King of the Mound: My Summer With Satchel Paige (9 page)

Nick’s father got back to the cabin in the early evening, and as he strode inside, he glanced at Nick.

“Put on your Sunday best,” he said gruffly. “Mr. Churchill needs us downtown.”

Nick pulled the battered trunk out from under his cot and rummaged around until he found his old pair of dark pants, collared shirt, and leather shoes. He and his father had bought them for his mother’s funeral, and at the time they had been a few sizes too big so Nick could grow into them. But that had been a long time ago, and the pants and shirt now clung to his body as if they were trying to strangle him, and the shoes pinched his toes like pliers. When Nick stood up and attempted to button his pants—a hopeless effort—his father looked at him and shook his head.

“Those are what your grandma used to call high-water pants,” he said.

“Why?” Nick asked.

“Because you could wade across a stream without having to roll them up.” He glanced at Nick’s bad leg and then at the bed, where the brace was lying next to the pillow. “Why aren’t you wearing your machinery?”

“I walked without it,” Nick said. “Today in the yard.”

“Don’t be a fool. You keep that thing on until a doctor tells you to take it off. Understand?”

Nick nodded. “Yes, sir.”

His father gave his pants another look. “Well, I guess we’d better go downtown and find you something.”

The something they found turned out to be a heavy wool suit that was on sale at Woolworth’s and a white dress shirt with so much starch that it felt as if it were made out of paper. The instant Nick stepped out of the store into the warm summer night, sweat began pouring from his armpits and down the small of his back, and his entire body felt like one giant itch. His father had also decided that his shoes still fit—the definition of wishful thinking—so he was hobbling even more than normal as they walked up to Mr. Churchill. He was standing on a corner at the center of town, his eyes locked on a makeshift mound that a few men were constructing in the street, and he grinned when he noticed Nick.

“You look like a priest,” he said. “Do you worship at the altar of our Almighty Father or the Church of Baseball?”

“Baseball,” Nick said. “Except on Sunday morning.”

“Good answer,” Mr. Churchill said. He reached into a satchel lying on the pavement next to him and pulled out a stack of flyers. “Easy assignment tonight. You just have to give away all of these.”

Nick glanced around the street, which was quiet for a Tuesday night. “To who?”

“I’m willing to make a bet that this street is packed in ten minutes,” Mr. Churchill said. “How about a nickel?”

“I don’t have a nickel to bet,” Nick said.

Mr. Churchill pursed his lips. “Well, it’s Tuesday night so we have to make some kind of bet.” His eyes focused on the flyers in Nick’s hands. “How about this. . . . You give away all of those flyers and you can come on our next road trip. Otherwise, you’re stuck here in Bismarck while we barnstorm across the great Midwest.”

Out of the corner of his eye Nick noticed his father’s eyebrows shoot up, but he didn’t say anything. “Deal,” Nick said.

He and Mr. Churchill shook hands, and then Nick glanced down at the top flyer. It was just three sentences printed with bright red ink:
THE LEGEND RETURNS! BISMARCK CHURCHILLS PRESENT LEROY SATCHEL PAIGE, GUARANTEED TO STRIKE OUT THE FIRST NINE MEN OR YOUR MONEY BACK! TICKETS GOING FAST!

“They look pretty good, don’t they,” Mr. Churchill said. “And if you give them all away, we’ll have a full house tomorrow.”

Nick gave the street another glance. “I’ll do my best.”

“I already told you not to worry about finding people,” Mr. Churchill said. “Believe me, I’ve got a whole mess of tricks up my sleeve.”

The tricks began ten minutes later while Nick was standing outside the five-and-dime store trying to convince an old woman to take a flyer even though she claimed she’d never been to a game because “that little ball moves too fast.” The first sign that something unusual was about to happen was
the honking of a car horn in the distance. Nick turned his head in time to see two men on horseback galloping down the street. They were carrying a banner between them that read
BISMARCK CHURCHILLS—TEAM OF CHAMPIONS
. As they pulled up in front of Mr. Churchill, their huge horses snorting and lathered with sweat, the two men stood out of their saddles and saluted. Nick’s eyes widened as he realized that it was Moose Johnson and Joe Desiderato from the team.

