Free The Legend of Mickey Tussler by Frank; Nappi Page A

blinked hard. His nostrils flared for a second and he ran his tongue across his lips. Then he moved his back foot off the rubber and arched his back, a spasmodic gesture punctuated by the peculiar rolling of his arms, and fired the ball at Boxcar. The ball popped in the catcher’s glove like a pistol shot, reverberating through the stands. The report of Boxcar’s glove silenced the bristling crowd, leaving them speechless and wide-eyed beneath the pall of improbability.
    Pop! Pop! Pop!
    The sound was deep and leaden, like heavy stones falling to earth.
    Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
    Seven tosses, each one drawn to Boxcar’s glove with the accuracy of an archer’s arrow. The sound engendered great interest among spectators and players alike. All eyes were fixed on the burly pitcher. Even the ushers and peanut hawkers suspended their business to take a gander at a most extraordinary event.
    The next Ranger batter strode to the plate with a curiosity that supplanted his desire to tie the game. Who was this kid, swaying side to side, rolling his arms like some kind of vaudeville magician? How could this freakish farm boy who looked more like something that should be featured at a corner carnival than at a baseball game throw a ball with such velocity, such accuracy?
    It was all picture-perfect. The young, unknown phenom, riding in on his white horse to save the day—all in front of an eager crowd. What could have been better?
    Yes, it was all perfect, until the batter stepped to the plate, disrupting the harmony of the dream and diverting Mickey’s attention from Boxcar’s glove. There he was. Just him against the batter. It was strange, he thought, that he was out there alone. In his overwrought condition, it was more than he could handle. All at once he looked oddly uncomfortable, as if he had already digested what his senses and intellect could not yet grasp.
    Mickey’s first pitch was a dart that whistled by both the batter and the catcher, soaring about two feet above the intended target and coming to rest up against the backstop.
    â€œLike a goddamned frog in a frying pan,” Matheson cried. “Has the kid even pitched to a live batter yet?”
    Murph cringed in the dugout, his hopes collapsing as the runner from third scampered home with the tying run. Boxcar retrieved the ball and walked it back out to Mickey. “Relax kid, okay? Relax. Nice and easy. Just play catch. Warm-ups, remember? Just like that. Okay?”
    â€œâ€˜Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog,’ ” Mickey recited.
    Boxcar’s eyes narrowed. Mickey was withdrawing fast. His mind wandered to his mom and the farm and to the black, triangular spot just behind Oscar’s right ear.
    â€œMickey? You okay?”
    The boy was miles away.
    â€œCome on now, Mickey. Take the ball.”
    Mickey was unresponsive. Boxcar looked into the dugout, in Murph’s direction, but the manager’s face was expressionless. Then the frustrated catcher raised his eyebrows and held up both palms to the sky. But Murph did nothing. Said nothing. He just stood there, shoulder propped awkwardly against the dugout wall, thinking about all the times his life had forked, and how each path he’d chosen had led to this sort of silent desperation.
    â€œMurph!” Boxcar shouted from behind his mask. “What’s up?”
    The catcher stood on the mound, hands resting impatiently on his hips, waiting for a suggestion, some encouragement, or just a word or two on which he could hang his frustration. “Hey,” he continued to shout. “What are we doing here?”
    Murph saw Boxcar, perplexed, and the image became, all at once, mesmerizing and impenetrable. The longer he looked, the more unreal it became until he felt a sense of panic, as if he needed to shake himself out of some alien transfixion.
    â€œJust, eh—just keep talking to him, Box,” he yelled back,