King of the Mound: My Summer With Satchel Paige (6 page)

Mr. Churchill’s voice rose. “Those people should understand that it would be crazy not to buy this program. For a mere ten cents they can own a genuine collector’s item . . . a timeless memento to prove to their grandkids that they were at the park the day the great Satchel Paige returned to town.”

“It sounds pretty good when you put it that way,” Nick said.

“Of course,” Mr. Churchill said. “You put a pig in a nice enough dress and people will be lining up to kiss it.” He patted Nick on the shoulder. “Now go out there and convince those people that they need our programs.”

The stands were empty when Nick got to the field, so he chose a spot near first base and settled down to watch the teams warm up. Bismarck was taking batting practice, and Nick glanced at the program to help identify a few of the players. Moose Johnson, a feared slugger with forearms thicker than Nick’s thighs, was standing at his position in left field and joking with Joe Desiderato, the reliable third baseman. A couple of the local players were playing pepper just past first base. And Red Haley, a shortstop with a lightning-fast glove, was playing long toss with Satch in center field.

Red was from America but the program listed him as Cuban, which Nick had heard was a way for black players to be able to join segregated leagues. Nick didn’t really understand why some people didn’t want black players and white players to be on the same team—or why black players couldn’t play Major League Baseball—but he also knew North Dakota was different from some other parts of the country. After all, black stars had been playing in the local leagues for years. But it was also true that aside from baseball, North Dakota was pretty much just one color—the only black family in all of Bismarck were the Spriggses. Nick had gone to school with the youngest Spriggs boy, who was so quiet that people sometimes thought he was a mute. His father worked for the railroad.

Just as batting practice ended, a stocky man in a plain gray suit walked onto the field, a bag slung over one shoulder. Satch noticed him and shouted from center field, his voice carrying clearly in the warm air: “I didn’t know we were so hard up for players that we were going to sign Baby Quincy again!”

Nick took another look at the man. He had a round face and legs as solid as oil barrels, and suddenly Nick realized that he was Quincy Trouppe, the catcher who had split time with his father the previous two seasons. Nick had assumed that Quincy wasn’t going to come back since the team had signed Double Duty Radcliffe, yet here he was—and no team really needed three catchers. Nick glanced at the far side of the field. His father was carefully strapping his chest protector to his body, his eyes locked on Quincy. Although his face appeared perfectly neutral, Nick knew that look—it was the same expression he had gotten one time when a man had bumped into Nick’s mother on the street and said something rude.

But Nick didn’t have much time to think about his father or Quincy Trouppe, because the crowd started streaming into the stadium, and from that moment he was entirely focused on selling the programs. By the time Satch threw his first pitch, Nick’s voice was hoarse, but he had gotten through only half his stack. Although Nick knew he ought to wander through the stands and keep trying to sell more, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the field—not with Satch pitching. He therefore slipped into one of the few empty seats in the whole ballpark. As he settled down Nick realized that this was the first baseball game he’d seen in more than a year. It certainly beat listening on the radio.

The first inning passed in a blink: Satch struck out the side on ten pitches, and the Bismarck batters made solid contact but hit it right at the opposing fielders. In the top of the second, Satch gave up a soft single to the leadoff batter. The next two pitches were both in the dirt, and Nick’s father couldn’t get
down fast enough to block either one of them before they skipped to the backstop. Suddenly the opposing runner was standing on third base—the cheapest kind of triple—and the crowd was muttering. As Satch yelled something into his glove and then glared in for the sign, Nick’s heart was beating so fast that he could hear the thump in his head.

The next pitch was a fastball. The batter swung from his heels and the bat made a dull crack. It was a lazy pop fly to center field, but deep enough for the runner to tag and score, and just like that Satch had given up his first run of the new season. As Satch stalked back to the mound, a figure emerged from the dugout—Quincy Trouppe, wearing his catcher’s gear.

Quincy was halfway to home plate when Nick’s father noticed him. He gave a quick, furious glance toward the dugout, and then his shoulders slumped and he walked straight off the field toward the office. The crowd was applauding, and Nick knew it wasn’t a tribute to his father for the years he had played for the team. It was a sarcastic thank-you to Mr. Churchill for taking him out of the game.

Although Nick was too upset to really enjoy the remaining innings, Bismarck started to play to its potential. Satch gave up only one more hit, and the bats came alive in the fourth and fifth innings and turned the game into a rout. When the last out settled into Moose Johnson’s mitt, Nick leaped to his feet and raced to the exit to try to sell a few more programs. Most people passed him without even making eye contact, and he had begun to despair when he noticed a small crowd forming around the base of the stands. Nick fought his way against
the tide and found Satch standing in the middle of the group.

“Nickel for an autograph,” Satch said, waving a pen.

People were digging through their pockets, searching for scraps of paper, and suddenly Nick had an idea.

“Get today’s program signed for only twenty cents!” Nick shouted. “A souvenir of the time you saw the great Satchel Paige pitch live and in person!”

As Nick waved the programs over his head, Satch gave him a quick glance. And then he smiled broadly.

“It’s a can’t-miss opportunity,” he said. “They charge a dollar for signed programs out California way, so you’re getting the deal of the century.”

“I’ll take three,” said a man to Nick’s right.

“Me too,” said another voice.

For the next fifteen minutes Nick struggled to make change as Satch’s pen sped across the programs as authoritatively as his fastball rocketed toward the plate. When the crowd was finally gone, Satch tucked the pen back in his pocket and looked at Nick.

“What’s my cut?” he asked.

“We sold fifty programs,” Nick said. “Ten cents for Mr. Churchill, five cents for you, and split the other five cents down the middle.” He closed his eyes as he did the math. “That’s three dollars and seventy-five cents for you.”

