The Legend of Mickey Tussler

Chapter 1 The dirt beneath the wheels of Arthur Murphy's car rose and swirled like the breath of angry giants, lingering in the heavy morning air even after his blue-and-white Plymouth Road King had disappeared around the bend like an apparition. He had been driving all night, with nothing for company but endless rows of cornstalks, a diamond-dotted sky, and a brown paper bag whose torn front exposed the worn words Southern Comfort. He rubbed his eyes with one handthey burned from the firebrick sun that had slipped over the rolling hills of clover up aheadand drummed the top of the steering wheel impatiently with his fingers on the other. He was getting too old for this. Twenty-six years with the Braves organization; he had played for them, coached, and was now in his third year as manager of their farm affiliate in Milwaukee. But there he was, still doing a job more commonly associated with guys half his age. "I need you on this one, Murph," the club's owner explained. "Do yourself a favor and get your ass out there and find something to help that sorry lot you call a team or I'll be scouting for managers." He paused deliberately for effect. His forehead wrinkled. "You're a good man, Murph. But this is no time for pride, Arthur. We've lost our best prospects the last few years to Uncle Sam. Goddamned war. They say it's over now. Sure. It's over. But everyone wants to be a soldier all of a sudden. Fucking Japs. Ruined everything. Feels like the whole world's against us." Murph's stomach burned as he recalled the conversation. It may have been true, all that Dennison had said, but the owner's tone irked him. And that gratuitous line about him being a good man. Who was he kidding? Murph was inclined to consider the sentiment not so much a compliment but more as bullshit designed to cajole him into accepting another scouting trip that nobody else wanted. Warren Dennison, the owner of the minor-league-affiliate Brewers, didn't give a rat's ass about him. Never did. Murph's eyelids were heavy and struggled beneath the weight of sleeplessness. The rows of fruit trees were endless and hypnotic. Many times during the drive he'd felt like a rat, negotiating a series of narrow corridors, searching for the elusive prize at the end. He rolled down the window and hit the knob on the radio. The cool air and Johnny Mercer's "Sweet Georgia Brown" got his left foot tapping. Thoughts of his past returned as well. His life had tumbled well short of the aspirations he'd had during his playing days when he was touted as the best left-handed hitter since Ty Cobb. He recalled happily all of the attention he received those first few months. He and another young stud, Chip "Hollywood" McNally, had begun their careers in the American Association the same year. They were both lionized by everyone in the Braves organization as the finest prospects they had. Milwaukee was going to be just a brief stop en route to the big show in Boston. Both were exceptional outfielders; each could run like a deer and could hit every bag with a tracer from anywhere in the outfield. McNally was probably a little stronger, and Arthur's red hair and freckles were no match for Hollywood's square jaw and golden locks. Still, Arthur was the one that all of the real baseball people whispered about, especially around the batting cage. He was a natural. Could flat out hit. Turn on the fastball. Shoot the curve the opposite way. Had excellent power to all fields. Whitey Simpson, the manager of the Milwaukee Brewers the year he arrived, swore that Arthur was the best bad-ball hitter he had ever seen. [read more]