Free Sophomore Campaign by Frank; Nappi

either took or left the field, the entire group would rise in unison and salute their hero until he had reached his destination.
    Across the way, stationed behind the opposing team’s dugout, was a group known affectionately as “Mickey’s Minions,” scores of men and women alike sporting cream-colored T-shirts espousing their slogan on the front and a big heart with the number 8 inside on the back. They had in
their
arsenal signs and noise makers and on occasion, bags filled with confetti, all designed to express their unconditional love for their favorite Brewer.
    Mickey had captured the hearts and imaginations of the rest of the Brewers faithful as well; many of these less organized, less equipped worshippers were there that day too, roaring and clapping and rolling their arms in reverential pantomime, many dressed in Brewers shirts sporting Mickey’s name and number on their backs.
    Kiki Delaney led off the game for the Rangers. Delaney was their sparkplug, the catalyst behind a pretty potent offensive machine. He led the league the last two years in stolen bases and runs scored and had been a real thorn in the Brewers’ side. Both Murph and Boxcar reminded Mickey how crucial it was to keep Delaney off the bases.
    â€œDon’t play with him, big boy,” Boxcar said after Mickey had completed his warm up tosses. “Just go after him.”
    Delaney stepped in, inched real close to the plate, and got into his crouch. He loved the ball low and away. There were very few who were as adept at fighting off anything that got into his kitchen until he got something over the outer half that he could drive the other way. Mickey stood tall on the mound, peering in at Boxcar’sglove. The wily catcher was set up on the outside half of the plate, pounding his glove loud enough so that Delaney would know where he sat.
    â€œCome on, Mick,” he strained from behind his mask. “Hit that glove, kid.”
    Mickey nodded his head and, in typical fashion, placed his hand with the ball firmly in his glove and began the wild undulation of his arms, much to the delight of the eager crowd. Then he rocked back, brought his knee to his chest, and fired a dart just as Boxcar shifted over to the inner half of the plate. The ball whizzed through the frenetic air right for the glove, as if being pulled by some invisible string.
    â€œSteerike one!” was the call.
    The crowd roared. Delaney nodded his head curiously, as if to acknowledge that he had underestimated the velocity of the offering, and that he would not be fooled again. Mickey’s second delivery, however, was equally elusive, a white streak of burning light that froze the hitter while shaving the outside corner for a called strike two.
    â€œCome on, Kiki,” McNally screamed from the bench. “That’s all he’s got. It ain’t nothin’. Sit on the heater, for Christ sakes. You know it’s coming again. There ain’t nothin’ else.”
    At those last words, something gloriously liberating and intoxicatingly delicious darted into Murph’s mind. Now was the time. A special something was his and Boxcar’s and Mickey’s alone; a wonderful secret, something only theirs. He could still recall the days spent teaching the boy his latest skill.
    â€œGrip the ball this way,” Murph explained, showing Mickey the baseball, “and spin it like this—like you are snapping your fingers.”
    Mickey’s head was the only thing spinning.
    â€œBut Mickey does not understand. If I spin the baseball, how can I throw it?”
    Mickey’s obtuseness challenged Murph’s patience. It took some doing, and Murph almost gave up a few times, but eventually the young phenom got it. And it had remained a secret for months, suspended in designed dormancy. But now was the perfect time to summon the magical mystery and share it with everyone else.
    â€œMickey,” Murph yelled from the