“Easy money,” Satch said as Nick counted the change into his giant hand. “Let’s do it again, kid.”

He winked and a moment later was gone. Nick walked back toward the office, the remaining change a heavy ball in his pocket. He had only a few programs left—and had made Mr.
Churchill an extra dollar twenty-five with the autographs—so he was feeling pretty good as he approached the shack. But then he heard his father’s voice booming from inside.

“I played too hard for you, Churchill,” he was yelling. “There weren’t no need to embarrass me like that.”

Mr. Churchill’s voice was quiet and calm. “It was going to be more embarrassing if I left you in that game, Ben.”

“I ain’t done. I got a lot more ball left in me.”

“Nobody’s saying you don’t. But I’ve got two younger catchers and a team that can play with any team in the country—major league included. So . . .”

There was a long pause. When Nick’s father spoke again, his voice had lost its energy. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you on my bench. You know these local teams, you can read pitchers, and if Double Duty or Quincy gets hurt, I’ll need you. But that’s the best I can offer.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“I know you could pick up with someone else,” Mr. Churchill said. “But I hope you stay. This could be a real special season.”

Footsteps clumped toward the door, and Nick ducked into the shadows of the shack. He caught a glimpse of his father’s face as he emerged—his skin was bright red and the muscles of his jaw stood out like two tight knots. He strode past Nick, his eyes focused straight ahead, and Nick waited until he was out of sight before emerging from the shadows. On the one hand Nick was mortified that his father had yelled at Mr. Churchill, but he also understood his anger. Nick had learned what it was like to have baseball suddenly taken away
from you, and he knew the game was everything to his father—it was the only good thing in his life now that Nick’s mother was dead.

Nick leaned against the shack, his mind racing. If his father really quit the team, they’d probably go back to the tiny mining town where Nick’s grandparents lived. And that would be a disaster, since most people there spoke only Croatian and none of the kids liked baseball. The three days they used to spend with his grandparents at Christmas had always felt like three weeks; Nick would rather go back to the hospital, where at least they had a radio and some nice doctors and nurses, than live in a place like that.

When Nick got home, his father was in the yard turning a huge branch into firewood with the efficiency of a sawmill. He was trimming the smaller branches from the main trunk with a hatchet—chips of wood flying in all directions—and then sawing the branches into perfect foot-long pieces that he could split into quarters with the ax. He must have been working since he got home because his shirt was drenched in sweat and the ground around his feet was colored tan by sawdust.

Nick sat on the porch and watched him for a few minutes before it occurred to him to help. He got the canvas satchel from the cabin and started gathering the perfect chunks of firewood, carrying them inside, and stacking them neatly by the iron stove. His father gave no indication that he noticed Nick, but Nick didn’t mind the silence. Nothing that his father said when he was in one of his moods was likely to be nice.

Nick had been working for about half an hour and was unloading the satchel into the wood rack by the stove when he heard a yelp from his father followed by the loud thud of something slamming into the wall of the cabin. Nick dashed outside, moving as fast as he could on his bad leg. His father was bent over at the waist, clutching his left thumb with his right hand. Something dark was dripping from his fingers, and Nick felt his throat clench as he realized that it was blood. He reached up and grabbed a clean shirt from the clothesline and then hopped over to his father and held it out.

His father glanced at the shirt and then at Nick, his eyes dark and angry. “Where’s your head? Don’t waste a good shirt on blood.”

Nick went back to the clothesline and traded the shirt for a sock with a hole in the heel. When he got back, his father snatched the sock, wrapped it tightly around his thumb, and then stared accusingly at the saw, which was lying on the ground next to the wall of the cabin.

“Want me to get a doctor?” Nick asked.

“I’ve spent enough money on doctors,” his father said. “And I’m certainly not paying for a house call.”

“Doesn’t Dr. Burnhill treat the players for free?”

“I ain’t on the team,” his father said, his voice a low growl. “And I’m worth nothing to Mr. Churchill with a bum thumb.” He looked at Nick and shook his head. “We’ve got to be the sorriest pair in North Dakota. Nothing but damaged goods.”

“That isn’t fair,” Nick said quietly.

His father rolled his eyes. “Life isn’t fair. Not for people like us. And you better stop dreaming and figure that out
because otherwise you’ll end up hungry like those farmers outside town. Or, worse yet, a washed-up ballplayer with a dead wife and crippled son.”

The last words slammed into Nick’s stomach like a punch, and although Nick bit his lip to keep water from spilling out of his eyes, his vision still got blurry. His father gave him a long look, a strange expression on his face, and then turned on his heel and marched out of the yard toward town. Nick hoped he was going to see the doctor after all, because one of the older brothers of a kid at school had cut his thumb on a saw and died a few weeks later of tetanus. And while his father could be mean, Nick still didn’t want him to get tetanus.

It was at moments like this that Nick most missed his mother. With every passing year he remembered fewer details about her, but in his memory everything had been different before she caught tuberculosis. His father had certainly changed at her funeral as if someone had thrown a switch. He didn’t laugh anymore, ever, and he talked to Nick only when he was mad or giving instructions. At least they had shared baseball before Nick got sick, but now that Nick couldn’t pitch they had nothing. In fact, his father didn’t even want him around—Nick was sure of that. Maybe he looked too much like his mother, or maybe he was just an unpleasant reminder, as his father said, that
life wasn’t fair
.

“Are you okay?”

The voice cut across the yard. Nick looked up and saw Emma walking toward him, a towel slung over her shoulder.

Nick wiped his face on his shirt. “Yeah. I’m fine.”