Satch & Me

by Dan Gutman

  “Oooooooooh!” groaned the crowd.

  “Nice changeup, whitey!” somebody yelled. “Now let’s see your fastball!”

  “That was a lucky hit, Flip!” I hollered as the batter trotted around the bases.

  “You can do it, Flip!” Laverne shouted.

  The ump tossed Flip another ball. The next batter came up to the plate. Flip took a deep breath, kicked up his leg, and tried again.

  Bam!

  Another rocket. This one went to right field, slamming against the scoreboard so hard, I think it made a dent. Back-to-back homers. Ouch.

  “Don’t get discouraged, Flip!” I yelled. Flip was walking around the mound, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “You better start working on a knuckleball!” somebody hollered from the crowd.

  “Strike this guy out!” shouted Laverne.

  The ump tossed Flip another baseball and the next Star came out of the dugout. It was their first baseman. Flip closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, and then he reared back and buzzed one in.

  Bam!

  The manager was out of the Clowns’ dugout before the ball sailed over the centerfield fence. I couldn’t hear what he was saying to Flip on the mound, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t telling him what a great job he had done.

  As Flip was leaving the field, the midget shortstop went to the mound.

  “Now pitching for the Clowns,” boomed the announcer, “SHORTY PO…TA…TO!”

  The crowd had a good laugh at that. When he got to the dugout, Flip threw the glove and the cap against the fence, kicked off the cleats and put on his shoes. Then he marched right off the field and headed for the exit.

  “Come on!” I said, grabbing Laverne’s hand.

  We ran out of our seats and out of the ballpark. After looking around for a few minutes, we found Flip wandering aimlessly around the parking lot. He was cursing to himself, and his face was all flushed, like he had been crying.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Flip said disgustedly. “Out of here. Anywhere.”

  Laverne put her arms around Flip and held him. It seemed to calm him down a little.

  “You are good, Flip,” she whispered in his ear. “You just had a bad day, that’s all. Next time, you’ll strike those boys out. Mark my words you will. You’re gonna be a great pitcher someday.”

  And then she kissed him! I mean, it was a real kiss, on the mouth, just like in the movies!

  Man, I wished she was hugging and kissing me. Too bad I didn’t go out there and let them hit three homers in a row. Girls must dig jocks even more when they mess up and cry.

  Suddenly, I got an idea.

  “Hey, why don’t you come with us?” I asked Laverne. “We’re going to see the Negro League World Series in Pittsburgh with Satchel Paige. I bet Satch wouldn’t mind another passenger.”

  “You think?” she asked, her arms still around Flip.

  “Sure don’t mind one as pretty as this young lady,” somebody said.

  We all turned around. It was Satch. He was back in his street clothes and he had a wad of ten-dollar bills in his hand.

  “The game’s not over yet,” Flip said. “How come you left, Satch?”

  “I done my part and I got paid,” he said. “Let’s get outta here.”

  “Not so fast!” someone behind us said. We all wheeled around.

  “Daddy!” cried Laverne.

  15

  The World Series

  LAVERNE’S FATHER WAS STANDING THERE NOT MORE than twenty feet away. Man, he looked like he was going to kill all of us.

  Flip took his hands off Laverne like she was a hot stove and backed two quick steps away from her.

  “Get in the car, Laverne!” her father said.

  “I’m eighteen years old, Daddy, and I—,” she started.

  “Not yet you ain’t!” he said. “Come with me right now, young lady!”

  Laverne looked at Flip, like he was supposed to do something.

  “You should go with your father,” Flip said softly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “But I want to be with you,” Laverne said. “See, Daddy? I told you how nice he is. Flip is sensitive and mature. Not like other boys.”

  “Let’s go, Laverne!” her father snapped.

  She reached out for Flip’s hand, but her father slapped it away. He stuck his face near Flip’s and warned, “You so much as touch my daughter and you’re a dead man. You got that, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He shot a dirty look at Satch for good measure, grabbed Laverne’s hand and led her to his car. She turned around to look at Flip one more time before she got inside. I could see her sobbing in the back-seat as the car pulled away.

  There wasn’t anything else we could do. Satch, Flip, and I got into Satch’s car. We still had a long ride to Pittsburgh, and Satch seemed to be in a bigger hurry now. Flip looked out the window as we accelerated out of the parking lot.

  “That girl is in love with you, Flip!” I said after a few miles passed. “She ran away from home to be with you. I can’t believe you let her get away.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Flip said quietly.

  “Why do you always have to do the right thing?” I asked. “How about doing what’s right for you once in a while?”

  Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Satch finally broke the silence.

  “You got a thing or two to learn about women,” he said to Flip, “and you got a thing or two to learn about pitchin’ too.”

  “You got that right,” Flip sighed.

  “So which do you wanna learn first?”

  “Women?” I suggested.

  “The two strongest things in the world are money and women,” Satch said. “The things you do for women you wouldn’t do for anything else. Same with money. But you got to be mighty careful of love. Gettin’ married is like walkin’ in front of a firing squad. But you don’t give up women no more than a carp gives up dough balls.”

