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

just glided across the middle of the plate. It was fired right back at him, narrowly missing his head, and scooted into center field.
    â€œMickey,” Murph called, continuing to watch the desperate affectations of his wounded pitcher. “Run down to the pen with Matheson and Barker and loosen up.”
    The next batter caught a similar pitch right on the sweet spot of his bat, sending a frozen rope to third. The ball appeared destined for the left-field corner. But Woody Danvers, still riding the high of the previous half inning, lay out, full extension, and snared the smash in his web just at it passed by.
    â€œOh, holy shit!” Murph bawled. “Matheson? Matheson? Would you move your ass down there?” he yelled desperately. Sanders was out of gas. Murph knew it. The Rangers knew it. They were all licking their chops and swinging from their heels. Even the crowd knew it, and a smattering of boos and jeers began cascading onto the field. Murph stretched his glance to the bullpen. Matheson knew what he wanted and shook his head and held up five fingers. Murph cursed and crossed himself again.
    The next batter sent two long foul balls soaring into the bleachers before lining a sharp single to left. That was followed by a scorcher to right. The runners each advanced one base, loading the bags for the Rangers’ third- and fourth-place hitters.
    Murph’s heart sank. “Time!” he called. He hung his head and made the long walk to the mound. “Like some goddamned Abbott and Costello routine,” he muttered under his breath.
    He hated these trips to the mound more than anything. His spirit always labored, buckling beneath the weight of ruthless castigation that would come from the fans, the local press, and at times his own team.
    â€œLeft ’im in too long” or “Never should have started him to begin with” were only two of the comments he imagined being bandied about. And as if the concern over their words weren’t enough, he lamented over what he was going to say—that desperate search for the pithy sentiment that would preserve the dignity of his pitcher and at the same time extricate himself from any further scrutiny or criticism over why he had stayed with him so long.
    On the way out, he measured his gait, mindful of the myriad superstitions attached to stepping on the sacred lines of chalk. So, he would walk gingerly, methodically, like one who was negotiating the dimpled, slippery side of a fallen tree trunk stretched across a raging river. His focus was clear—just get to the other side. And although he tried to prevent it, his eyes always strayed from the intended destination, wound up flirting with the many faces in the crowd, rendering him lost amidst the kaleidoscope of images and the shrill, admonitory voices filtering through the fitful abstractions. It was then, at that moment, when he always felt the sweat beading on his back. Each step he took stoked the fires of vexation even further and seemed to amplify the discord raining down on him.
    â€œYou lousy bum! Go back where you came from! You stink so bad you could knock a crow off a shit wagon!”
    These sounds and sights swirled turbulently and always seemed to him not simply the atmospheric conditions of a ballpark in flux but the rushing of the flames of hell. It never got any easier. He often mused that one day, when he arrived at the hill after conquering the proliferation of pitfalls that always accompanied a pitching change, the earth would laugh sardonically and just open up and swallow him whole.
    â€œYou gave it your best, kid,” he said to Sanders, patting his back. “It’s okay. Hit the showers.” Sanders hung his head and departed without a word. Then Murph made a deft motion with his right arm, signaling to the bullpen.
    Mickey bounded out from the pen to a faint, inquisitive buzz that insinuated itself into the ear of every person in the park. Murphy was at