![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() And that gratuitous line about him being a good man. It may have been true, all that Dennison had said, but the owner’s tone irked him. Murph’s stomach burned as he recalled the conversation. Feels like the whole world’s against us.” But everyone wants to be a soldier all of a sudden. ![]() We’ve lost our best prospects the last few years to Uncle Sam. “Do yourself a favor and get your ass out there and find something to help that sorry lot you call a team or I’ll be scouting for managers.” He paused deliberately for effect. “I need you on this one, Murph,” the club’s owner explained. But there he was, still doing a job more commonly associated with guys half his age. Twenty-six years with the Braves organization he had played for them, coached, and was now in his third year as manager of their farm affiliate in Milwaukee. He rubbed his eyes with one hand-they burned from the firebrick sun that had slipped over the rolling hills of clover up ahead-and drummed the top of the steering wheel impatiently with his fingers on the other. He had been driving all night, with nothing for company but endless rows of cornstalks, a diamond-dotted sky, and a brown paper bag whose torn front exposed the worn words Southern Comfort. The dirt beneath the wheels of Arthur Murphy’s car rose and swirled like the breath of angry giants, lingering in the heavy morning air even after his blue-and-white Plymouth Road King had disappeared around the bend like an apparition. ![]()
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