  “I’m shy around girls,” Flip said.

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ shy,” replied Satch. “That girl was all big eyes for you. So that shy thing is workin’ and you should stick with it. But you got to close the deal, man. If you want somethin’, you got to go get it. That goes for women, for baseball, for anything. ’Cause nine times outta ten, you let somethin’ like that slip away, and it’s gone. No second chances.”

  Satch went on for a while, and at some point I noticed he wasn’t telling Flip how to deal with women anymore. He was telling Flip how to deal with hitters.

  “A bullfighter can tell what a bull is gonna do by watchin’ his knees,” Satch said. “A pitcher can do the same thing. You see the batter’s knees move, and you can tell just what his weaknesses are. I was watchin’ you warm up. You got good stuff. Real good stuff. But you need work on your motion and your control. You just gotta let the ball flow out of your hand like it’s water. And slow down. Too many pitchers got the hurry-ups.”

  “That’s it?” Flip asked.

  “Pitchin’ is easy,” Satch said. “It’s women that are hard. Just throw the ball where you want it to go. Home plate don’t move. Keep the ball away from the bat and you’ll be fine. And never throw two fast-balls the same speed.”

  “Thanks, Satch.”

  “Don’t mention it. You go where learnin’ is flyin’ ’round, some of it’s bound to light on you.”

  The road was straight and smooth, and Satch wasn’t afraid to step on the gas. The needle was over 70 miles per hour, and we passed a sign that said WELCOME TO WEST VIRGINIA. Satch and Flip were talking baseball, but I must have dozed off, because suddenly I was jolted awake by the sound of a siren.

  Satch cursed and pulled over to the side of the road. A police car stopped behind us.

  “Don’t go shootin’ off your mouths,” Satch told us as he rolled down the window. “Let me do the talkin’.”

  The policeman got out
of his car and walked slowly up to the window. He looked the car up and down and checked us out.

  “Nice automobile you have here, for a colored boy,” he said.

  “Thank you, officer,” Satch said.

  “It yours?” the cop said. “You didn’t steal it from nobody, did you?”

  “No, sir,” Satch said. “Got my ownership papers right here.”

  The cop looked over the papers carefully. I kept expecting him to recognize Satch’s name and suddenly get all nice and ask him for an autograph or something. But he never did.

  “This is Satchel Paige, officer,” I said, leaning forward. “He’s famous!”

  The cop looked up and glared at me.

  “Son, did this colored fellow kidnap you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  “Then shut your mouth.”

  “Officer,” Satch said politely, “I’m sorry I was speedin’. But we’re in a rush to get to Pittsburgh.”

  “Boy, you drive like you’re in a rush to get to heaven,” the cop said, handing Satch a ticket. “It’s gonna cost you forty dollars. I reckon that’s a whole lot of money to you.”

  Satch pulled out his wallet and counted out a bunch of ten-dollar bills.

  “I’m gonna give you eighty dollars,” Satch told the cop, handing over the money, “’cause I’m comin’ back this way again tomorrow.”

  Satch hit the gas and we peeled out of there while the cop was still counting the bills.

  “Man,” Satch said, “I got so many speeding tickets, the police should give me a discount.”

  We drove past a sign saying we had entered Pennsylvania, and it wasn’t long before the flat countryside turned into houses, factories, smokestacks, and lots of signs with the word “Pittsburgh” in them. Satch knew his way around the city streets. Soon we were outside a ballpark. I saw those big letters: FORBES FIELD.

  “Isn’t this where the Pittsburgh Pirates used to play?” I asked as Satch pulled into the parking lot.

  “Still do,” Satch replied. “They rent it out to us when they’re on the road.”

  Black people were not allowed to use the locker room, Satch explained as he pulled a brown-and-white Kansas City Monarchs uniform out of the trunk of his car. He put it on right in the parking lot. The cap had a “KC” on it and the Monarchs logo was a baseball with a crown on top.

  As we crossed the street to the ballpark, Flip leaned over and told me that Forbes Field doesn’t exist anymore in our time, and that Babe Ruth hit his last home run there.

  A newsboy was selling papers on the corner, and Flip said he wanted to see what they had to say about the World Series. He picked a newspaper up off the pile.

  “You ain’t gonna find nothin’ ’bout our World Series in there,” Satch said. “Better get a colored paper.”

  Man, everything was segregated. Blacks and whites not only had their own water fountains, hotels, restaurants, and baseball leagues, they even had their own newspapers. It was like there were two separate worlds living side by side.

  Satch picked up a copy of something called The Pittsburgh Courier and Flip tossed the newsboy a nickel. There was an article about the World Series right on the front page.

  Once Satch got us inside the ballpark, it sure looked like the World Series. There was a brass band playing in the centerfield stands. People were hawking scorecards and souvenirs. The place was jammed with fans. Most of them were black, and most were all dressed up like they were going to church. The smell of hot roasted peanuts made me hungry.

  “Tell me again what Josh said ’bout me?” Satch asked us.

