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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.
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