Free Sophomore Campaign by Frank; Nappi Page A

dugout.
    The boy turned his gaze toward the voice, as did Boxcar. Murph smiled, nodded his head, and, made a curious gesture with his hand.
    â€œCome on now, Mick,” he encouraged. “Just like we practiced.”
    Mickey’s eyes studied Murph’s face with discernable deliberation, as if the manager’s instructions were slowly dissolving into an actual plan. He titled his head and scratched his cheek, remembering now what he and Murph had worked on previously. With this thought now fully hatched, Mickey toed the rubber and peered in at Boxcar, who was wiggling two fingers against the inner half of his right thigh.
    Mickey nodded and fired what looked to be another missile, a shoulder-high delivery that was destined to land well above the strike zone. High fastball. Just a waste pitch. Delaney relaxed his bat, and the umpire ducked behind Boxcar, certain that he was about to take the wild pitch square in the face. Yet as the spinning sphere approached its destination, it dove sharply, suddenly, buckling Delaney’s knees before plunging a good three feet across the center of the plate and into Boxcar’s glove. The Ranger’s leadoff man, stunned by the drastic change in trajectory, looked sheepishly behind him, waiting to be rung up. Boxcar turned his head as well, only to discover that the man in blue had only now just lifted his head back up into view.
    â€œBall one,” he finally called.
    Boos and jeers rained down from the stands. Murph, Matheson and the entire Brewers’ bench launched invectives of their own.
    â€œWhere’s your glasses and cane?” they screamed. “That’s a curveball, ump.
    Ever see a curveball? Pathetic. Jesus H. Christ! That ball was right there.”
    The umpire stood vexed as Boxcar returned the ball to Mickey, pretending not to hear any of what was being said. He had called Mickey’s games before, but had never seen anything except pure heat. The error in judgment had him rattled.
    â€œSorry ’bout that, Boxcar,” he finally whispered as he crouched behind the catcher in preparation for the next pitch. “I just missed it.”
    Boxcar, who was breathing heavily, answered without turning around.
    â€œYou better not blink again, chief. The boy will be dropping them yellow hammers all afternoon.”
    Now that the seed of doubt had been planted, Mickey and Boxcar owned Delaney. He didn’t know what to expect. Mickey wasted no time cashing in on the indecision, freezing Delaney with a letter high fastball and sending him back to the bench shaking his head. The next two batters met with a similar fate, each going down on 0–2 curveballs that had the entire ballpark wide-eyed and speechless. Mickey had electrified the home town crowd as only he could. But it was time for the bats to join the party. The Brewers had played so many games last year that featured stellar pitching and anemic offense. Murph was mindful of the need to erase the trend.
    â€œOkay now, fellas,” he said, clapping his hands while pacing the front of the bench. “Let’s get those sticks going.”
    Pee Wee waited in the on-deck circle, swinging two bats and eye balling Lefty as the southpaw completed his warm up tosses. There was certainly no love lost between the two, especially after Leftyused Pee Wee as a pawn last season in order to orchestrate the first deplorable incident with Mickey.
    â€œHow could you just leave him, Lefty? At a bar, all by himself? You know he can’t handle himself that way. You said you’d take care of him.”
    The jealous hurler just smiled, his complexion waxy from a night of drunken debauchery. “Relax Pee Wee,” he said callously. “He was with a girl. I did him a favor. You should be thanking me. Besides, you’re the one who brought him.”
    The truth of the statement, although spun to suit Lefty’s argument, stung mightily. It left the diminutive shortstop bitter