The mailbox outside the farmhouse was beaten and weathered, a gray wood

container nailed to a crooked stake with the name “Tussler” barely visible through  all

of the chips and cracks. He followed a narrow, winding path that led him past a tiny

field with slanted gravestones overrun with cucumber vines and crabgrass that eventually

gave way to a small stable.

“Hello,” he called out. “Anyone home?”

He stepped forward and opened the doors, looking curiously at the scene inside. Two

horses, a couple of chickens nesting in the corner and a few pigs eating quietly from a

trough.

“Not much of a farm,” he thought.

The animals seemed to be just as unimpressed with him. They barely stirred, and

probably would have remained completely still had it not been for the sudden thumping

from behind the far wall. He followed the sound around the stable until he found its

origin. He stood, with his back and left foot flat against the side of the stable,

watching in amazement at the young farm boy, standing next to a curious pattern of crab

apples in the dirt – six rows across, five apples deep – firing one at a time from one

hundred feet away into a wine barrel turned on its side.  

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Stunned, Arthur watched as the boy shifted his weight back, cocked his right arm,

then exploded forward, splitting  the center of the barrel every time. He didn’t have much

of a windup, and the mechanics were awkward, but it was the most astounding

display of power and accuracy he had ever witnessed.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He was about to walk a little closer when he stopped suddenly, taken back by an

unusual, spastic motion the boy was performing. His throwing hand, curled into a fist,

was buried inside his other and he was rolling his arms violently. Arthur watched as each

elbow rose and fell rhythmically, over and over again, until at last the boy stopped just

long enough to reach down in front him in order to resume the awesome exhibition. 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Three more strikes. Then came the rolling of the arms. Arthur stared  as the powerful

young man repeated the process, time and again.

            He was captivated. Once the pristine rows of projectiles had vanished, Arthur

walked over to the boy. The kid was bigger up close. His face was youthful, round

and fleshy, with sandy brown strands of hair that barely concealed a dark purplish line

under his right eye.  He must have been at least six foot five. His legs looked like two oak

trees and he had the biggest hands Arthur had ever seen.

“Excuse me,” Arthur said. “Hello. I had a little accident with my car. Do you live here?”

The young giant was startled and tense. He began to chew his lower lip. His eyes

darted wildly.

“I live here,” he answered.

“Is there someone who can help me with my car? I mean, your parents. Is your dad

around?”

He didn’t answer. He was just standing before him, his glance shifting from Arthur’s hat

to his shoes and all points in between.

“I didn’t mean to bother you son,” Murph said, holding out his hand. “I’m Arthur

Murphy. My friends call me Murph.”

The boy’s expression softened. He pushed away the wisps of brown hair that hung

carelessly in his eyes.

“Michael James Tussler, sir,” he answered, pulling awkwardly at one of the

straps of his overalls. “Folks ‘round here just call me Mickey.”

“Mickey, huh? Say, that’s quite a shiner you got there,” Murph said, pointing to the boy’s

eye.

“How’s that?” he responded.

“Your eye. I was talking about your eye. How’d you get that?”

The boy fidgeted. 

“Aw, don’t reckon Mickey remembers,” he answered.

Arthur smiled softly.  

“Well, that’s alright now. It’s nice to meet you Mickey. You’ve got quite an arm there.

Really. I was watching you from over there. How old are you?” 

The boy was biting the inside of his cheek. 

“I got me some pigs sir. Want to see my pigs?”

“Uh, sure.  Maybe later.”

“I got six of ’em. My favorite one is named Oscar.”

Arthur studied the boy. He was certainly in amazing shape. A fine athletic specimen. But

there was something about him. A vacuity behind his eyes that seemed to overshadow

everything else.

“Well, that sounds very nice son. Say, how old did you say you are Mickey?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ever play baseball?”

Mickey just looked at him.

Murph thought again about Dennison’s ominous admonition and how desperately grave

his situation with the ball club had become. 

“You, know. Baseball. Three strikes. Home run. All that good stuff.”

“I don’t reckon I have. I’ll show you my pigs now. I got six of ‘em.”

Then Mickey placed his hands together and began rolling his elbows once again. 

“Yeah, yeah. Okay Mickey. In a minute. But first, how’s about waiting here while I run

to my car. Then maybe you can show me that neat trick of yours again-- you know,

throwing those apples in the barrel?”

Mickey nodded blankly. Murph was gone and back in a flash, fearful that the boy might

change his mind. With his breath short and erratic, Murph reached down to pick up one

of the wormy specimens that had managed to fall outside the original makeshift grid. He

tossed it in the air a couple of times. Then he reached into his pocket with his other hand

and presented to Mickey a beautiful new baseball.  

“What do ya say kid?” he prompted, holding out both his hands. “They’re almost the

same exact size. Except mine is real clean and smooth. Go on. Have a feel for yourself.”

Murph watched as the boy’s hand swallowed the ball.

“Pretty neat, huh?” he asked.

Mickey ran his fingers over the laces.

“Mickey likes it sir,” he replied.

Murph smiled. His heart beat on.

“How about giving it a toss Mickey?” he asked. “You know, right over in that barrel. 

Just for laughs.” 

The boy nodded.

“Can I show you my pigs now?” he asked.

“Well, sure you can son,” Murph answered. “But first, I’d love to see you toss that

baseball into that  barrel.”

The monotony of the conversation sank into a vague haze through which Murph’s

glittering visions persisted. He placed his hand on the boy’s back and nudged him gently. 

“What do you say son?” he prodded. “Will you do that for me?”

“Okay Mr. Murphy. Mickey will do it.”

            Murph watched with immeasurable fascination as the boy held the ball, brought

his hands together, and rolled his arms. Then, like a bolt of lightening released

from the heavens, the ball took flight, a streak of white radiance that cut the air with a

whizzing sound before landing directly in the center of the barrel, splintering the wood.

Murph’s eyes widened like saucers. His breath was gone again. Then, in the flatness that

followed the euphoria, Murph knew, just knew, that he had stumbled on something

special.