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

cocked his arm back behind his ear. Boxcar could hear the catcher shifting behind him to the outer half of the plate as the ball rolled effortlessly out of the pitcher’s hand. The sun caught the tiny sphere as it traveled to the catcher, laces spinning like a carnival pinwheel. It reminded Boxcar of the tiny white butterflies he used to observe from time to time as a kid, skittish but graceful. The ball orbited on the gentle breeze momentarily, suspended precariously like a wayward dandelion seed, before beginning its descent for its final destination. Boxcar’s eyes widened. The padded cowhide glove yawned patiently behind him, waiting to receive the tiny traveler. But Boxcar’s bat interrupted the artful choreography and caught the ball square as it floated across the plate, sending it screeching toward the gap in left center field.
    Murph was bent over the watercooler when he heard the thunderous explosion off Boxcar’s bat. He turned quickly, eyes wide but incredulous, and saw the ball rolling inexorably toward the wall and his beleaguered Brewers circling the bases. Pee Wee scored first, followed closely by Jimmy Llamas. Murph was on the top step of the dugout, alongside Mickey. His moribund spirit took flight.
    â€œCome on, Woody!” he screamed, arms flailing like a windmill, as Danvers rounded third base. “Get the goddamned piano off your back!”
    Danvers hit the inside corner of the bag in full stride. His face was strained—two hungry eyes and a clenched jaw fully visible with the loss of his cap. His chest heaved and his spikes whirled like two rotors, unearthing large clumps of clay in his wake. He was halfway down the third-base line when the shortstop, standing impatiently on the lip of the outfield grass, received the cutoff throw. The ball was in his glove for a mere second before he whirled and fired a bullet toward home plate.
    The crowd had worked itself into a dizzying fit of glorious expectation. Everyone was standing, willing Danvers to safety. The ball and the runner arrived at precisely the same time. The crowd gasped, then fell silent after a thunderous sound pierced the air. Both the catcher and Danvers crumpled helplessly to the ground, dazed and shaken by the violent collision. Danvers lay limp, balled up in a twisted heap stretched across home plate. His eyes glazed over and tiny beads of sweat and blood sat nervously on his dirtstained cheeks, quivering curiously beneath the penetrating stare of the yellow sun. The catcher rested some five to six feet beyond the circular dirt cutout where he usually sat, flat on his back, pinned beneath the weight of his gear and the disappointment of having let the ball roll from his fingers following the vicious collision.
    â€œSafe!” was the call, an exclamation that shattered the silence. The crowd exhaled, a collective wind that seemed to ruffle every flag in the ballpark. Everyone remained standing and roared with approval.
    The Brewers took that one-run lead into the ninth inning. Murph had hoped to plate one or two more insurance runs, but it was not to be. Arky Fries went down looking, ending the Brewer rally prematurely. So Murph crossed himself, sighed wearily, and handed the ball back to Butch Sanders.
    â€œCome on, Sandy,” he implored, patting the pitcher on the shoulder. “I need this one. Bad. Let’s sit ’em down, okay? One, two, three.”
    Sanders looked like a little boy who had just limped away from a street fight. His eyes, two fading stars, sank languidly into a face both red and awash with despair. He stumbled onto the field, shoulders rounded and dusty, and took his place on the hill. Tiny black flies flickered all about his cap, briny and askew, and a steady buzz from the crowd hopped on the frenetic air until finally settling directly above him. He exhaled. He knew he had nothing left.
    He peered into Boxcar for the sign. His first delivery was feckless, a flat fastball that