Read Online The Legend of Mickey Tussler by Frank; Nappi - Free Book Online

of optimism that danced wildly in Murph’s eyes began to wane, suffocated by the all-too-familiar doldrums of unfulfilled expectation. Buck Faber took three pipe strikes, and Clem Finster ran the count to 3–2, fouled off the next five offerings, but ultimately went down, swinging wildly at a pitch in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Murph said, firing his cap hard against the dugout wall. “Swinging at a goddamned fifty-five-footer? What the hell do I have to do to catch a goddamned break?”
    Boxcar was next. Ordinarily, this would have been heaven-sent. Your best player at the dish with the game on the line. But the Brewers’ leader was mired in a 1-for-26 slump, including three situations just like this one. Murph folded his arms and sighed. “Perfect,” he muttered bitterly. “Just perfect.”
    The Brewer catcher strode to the plate, serenaded by a frenzy of yelling and clapping and stamping of feet that washed across the ballpark like a tidal wave. Slump or not, he was their guy.
    â€œBoxcar! Boxcar!” the raucous crowd roared.
    He tapped each cleat with the shaved knob of his bat three times, in customary fashion. A subtle tip of his helmet and two practice swings that cut the air like an airplane propeller signaled he was ready.
    He dug his back foot in the soft earth. For a moment, his eyes found a black-and-white placard in the centerfield bleachers: BOXCAR IS GOD .
    It was nice to see. They had not forgotten. He smiled, but only for a fleeting moment, the glimmer of glory in his mind’s eye dimming quietly beneath the haze of the impending confrontation.
    â€œYou’re only as good as your last at bat,” he reminded himself.
    The first delivery was a fastball, high and inside. Most definitely a purpose pitch. Everyone knew that Boxcar loved to extend his arms. His biceps were thirty inches of chiseled marble, two Herculean specimens bristling with raw power, rage, and fury. The only way to neutralize that power was to tie him up. The scouting report was clear and simple: hard stuff inside, junk away. He knew the routine. Shit, he was a catcher himself. It was all part of the dance—a classic game of cat and mouse.
    The next offering was significantly slower and fluttered across the outside corner of home plate for a called strike. He grumbled a bit. Inside—outside. Inside—outside. He stepped out of the box and adjusted his helmet. His breath was hot.
    â€œCome on, Boxcar,” Murph yelled from the dugout, no longer able to sit still. “A little bingo. Come on now!”
    The sound of his manager’s voice quieted some of his frustration. He glared out at the pitcher, stepped back in, but backed out once more when an explosion of pigeons passed in front of the sun. They circled high overhead with a flutter and frenzy, casting a cold shadow that extended halfway across the diamond. Boxcar remained on the periphery of the chalk-lined rectangle alongside home plate, banging his cleats again. The pitcher shivered a little and pounded his glove while continuing to toe the rubber with an awkward restlessness. He released a venomous spray of tobacco juice in the batter’s direction and cocked his head invitingly. Boxcar laughed. “Relax, Sporty,” Boxcar said, staring playfully out at the tiny hill that lay some sixty feet in front of him. “I’ll be your huckleberry.”
    He dug in once more. The congregation of birds dispersed fearfully and the darkness lifted, the sun revealed once more, fresh in a clear blue sky. Boxcar was certain he knew what was coming next. The Rangers catcher was set up prematurely on the inside half of the plate. It was a transparent ruse, a feeble attempt at making Boxcar believe they were going to bust him in again.
    The pitcher took his sign. He placed his hands together and let them fall, slowly, methodically, until they came to rest momentarily at his waist. Then he lifted his leg and