“Those about to play ball salute you!” they shouted in unison.

Mr. Churchill stepped forward. In the few minutes since Nick had last seen him, he had wrapped himself in a white sheet and put a wreath of leaves on his head. He looked like a Halloween version of a Roman emperor.

“Have you brought me tribute?” he asked.

“Yes,” Joe replied. He spoke in a loud monotone. “We have found the greatest pitcher in all the land.”

“And where can I find this gallant champion?” Mr. Churchill asked, his voice booming.

Joe turned and pointed. “Behold!”

As the word echoed off the buildings, three cars turned the corner at the end of Main Street. The first, a giant black sedan, was filled with the horn section of a band—tubas and trumpets sticking out the windows as they played a rollicking song. The second car, also a sedan, had a bunch of Bismarck players in their full uniforms hanging off the sideboards and waving at the growing crowd. The third was Satch’s silver convertible. He was sitting in the back between two men dressed in outrageous silver suits, and as the convertible slowed to a stop in front of Mr. Churchill, the two men simultaneously turned
their heads to either side. Huge billows of flame burst from their mouths, and Nick stared, stunned. The only time he’d ever seen fire breathers was at the carnival that set up on the outskirts of town late every August.

Mr. Churchill stepped forward, his eyes locked on Satch. “Your coming has been foretold,” he said. “Are you the greatest pitcher in all the land?”

“I be the man,” Satch said.

Mr. Churchill smiled broadly. “Excellent. We hear that you possess wondrous powers. Can you demonstrate a few of them for us? Your magical hesitation pitch, perhaps?”

“It depends,” Satch said. “I only demonstrate my powers to true believers.”

People had been emerging from storefronts and pouring out of the little alleyways that fed onto Main Street, and Satch cocked his head toward the growing crowd. The response was a loud shout and a smattering of applause. Satch smiled to himself and then got out of the convertible and walked over to the mound that Mr. Churchill had built in the street. As Satch made a big production out of stretching his arm, Nick’s father emerged from the crowd, a catcher’s mitt on his hand. Nick stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to get his wounded thumb into the stiff leather.

“Here it comes, folks,” Mr. Churchill shouted. “The infamous hesitation pitch.”

Satch started his windup, his hands going down as his leg went up, but then—right at the top of his motion—he froze, balancing neatly on one foot.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Churchill asked after a moment. “Are you scared to throw the ball?”

“Not scared,” Satch said. “Just pondering.”

“Pondering what?”

Satch turned his head just slightly so he could look at Mr. Churchill. “I am hesitating right now so I can cogitate on how I am going to throw my hesitation pitch.”

The crowd laughed. When it was silent again, Mr. Churchill waved impatiently at Satch. “Well, don’t cogitate all day,” he said. “Throw a strike!”

Satch whipped his body toward the glove and the ball flashed out of his hand—maybe not his best fastball, but still moving like it wanted to get somewhere. As the ball cracked into the mitt, the crowd, which had been steadily growing, went wild. Satch bowed and Mr. Churchill gave him a proud smile.

“That was wonderful,” he said. “Do you have anything else in your bag of tricks that you might be able to show this amazing crowd?”

Satch scrunched up his forehead. “Well, I have my internationally famous chicken ball.”

“Chicken ball?”

“Yes, sir. The very same ball that I threw for the king and queen of England and the king and queen of Spain. And I’ll tell you . . . them royalty just ate it up.”

“I’d like to see a chicken ball,” Mr. Churchill said. “But I don’t know about the rest of these good people.” His eyes scanned the crowd. “What about you? Do you want to see a chicken ball?”

