The Legend of Mickey Tussler Read Free

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.
    â€œExcuse 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.
    â€œI live here,” he answered.
    â€œIs there someone who can help me with my car? I mean, your parents. Is your dad around?”
    The boy didn’t answer. He was just standing before him, his glance shifting from Arthur’s hat to his shoes and all points in between.
    â€œI didn’t mean to bother you, son.” Murph held 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.
    â€œMichael James Tussler, sir,” he answered, pulling awkwardly at one of the straps of his overalls. “Folks round here just call me Mickey.”
    â€œMickey, huh? Say, that’s quite a shiner you got there.” Murph pointed to the boy’s eye.
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œYour eye. I was talking about your eye. How’d you get that?”
    The boy fidgeted. “Aw, don’t reckon Mickey remembers.”
    Arthur smiled softly. “Well, that’s all right 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?”
    â€œUh, sure. Maybe later.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWell, that sounds very nice, son. Say, how old did you say you are, Mickey?”
    â€œSeventeen.”
    â€œEver 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.
    â€œYou, know. Baseball. Three strikes. Home run. All that good stuff.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYeah, 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 fallen 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.
    â€œWhat do ya say, kid?” Murph 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?”
    Mickey ran his fingers over the laces. “Mickey likes it, sir.”
    Murph smiled. His heart beat on. “How about giving it a toss, Mickey? You know, right over in that barrel. Just for laughs.”
    The boy nodded. “Can I show you my pigs now?”
    â€œWell, sure you can, son. 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