowd-pleaser. He was a pretty good teammate as well—supported all the other guys enthusiastically—provided everything was going well for him. A few hits would always launch him into a garrulous fit of dizzying proportions. He’d prattle on about baseball or their families or about the most insipid things, from the smell of his girl’s new perfume to his nightly routine of brushing each tooth individually and then rinsing out his mouth with some sort of homemade antiseptic and a turkey baster. It was so bad sometimes that the guys found themselves making wild excuses just to get away. But on days when he wore the collar, had nothing to show for his four at bats, he’d walk right by you as if he didn’t even know you. Murph always joked that when Woody was in a slump, he wouldn’t give you a second thought even if your balls were on fire.
    The hulking farm boy stood there, faintly rocking, his massive right hand attached to Murph’s shoulder. He was scanning the room, and Arthur could hear the faint whisper of poetic words beneath the boy’s breath. His eyes darted between the spirals of white towels draped over the edge of a yellow bin and the half-dressed guys sitting on the pine bench just in front.
    â€œHey, Murph,” Woody called. “We starting a football team or something?” Woody looked around for affirmation. He was pleased when a couple of the others chuckled.
    â€œDon’t you go getting your jockstrap all bunched up now, Danvers,” Murph shot back. “Mickey here is quite a pitcher, but God knows there’s only room for one glamour boy on this team.” The biting comment elicited even more laughs from the guys.
    The words quite a pitcher drew the full attention of Lefty, who abandoned his curveball grip to devote his full attention to Murph’s announcement. He struggled for a moment against himself. He felt a slight throb of pain at the thought of his talent, once certain, now fleeting.
    â€œWell, maybe he can pitch a little Murph. But, shit, can the boy talk?”
    That got the rest of them buzzing. They had all observed Mickey’s reticence and unusual mannerisms and wondered what Murph was trying to pull. Over the steady murmur echoing off the stone walls of the cavernous room could be heard more audible comments laced with exasperation, such as “Now they’re sending us retards” and “Welcome to the fucking