Like Terry, Gordie Brown, now at the plate, was a first-year Outlaw and had survived the obligatory rookie rituals, including the always riotous Locked-Out-of-the-Clubhouse-Without-Any-Clothes-On prank. Gordie possessed good baseball skills and a great right arm, a handy trait for a center fielder. His every at-bat was an adventure, however, as he often became flustered at the plate, especially after two strikes. Some of his teammates jokingly said it was the result of always being selected last in his grade school gym classes. In fact, it wasn’t until high school that Gordie actively pursued the game and, once he discovered an aptitude for it, began working out steadily. The result was a pair of football-like biceps and a sandbag-firm chest that looked like they’d be more at home in an ad for the Marine Corps. On the body of a five-nine, 170-pound ballplayer they were somewhat of an anomaly, though, like a pair of oversized shoulder pads on a ten-year-old. For all his outward physical strength, it seemed odd to those watching when his body went limp, the result of a pitch off the ear flap of his helmet.
“You sonuvabitch!” Shortstop Eddie Luca, the on-deck batter, was already at the edge of the pitcher’s mound, arms swinging to get a shot at the hurler. By the time he found his target, the Louisville shortstop, second baseman and third baseman had already joined the scrap, trying frantically to tie up Luca and protect their prized throwing arm. Two more Sluggers entered the struggle, followed by the rest of both dugouts. Only Lew Pearson and the team trainer avoided the fray, concentrating instead on the motionless body of Gordie Brown.
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