Free The Legend of Mickey Tussler by Frank; Nappi

it again. Another reclamation project. He was the champion of the lost cause. A long list of misfits and has-beens trailed in Arthur’s wake. He’d been quiet of late, stopped courting this quixotic pie-in-the-sky philosophy after his last effort ended so bitterly. Scooter Moran, the Athletics’ young, talented third baseman who’d ascended the amateur ranks like a phoenix, was left for dead after he was beaned in the left eye by Grover Daniels.
    â€œNever be the same,” they all said. “Nobody ever is.”
    Murph thought differently. “I know the A’s let Moran go. I know. But I’m telling you, Mr. Dennison, I can feel this one. Really. He’s gonna be fine. Let’s sign him.” Scooter was grateful to Murph, but all the gratitude in the world could not resurrect his moribund career. He batted a meager .138 in his first twenty-one games with the Brewers. The nineteen-year-old phenom from Mississippi had felt the heat from both the fans and the press.
    So did Murph. He had left the struggling third baseman in during some pivotal moments, and in each instance Scooter’s failure translated into failure for all the rest of them. Dennison was just about to drop the hammer on both of them when Scooter disappeared. Just up and left. Cleared out his locker one night. Walked in with tears in his eyes and a bag draped over his shoulder. It took him less than ten minutes to pack his dreams into a tan gunnysack. Then he caught a train back home.
    Murph was crushed. “Jesus Christ! This is the thanks I get? Not even a goddamned note? A thank-you?” It took a while for the sting of failure and disappointment to abate. Most thought for sure Murph had finally learned his lesson. But old habits die hard. So when the crowd saw Mickey entering the game, hat askew, jersey stretched uncomfortably across his preposterously large frame, they only gasped momentarily, then rolled their collective eyes and sighed.
    A small, impromptu gathering took place at the mound underneath an uncertain sky: Murph, Boxcar, and now Mickey. Mickey took the ball and smiled, his fleshy cheeks dimpling. Murph raised his eyebrows and smiled back. Mickey’s eyes looked directly into Murph’s, so intensely, and with such fervor, that Murph could see the little dark flecks, illuminated by intermittent flashes of sunlight, in the colored part around the pupils. The boy was so pure. Inside Murph’s head, a cyclone was at work. He wondered, as he had the previous three innings, if the time was right.
    â€œWell, Mick, she’s all yours. Just relax. Relax. Throw the ball right to Boxcar’s glove.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Mickey replied, thinking thoughts about baseball and farmhouses and the anthill he had discovered only moments before.
    â€œThat’s right, kid,” Boxcar added. “Nothin’ to it. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel. Just listen to me—hit the targets, and we’ll be fine. Got it?”
    â€œYup. Yup, Mickey can do that.”
    The fickle sun came out once again, this time for good, tinting the late-day sky a pinkish orange. Murph returned to the dugout, cyclone still raging, and Boxcar squatted behind the plate. Mickey stood on the rubber, feet dangling awkwardly over the dirty white stripe, and peered in at Boxcar.
    â€œOkay, Mick!” he yelled. “Just give me a few warm-ups here.”
    Mickey nodded confidently as if he had been putting out fires like this all his life. He smiled again and pounded the ball into the pocket of his glove. But before he could release his first toss, his eyes wandered to the frenetic crowd, and a strange, hunted look fell across his face. Then came the nervous rocking, back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum. Boxcar stood up.
    â€œMickey,” he yelled, waving his arms over his head. “Here. Look here. Just here. At me. Come on now. Hit the glove. Toss me the ball. Right here.”
    Mickey