King of the Mound: My Summer With Satchel Paige (17 page)

Satch usually said that kind of stuff like a boast, but this time his voice had a different tone—regret, maybe. And Nick thought he knew why. It was possible that Satch was the best pitcher in the world, yet he never got a real chance to prove it: He should have been facing down the Yankees in the World Series in front of tens of thousands of people rather than dominating a semipro tournament in Kansas. Nick didn’t understand why that was fair. Why couldn’t Satch and Hilton and Double Duty play in the majors? Who wouldn’t want to see the best play against the best? Did the color of a person’s skin really matter that much?

It was at moments like these that Nick realized that some things in the adult world simply made no sense. But he was nevertheless grateful for Satch’s example—Nick’s little limp felt like an awfully minor problem when compared to a rule that prevented you from ever reaching the pinnacle of your profession. Over his few months with the team, Nick had learned many things, but he knew that the most important lesson, the one that would stick with him for the rest of his life, had come from watching the dignified way that Satch dealt with the transparent injustice of his situation.

Like most barnstorming teams, the Bismarck Churchills fell apart quickly. Hilton Smith and Double Duty left Wichita on a train for points south, and they dropped off Chet Brewer at a gas station on the outskirts of Kansas City. The little caravan of cars pulled back into Bismarck late on a Monday afternoon, and by the time Nick finished unloading the gear, most of the remaining players were already gone. For a terrible moment Nick thought he had missed his chance to say good-bye to Satch, but then the familiar convertible pulled up next to the Plymouth.

“So long, Hopalong,” Satch said as he rolled down his window. He glanced at Nick’s legs. “Although I got to admit that nickname doesn’t seem right, now that you don’t have much of a hitch in your gait.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said. “I kind of like it.” He paused. “Are you coming back next season?”

Satch shook his head. “I’ve learned never to say never. But I think old
Satch has worn out his welcome here in Bismarck.”

Nick was going to ask why he had worn out his welcome, but Mr. Churchill had wandered over from the office. He stuck out his hand, which Satch shook.

“You did what you promised,” Mr. Churchill said. “And I sure am grateful.”

Satch smiled a salesman’s grin. “I always do what I promise.” The smile dimmed. “So what kind of deal did you cut with Wild Bill? Did he promise you something if we won the tournament?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Mr. Churchill said. “But don’t be surprised if someday I end up being the mayor of this little town.”

Satch raised an eyebrow. “If you send me the keys to the city, maybe I’ll come back.”

“Okay,” Mr. Churchill said. “Deal.”

They shook hands again, and then Mr. Churchill walked toward his office. He paused in the doorway and glanced back at the convertible. “You can forget the rest of the payments on that car,” he said loudly.

Satch winked. “That’s good. Because I wasn’t going to pay you anyhow.”

Mr. Churchill snorted and then disappeared into the office. Satch looked at Nick and then reached into a bag sitting on the passenger seat and pulled out a glass bottle filled with a familiar liquid—deer oil.

“I got this for you,” he said. “I know your leg is feeling better, so maybe you can use it on your arm. Once you start pitching again.”

Nick carefully took the bottle. “Thanks, Satch.”

Satch turned the key, and the convertible’s engine started with a sputter. The car lurched into gear and drove a few feet forward, but then it stopped. Satch glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, Hopalong,” he said. “Here’s one more piece of old Satch’s famous wisdom. . . . Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”

Satch waved a giant hand and then the tires spun and he was gone. Nick stood frozen amid the swirling dust, wondering what he was supposed to do now. All summer the team had been his life, but now with one roar of an engine it was over—the Bismarck Churchills would be a team in name only until the following spring. In fact, Nick didn’t even know if he and his father would be back the following season. Maybe they would move to a new town or maybe his father would become a manager on a different team or give up baseball or . . .

Nick’s head swirled; it was all just too overwhelming. He had gotten used to the faces on the team: Satch and Quincy and Barney and Hilton and Joe and Double Duty and Red and Moose and Chet. They had been his family—and a way to avoid the reality of his return from the hospital—but that was over now. It was time for him to make his own life, which meant that he had to stop hiding. The challenge was finding a way to start.

It began, of course, with baseball. The day after the team returned from the tournament, Nick was pumping water in the yard when Emma emerged from her house.

“That team wants you to play,” she said. “Another one of
their pitchers got hurt and they need help. Today.”

“The team with Tom and Nate?” Nick asked, stalling for time.

“Of course,” she said. “I told them you had been practicing and could pitch at least a couple of innings.”

Nick could feel the familiar fear rising in his chest, but he knew this was an important moment. It wasn’t going to get any easier to throw himself back into his old life.

“Okay,” he said before he could change his mind. “Just let me get my glove. And tell my father.”

“He’s in my house,” Emma said, an eyebrow raised. “Fixing the stove.”

Nick just grunted and then went and got his glove from the cabin. He changed his mind ten times about whether he actually would tell his father, but when he got back to the yard, he walked straight past Emma and into the main house. He followed the sound of their voices to the kitchen, where his father was patching a rusty spot on the stove’s iron chimney as Mrs. Landry watched from the kitchen table. They were in the middle of a conversation, a smile on both their faces, but they stopped abruptly as Nick came through the swinging door.

“I’m going to play baseball,” Nick said, his eyes locked on his father. “A team wants me to pitch.” His father just stared at him, expressionless. “And I haven’t been wearing my brace. Not for weeks.”

“I know,” his father said. “I decided that if you’re determined to be a fool, I’m not going to stop you.”

