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

swallowing hard. “Keep talking to him.”
    Boxcar shook his head and frowned. He nourished a constant stream of encouraging thoughts in his head, ever mindful of the grave situation, but whenever he said any of them out loud, it just seemed forced and ineffectual. “Come on, Mickey,” he implored again, this time placing the ball firmly in Mickey’s glove. “Just throw the ball. You can do it. You are the best out here.”
    A slight buzz came from the stands, as if a hornets’ nest had been disturbed, yet most of the people suspended any further action and ultimately fell still and silent, wetting their lips while studying the erratic behavior unfolding on the pitcher’s mound.
    After a lot of posturing and moving of dirt with restless spikes on the mound, the umpire broke up the exchange. “Let’s go, fellas. Let’s play ball.”
    Boxcar returned to the plate. Mickey moved some more dirt around in front of the rubber, then reluctantly placed his feet across the white stripe. He brought his hands together at his waist, rolled his arms, reared back, and fired. The pop of the catcher’s glove resonated throughout the stands, followed by a collective gasp and then the umpire’s call.
    â€œStrike one!”
    Boxcar grimaced and shook his left hand. He returned the ball to Mickey with his right. “Attaboy, big fella! Keep firing.”
    Mickey threw four more times, and although each delivery “popped” the catcher’s glove, they all fell outside the strike zone.
    â€œOh, Jesus Christ!” Murph muttered under his breath. “Another walk. The bases are filled again.”
    Boxcar showered Mickey with all sorts of clichéd encouragement, and the young pitcher continued to roll his arms and deliver. But he could not place the ball where Boxcar wanted. Eight more balls out of the strike zone, and the Brewers found themselves down by two runs.
    â€œTime!” Boxcar yelled. He flipped up his mask and began to make his way back to the mound, but was suddenly arrested by a stern admonition from the dugout.
    â€œBoxcar, you get your sorry ass back behind the plate. Enough already. Let the kid alone. He’ll be fine.”
    Boxcar sighed and pulled his mask down over his mouth. He crouched back down behind the plate, baking in the unrelenting heat. The day had been just too long. His knees hurt and his right elbow felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and one drop found its way into his mouth when his lips formed the words nobody could either see or hear.
    â€œGoddamned asshole.”
    Mickey peered into the rounded glove. He licked his lips, rolled, and fired at the next batter.
    â€œStrike one!” the umpire announced.
    With the ball back in his glove almost instantly, Mickey rolled and fired again.
    â€œStrike two!”
    The crowd exploded in applause and whistles, intoxicated by the popping leather and the umpire’s approval. Everything in the tiny ballpark clicked into slow motion, creating a dream state in which the secret thoughts and longings of all witnessing the spectacle were revealed. This wonderland blundered against familiar disappointments until, little by little, it again became a scene of real life, with people screaming and applauding with rabid expectation.
    â€œCome on, Mickey!” some of them exhorted from the bleachers. “Go get ’em.”
    Mickey seemed unphased, unemotional as ever. He took the ball, banged it in his glove two times, rolled his arms, and fired.
    â€œBall one!”
    The disappointment did nothing to thwart the crowd’s excitement. They cheered and whistled and stamped their feet until the next pitch was thrown.
    â€œBall two!” screamed the umpire.
    A palpable release of air all around the park was followed by a nervous whispering. Boxcar pumped his fist with dogged optimism; Murph paced and lamented to Matheson as the crowd