This time the cheer echoed up and down Main Street—loud enough that they probably heard it all the way out on the Indian reservation. Satch smiled and then ambled back to the mound. When he was in position, he bent over at the waist, staring in at Nick’s
father. He made a show out of shaking off the first sign—and the second—but he nodded firmly at the third and then came to a set, his glove at his chest and his eyes glaring at the catcher’s mitt. His leg moved back and his hands rose as if he were starting his windup, but then he paused and returned to the set. The crowd muttered. Satch took a breath and then his leg and hands moved again, but again he stopped.

Nick glanced around him at the crowd—people were leaning forward, mouths open, totally focused on the lanky man standing on the makeshift mound. Nick looked back just in time to see Satch start a third windup. He paused again, and the crowd grumbled, louder this time, but then Satch’s leg kicked up and his arm whipped toward the catcher’s mitt. Nick looked for the ball, his eyes straining in the twilight, but instead he saw a strange, floppy figure flying down the street—

It was a
rubber chicken
. It made it halfway to Nick’s father and then skidded to a stop in the dirt, its legs akimbo and neck twisted at a strange angle. One of the horn players from the band made a strange sound with his instrument—a
bawk, bawk, bawk
—and suddenly the crowd erupted with laughter. People were slapping their knees and bending over and pointing at the chicken, tears running down their faces. It was absolute pandemonium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you saw it right here in downtown Bismarck,” Mr. Churchill bellowed. “The infamous chicken pitch! And if you want to see more amazing feats, come on down to the ballpark tomorrow, where you can see these fine boys play the best ball anywhere in the Dakotas. Heck, maybe the best in the world.”

The brass band started playing and the crowd pressed toward
Satch, and for the next twenty minutes Nick was giving away flyers as fast as his hands could move. He finally ran out just as the crowd was reduced to dregs. Mr. Churchill was still talking to a few people, but Satch was getting into his convertible, alone. Nick walked over to him.

“That was pretty funny,” he said when he was within earshot.

Satch looked at him and grinned. “I figured it would go over like gangbusters. This is a farm town, and farmers are the same everywhere. Simple folk like simple jokes.”

“You’ve done this before?” Nick asked.

“Only in every little town south of the Mason-Dixon Line. And it didn’t matter if the crowd was black or white. . . . If they were the kind of folks who knew the business end of a chicken, they’d laugh.” Satch gave Nick a look. “Churchill said you were trying to give away a mess of flyers.”

“Yup,” Nick said. “And I gave away all of them, which means I get to go on the next road trip.”

“Good.” Satch paused. “And what about that deer oil? You try it?”

“It felt like someone set fire to my leg,” Nick said. “But I walked without my brace.”

Satch smiled again. “Attaboy. We’ll get you back on that pitching mound yet.”

Nick nodded, but he didn’t really believe it—there was a big difference between running out of a house because your leg was burning and playing baseball. But it was awfully nice that someone thought he could be a pitcher again. Especially since that someone knew more about pitching than anybody for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

Nick awoke the next morning with a smile on his face. Every day that he got to see Satch pitch felt like Christmas, but today was particularly special, since the flyer had promised that Satch was going to strike out the first nine men or the fans would get their money back. His father left for the ballpark right after breakfast, but Nick still had to do the chores, so he rushed through sweeping the cabin and cleaning the ash from the stove. When he was done, he sat on his bed with his pants rolled up staring at his brace. Fragments of his doctor’s orders echoed through his head: “The correction will happen gradually. . . . It’s important to stick with the program. . . . Don’t push yourself too far or too fast. . . .”

Nick undid the straps of the brace, tore it off his leg, and shoved it deep under his cot. He rolled down his pants to disguise his decision and then limped out of the cabin before he could second-guess himself. For the first half of
the walk to the ballpark he was too excited and nervous to really notice how his leg felt, but as the adrenaline gradually wore off, he began to pay attention. It was kind of like the sensation you got when you’d been carrying a heavy bag for a while and then put it down—good, but also weird. As he got close to the ballpark, Nick stumbled a few times as his knee got tired, but he didn’t mind. The feeling of freedom was worth it.