by Wes Tooke
“Hello, Mr. Paige,” Nick said when he reached the convertible.
Satch glanced at him and then smiled. “No need to mister me, Hopalong,” he said. “Ain’t nobody who don’t call me Satch.”
The policeman looked up from the glove box. His voice was gruff: “Get out of here, kid.”
Nick took a few steps down the sidewalk and then stopped. Something was wrong with the scene, but he couldn’t quite figure it out: Maybe it was the look in Satch’s eye or the set of the policeman’s jaw. Nick didn’t want to get in trouble, but he wasn’t just going to walk away—not before he knew what was happening.
“What did he do?” he asked as he slowly turned around.
Nick was looking at the policeman, who gave him a glare that could have frozen a lake in the middle of the summer. Satch spoke slowly, his Southern accent making the words seem like drops of molasses.
“This fine officer of the law thinks that I stole my own car,” he said.
“I don’t think you stole the car,” the policeman said. “I know you stole the car. Because no colored man in this state owns a fancy convertible.”
“Didn’t you see him at the baseball game?” Nick asked. “He was sitting in the back of this car when Mr. Churchill drove him to the pitcher’s mound.”
“I don’t like baseball,” the policeman said.
Nick just blinked, shocked into silence. Satch shrugged. “There ain’t no accounting for taste,” he said.
The policeman finally finished digging through the glove box and slowly straightened, his frosty eyes focusing on Nick. “You say you know this man?”
“Everyone knows him,” Nick said. “He’s Satchel Paige!”
“He plays for Mr. Churchill’s team?”
“He’s the star of the team!” Nick knew his voice was getting louder, but he couldn’t help himself. “He might be the best pitcher in the world!”
The policeman gave Nick a last look and then turned and flipped the car keys back toward Satchel. They landed in a puddle.
“I’ll be watching you,” he said to Satch. “So don’t get uppity.”
A moment later he was back in his police car, and he violently pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the acrid smell of scorched rubber. Satch slowly stood up and fished his keys out of the puddle, an indescribable expression on his face, and then glanced at Nick.
“You need a lift?” he asked.
“Sure,” Nick said. His house was only a few blocks away, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn down a ride in a convertible—especially a convertible driven by Satchel Paige. He opened the door and hopped onto the leather seat. The silver knobs on the dashboard glittered in the late afternoon sunlight, and the engine growled as they accelerated. Nick closed his eyes as the warm summer air whipped through his hair. This was a moment he hoped he would remember.
“I had a cousin who got polio,” Satch said after a minute.
Nick opened his eyes. “What happened to him?”
“He died. But that was a long time ago. Back when I was a kid.”
“I know I’m lucky,” Nick said. “But I still miss baseball. I always wanted to be a pitcher like you.”
Satch smiled a cocky smile. “There ain’t no pitcher like me.” The smile slowly faded. “Why can’t you pitch?”
“You can’t pitch on one leg,” Nick said.
Satch shook his head. “There are lots of things in life that you aren’t supposed to be able to do. People told me a black kid couldn’t make no money in baseball. People told me anyone born Down the Bay was going to die there. People told me I was going to go straight from reform school to jail. But I didn’t pay any of those people no mind, and that’s why I’m driving a silver convertible that made some cracker cop so jealous that he just had to pull me over.”
Nick wanted to let Satch keep talking, but they had reached the house. “This is it,” he said, pointing at the driveway.
The car coasted to a stop, and Nick got out and carefully closed the door. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.
Satch revved the engine and then looked up at Nick, the jaunty half smile on his face again. “Here’s a piece of wisdom for you,” he said. “Ain’t no man can avoid being born average, but there ain’t no man got to be common.”
And with those parting words he and the convertible were gone in a swirl of dust.
Before his father woke up the next morning, Nick pulled out the small scrapbook he had made two years earlier. Satch’s first game had been against Jamestown, Bismarck’s biggest rivals in North Dakota, and he had gone straight from the train to the field. The old park had been so packed that people were practically standing on top of one another to watch. Satch somehow managed to shake off the stiffness from his long trip north and threw a complete game—with eighteen strikeouts and just one walk—and Bismarck won in the bottom of the ninth.
Six weeks later Bismarck seized the state championship in a three-game series against that same Jamestown team, and Satch pledged to return the following spring. But, of course, he never showed up. It seemed awfully funny to Nick that Satch had ended up back on the team this season—and that Mr. Churchill had given him another chance—but Nick had learned in his short life that adults changed their minds for all sorts of crazy reasons. And frankly Nick didn’t care; he was just glad he was going to be able to watch Satch pitch, no matter what the reason.
Nick’s father awoke when the sun hit the edge of his bed. He ate his usual pregame breakfast: fried eggs with bread, and water instead of his usual coffee because he said coffee made him too jittery to hit a good fastball. When they were finished eating, they cleaned up, and then Nick put on a pair of baggy pants because he was tired of people staring at his brace. On their way to the park Nick carried the bag again. This time it was less painful; maybe his body was getting used to the routine.
As usual they were the first to arrive, and they waited by the gate, his father nervously pacing back and forth until Mr. Churchill arrived with the keys. Nick followed Mr. Churchill to the office while his father went to the field to stretch and check his equipment.
“This town has been buzzing since Satch arrived,” Mr. Churchill said when they were inside the little shack. “It’s going to be a good crowd today.” He looked at Nick. “Forty cents a ticket, ten cents for kids. How much money do you think we’re going to make?”
“How many people do the new bleachers hold?”
“We can cram six thousand people into this little park,” Mr. Churchill said. “After that either the stands will collapse or the ground will swallow us up like a whale.”
Nick thought for a minute, trying to do the math in his head. Not many kids bought tickets to the games—they would either try to sneak in like he and Emma had or peek through the holes in the fence—so he multiplied five thousand adults times point four and added it to one thousand kids times point one. Which was . . .
“Two thousand one hundred dollars,” Nick said.
Mr. Churchill raised an eyebrow. “That’s very exact. Do you like numbers?”
“Just statistics,” Nick said. “Baseball statistics.”
“Of course,” Mr. Churchill said with a laugh. He turned and pointed at a stack of paper in the corner.
“Those are the new programs,” he said. “Your job is to sell them for ten cents. And I expect half of that pile to be gone by the end of the game.”
Nick gave the pile a doubtful look—it was pretty big. “I’ll try,” he said.
Mr. Churchill shook his head. “Don’t try. If you want to sell something, you’ve got to know you can do it. You’ve got to believe you’re giving people an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?”
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.”
“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 shadow
s. 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.