Nick felt his cheeks flush, and the words came in a jumble: “My leg’s doing better.
It’s not perfect, but that’s okay. I mean, nothing is perfect, right? Because if things were perfect Mom would still be here and you would still be playing baseball and wouldn’t say mean things all the time.”

His father was silent for what felt like a minute, and then he picked up his sandpaper and returned to working on the chimney. Nick watched him for a few ferocious strokes and then turned and headed for the door.

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” his father said as the door swung shut. “Ever again.”

Nick ignored him and went outside. Emma was still waiting in the yard, and when she noticed the expression on his face, she instinctively touched his arm.

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nick said.

“What were they doing?”

“Just talking.” Nick paused. “I think they’re friends. Which is good, I guess. My dad doesn’t have any friends. Just teammates.”

“What about you?” Emma asked. “Do you have friends?”

Her dark eyes were locked on him, and Nick tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, there’s this one girl. She’s done a lot of really nice things for me, and I feel bad because I haven’t really thanked her.”

“Tell me more about this girl,” Emma said with a hint of a smile. “She sounds nice.”

“It’s just someone from the neighborhood. She knows a little bit about baseball. I mean, for a girl.”

Emma’s smile grew and she stared at him for another long moment. “I like
it when you make jokes,” she finally said. “You’re usually so serious.”

“I used to joke a lot,” Nick said. “But it felt kind of weird to laugh in the hospital, so I guess I just kind of got out of the habit.” He paused, suddenly nervous. “I got something for you. You know, to say thanks for stuff.”

Nick quickly walked back into his cabin, feeling Emma’s eyes on him the whole way. He retrieved the little packet from under his bed, and when he got back outside, he hid it behind his back until he was again at her side.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to see around his body.

Nick twisted away, teasing her for one more second, and then pulled the packet from behind his back and handed it to her. “Programs,” he said. “One from every game this season. I got the players to sign most of them too. . . . Satch, Hilton Smith, Double Duty, Red. Even Mr. Churchill.”

Emma stared at the packet for a long moment, her face even whiter than usual, and the next thing Nick knew her arms were around his neck. He hugged her back, enjoying the moment, but also feeling a little awkward—the last time he’d hugged anyone it had been his mother. When they separated, Nick instinctively adjusted his shirt. She was staring at him, the small smile back on her face—but this time it wasn’t because of a joke. Nick glanced down at his feet, suddenly embarrassed.

“You want to come to the game?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.

The first part was easy. Nick’s adrenaline was surging as he walked up to the team, and it felt like old times as he met the
other players, put on a uniform, and talked to the coach. But as soon as he sat on the bench at the beginning of the game, all of that energy leaked out of his body and suddenly Nick was as nervous as he had ever been in his life. Just because you decided that you ought to be ready to do something didn’t mean you were actually ready, and Nick wished he had been practicing more. And why hadn’t he insisted on throwing a batting practice or something before appearing in an actual game? Was he crazy?

Nick therefore focused on praying that the team wouldn’t actually have to use him, but they were tearing through pitchers, and in the bottom of the fifth the coach turned to him and said, “You’re next.” Nick remained frozen on the bench for a few seconds and then forced himself to stand and start pinwheeling his arm the way his father had taught him. He glanced at the team, wondering if anyone would be willing to warm him up, but the other kids were all focused on the field. Just as Nick decided that he should ask Emma, someone tapped on his shoulder. It was his father. He was holding his catcher’s mitt in one hand.

“You’re not going to be any good if you don’t get loose,” he said.

Nick stared at him for a stunned moment. “Okay,” he finally said.

They went to the little warm-up mound beside the field, and his father lowered himself into a crouch. Nick threw ten pitches, starting slowly before gradually building to his best fastball. His father didn’t say a word until they were walking back to the dugout.

“Have you been practicing a breaking pitch?” he asked.

“No,” Nick said.

“Then don’t throw one. You won’t be able to control it, and you’ll
just hurt your arm. Stick with the fastball, low. Work both sides of the plate.”

Nick just nodded. He expected his father to walk off the field, but instead he stopped, his hand awkwardly gripping Nick’s shoulder.

“I know things haven’t been easy for us since your ma passed,” he said. “But Mr. Churchill says that you did a good job for him this season and that you can work for him anytime. Which is a good offer because he’s a big man around here.”

Nick knew what his father really meant, and he was grateful. Maybe it would be easier if his father could just say what he felt—if he could tell Nick that he was proud of him or even just that he was glad he was back from the hospital—but Nick had learned over the past few years to enjoy the good moments in life because things were never going to be perfect.

“I miss her too,” Nick finally said.

His father was frozen for a moment, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I know,” he said.

He turned and quickly walked off the field. Nick watched him go and then glanced at the bench—just in time to realize that the coach was pointing at him.

“You’re up,” he said. “Throw strikes and let your defense do the work.”

Nick slowly walked onto the field, feeling like every pair of eyes was locked on him, but when he reached the mound, his instincts took over. He stubbed his toe into the rubber to
make sure it was firmly planted into the ground and then waited for the catcher to get into position so he could throw his five warm-up tosses. The final one made a satisfying crack in the mitt, and as the catcher threw down to second, Tom jogged in from his position at shortstop.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said. “Go get ’em.”

Nick nodded and stepped back onto the rubber. He took a moment before he looked in for the sign to glance around the field. His father was still behind the bench, one hand gripping the chain-link fence like a claw. Emma was up on the small hill behind home plate, and when she noticed his gaze, she waved. Nick took a deep breath, just the way his father had taught him, and as he exhaled and began his windup, one final thought flashed through his head.