Sophomore Campaign by Frank; Nappi Page A

Murph stopped the winded idol. “Hey, Box, you okay to go another inning? You don’t look so good.”
    Boxcar winced. His face flushed while he struggled with the emerging reality. He could choose, he thought, the easy way—the lesser of the two stances. He could be unfaithful to himself, and to the others, and just pack it in. Bag out, before it became too damned embarrassing and painful. For everyone. Or, he could play on, refuse to throw away his soul, the very essence of who he was, just because his body had chosen to betray him. “I’m fine, Murph. Ya hear? Fine. Don’t you even think about it. I am finishing this game.”
    Mickey bounded out to the mound to begin the top of the second inning. He waited patiently as Boxcar donned the shin guards and chest protector. His eyes scanned the crowd. He saw so many colors—red, blue and off white mostly. The Brewers’ colors were well represented that day. He marveled at the mixture, but decided that he’d much prefer to have all the colors separated from each other. Maybe have a section of stands for the people with red shirts,a section for blue, and one just for the off white. He struggled momentarily with what to do with those fans wearing shirts sporting an amalgamation of the Brewers’ traditional colors. It was just his way. Everything had its place and order. Standing in the shower, the top half of the body got completely scrubbed first so that none of the dirt would run down onto clean legs. It was always pants first, then shirt. Right shoe and sock always went on before the left. Vegetables came before meat. And bread for last, except when it was liver. When it was liver, the liver went first, followed by the bread to soak up the juice and then vegetables to kill the taste. Dessert was no different. Pie and cake had to divided into squares of even proportions before eating. Brownies were okay as is, provided they were not cut too big, in which case alterations were a must. Cookies posed no problem at all, except in the case of oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip, where one of the raisin or chips extended beyond the surface area of the actual cookie. Then it could not be eaten. And it was green M & M’s first. Then yellow, red, and orange. Brown was last. Always last.
    Clarence tortured the boy his whole life, calling him names and mocking his unusual behaviors, all the while suggesting that Molly had somehow ruined him and needed to be held responsible. “What the hell’s with this boy?” he always thundered. “Friggin’ retard. That’s what he is. I never saw such a boy as this. What in tarnation did you do, woman, to screw him up so?” It was only now, free from Clarence’s tentacles, that they both finally felt as though they could be themselves. Standing there, waiting for Boxcar, Mickey began counting colored shirts when the tardy catcher jolted him away from his thoughts.
    â€œHey, Mickey, let’s go here. I’m ready for you. Start warming up.”
    Seven tosses later, the cleanup hitter for the Rangers steppedin to try his luck against Mickey. He did exactly as McNally told him. Look for the fastball and adjust to the curve. But try as he might, he was just as ineffectual as the first three hitters. In fact, Mickey retired the side in order in each of the next six innings. Twenty-one up, and twenty-one down. Just like that. The kid was just un-hittable. Boxcar’s glove was popping all afternoon like it was the fourth of July and Mickey was freezing hitters with a 12–6 hook that was rolling off the table. Everyone who was at Borchert Field that day said it was the best pitched game they had ever seen. The only blemish on the day was that Lefty had also posted all zeros on the board, so after seven full innings of play, the game remained knotted in a scoreless tie.
    The Rangers managed to break up Mickey’s bid for a perfect game with two outs in the eighth on a