Title: The Legend of Mickey Tussler
Author: Frank Nappi
Publisher: Sky Pony Press; 1 edition (March 21, 2012)

Buy Link: Amazon

Book Description:

In the late 1940s, the minor league Milwaukee Brewers are foundering yet again and manager Arthur Murphy is desperate. When he sees seventeen-year old Mickey Tussler throwing apples into a barrel, he knows he has found the next pitching phenom. But not everyone is so hopeful. Mickey’s autism—a disorder still not truly understood even today—has alienated the boy from the world, and he is berated by other players and fans. Mickey faces immense trials in the harsh and competitive world of baseball while coping with the challenges inherent to his disorder. An honest and knowledgeable book about overcoming adversity, and the basis for the television movie A Mile in His Shoes, Mickey’s powerful story shows that with support and determination anyone can be triumphant, even when the odds are stacked against him.

About the Author:

Frank Nappi has taught high school English and Creative Writing for over twenty years. His debut novel, Echoes From The Infantry, received national attention, including MWSA’s silver medal for outstanding fiction. His follow-up novel, The Legend of Mickey Tussler, garnered rave reviews as well, including a movie adaptation of the touching story “A Mile in His Shoes” starring Dean Cain and Luke Schroder. Frank continues to produce quality work, including Sophomore Campaign, the intriguing sequel to the much heralded original story and the just released thriller, NOBODY HAS TO KNOW, which received an endorsement from #1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille. Frank is presently at work on a third installment of his Mickey Tussler series and his next thriller. He lives on Long Island with his wife Julia and their two sons, Nicholas and Anthony.

Excerpt:

In the cool blue twilight, with the distant lamps of the tiny town glowing like the tattered ends of lit cigars, Mickey sat down on Arthur Murphy’s front porch—squeezed himself into a rickety, white rocker that protested loudly under the burly boy’s weight—and fumbled nervously through the team’s media guide. Murph lived just a few miles from the ballpark, a twenty-minute scamper down the narrow dirt road all the locals referred to affectionately as Diamond Drive. His place was small, a modest gray dwelling that looked as though it had been dropped indiscriminately in the middle of a pale grass field flanked by clusters of big dead trees and restless tumbleweeds. The windows, clouded casements that winced uncomfortably at the barren acreage just outside, allowed only glints of light to pass through, obscurely illuminating the austere furnishings inside. It wasn’t much to speak of, but it was home and would now provide Mickey with a haven from which Murph could watch him for as long as he was with the team.

“Your picture will be on one of those pages next year,” Murph said with alacrity, dragging a bench alongside the rocker. “How does that grab you, Mickey?”

The boy nodded absently, his eyes affixed to the publication.

“You know, Mick, I was planning on using you in tomorrow’s game—if the time is right. You’ve practiced enough. Now I kind of want you to get your feet wet. Sound okay to you?”

The boy nodded again, continuing to nourish a daydream of limitless expansion seemingly tied to the pictures before him. Murph smiled at Mickey’s innocence.

“Mickey,” Murph repeated louder. “Do you want to play baseball tomorrow? In the game?” Mickey lifted his head. “Yeah. Baseball.” Mickey’s eyes darted wildly from side to side, like two marbles rattling around inside a glass jar. “Got any pigs here?”

“How’s that?”

“Have you got any pigs? Mickey loves pigs. Got me my own back home. Name’s Oscar. Oscar’s my pig.” Mickey jerked his head irregularly and looked all about out of haggard and homesick eyes. He blinked erratically, with great purpose, as if the fluttering of his lids would somehow clear the lenses and bring into focus the orphic surroundings.

“I tell you what, Mick,” Murph said, ever mindful of the boy’s emotional state. “I don’t have any pigs. But if you throw for me a little tomorrow, I can sure as heck try to get my hands on one.”

Mickey looked down glumly at his feet and nodded. Without a word, Murph dragged the bench even closer to Mickey, engendering a quick look from the pensive boy.

“That’s a pretty serious scar you got there, Mick.” Murph traced with a steady eye the jagged line of raised skin on Mickey’s forehead. “How’d it happen?”

Mickey sat quietly, staring blankly ahead into the approaching darkness, while unwittingly running his thick finger over the damaged area and scowling, as if the mention of the injury had brought to his idle mind a flood of memory.

Mickey spoke slowly but did not say much of anything, selecting his words carefully as if he were feeling for stones to step on to cross a rushing stream. He could still hear Clarence roaring and was unable to articulate the terror that had seized him now, all over again.

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