  “He said he’s gonna shut your big mouth in Pittsburgh,” I answered.

  “We’ll see ’bout that.”

  People recognized Satch immediately. As he led us down toward the field, little kids ran over to him. They didn’t want autographs. They just wanted to touch him. Once they made contact with him, they would just stand there staring at their hands in disbelief, saying things like, “I touched him!” or “I’ll never wash this hand again!”

  We finally made it down to the front row, near the third base dugout. Satch handed Flip two tickets and told us to enjoy the game. He’d meet us at the front entrance when it was over.

  “Make sure you check my speed when I’m pitchin’ to Josh,” he instructed us. “I’ll be throwin’ my hardest.”

  As soon as he hopped over the low fence onto the field, a guy wearing a Monarch uniform charged over to him.

  “You’re late, Satchel!” the guy said, all agitated. “You missed the team warm-up.”

  “Calm yourself, Frank,” Satch said. “You’ll live longer. Only warm-up I need is to shake hands with the catcher.”

  Flip and I bought two bags of roasted peanuts from a vendor and sat down. One of the Homestead Grays was taking batting practice, and the rest were warming up on the first and third base sides. Their uniforms had a large “GR” on one side of the chest and “AYS” on the other side.

  We spotted Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell, and a few of the other players we had met on the bus. They waved hello as they played catch in front of us. Josh’s son, the kid we had seen back in the diner, was the Grays’ batboy.

  Photographers were snapping pictures, and one of them had a good idea. He pulled Satch out of the Monarchs’ dugout and brought him over to Josh Gibson so they could pose together.

  “Five bucks says I strike you out today.”

  Josh and Satch were only about ten feet in front of us, and we could hear every word they said.

  “Dogface!” Satch said, shaking Josh’s hand. “How you doin’? Five bucks says I strike you out today.”

  “You got a bet, Satch,” Josh replied.

  “Gibson, your turn for batting practice,” somebody shouted.

  Josh jogged over to the Grays’ dugout and came out with the longest bat I had ever seen. A hush fell over the crowd as he stepped into the batting cage. The peanut vendors stopped selling their peanuts. The brass band stopped playing their instruments. Everyone who was doing anything stopped to watch.

  The batting practice pitcher waited until Josh was ready. Josh rolled up his sleeve and spread his legs wide apart. He gripped the bat at the very end and held it up high. He didn’t dig and scratch at the dirt, and he didn’t wag his bat around the way a lot of hitters do. He looked like a statue. The only movement I could see was in Josh’s mouth. He curled his tongue like a hot dog. Then he nodded that he was ready.

  The batting practice pitcher wound up and threw. Josh didn’t bend his back or knees, and he didn’t take a big stride forward. He stood flat footed. He waited until the ball was almost on him. Then he lifted his left foot up very slightly and at the last possible instant attacked the ball with his arms and wrists.

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  It was a quick, fluid, compact stroke, a classic swing. It almost seemed like he took the ball out of the catcher’s mitt.

  There was a distinct crack when Josh’s bat made contact with the ball. It was a crack I had only heard once before, when I went back to 1932 to see Babe Ruth’s famous “called shot” home run. The sound that Ruth’s bat made hitting a ball was the same sound that Josh’s bat made. I’ll never forget that sound.

  The ball whistled out of the batting cage on a low trajectory, barely over the pitcher’s head. But the spin on it must have been tremendous, because then the ball hopped up and soared like a golf ball. It was over the centerfield fence almost before you could snap your fingers.

  “Oooooooh!” moaned the crowd.

  “Maybe he will shut Satch’s mouth,” Flip said.

  Josh pounded about a dozen balls over the fence, one after the other. Then he signaled to the pitcher that he was done, as if he wanted to save some of those long balls for when they would count.

  “You’re gonna break that bat, Josh,” one of the Grays said.

  “I don’t break bats,” he replied before going to the dugout. “I wear ’em out.”

  T
he players cleared the field. Satch grabbed his glove and was getting ready to pitch the first inning when his manager called him back to the dugout.

  “You ain’t startin’, Paige,” he said.

  “What?!”

  “You showed up late. So you sit.”

  Satch threw his glove down and sulked in the dugout. The announcer introduced the Monarchs as they ran out on the field. A guy named Hilton Smith was their starting pitcher.

  He was good too. Smith retired the Grays in order in the first inning. Josh Gibson didn’t get the chance to hit, because he was fourth in the batting order.

  When the Grays took the field, Josh came out with his catching gear on. Buck O’Neil led off for the Monarchs. When O’Neil stepped up to the plate, Josh started in trash-talking loud enough for the first few rows to hear.

  “So this is the famous Mr. Buck O’Neil,” Josh said. “I been readin’ a lot ’bout you in the papers. You didn’t do too good last Friday, did you? Well, you’re gonna do worse today.”

  “Oh, hush your mouth, Josh,” O’Neil said.

  The pitcher, Roy Partlow, pumped in strike one.

  “Oh, you missed that one,” Josh said. “Too bad. Now, Mr. Buck, here comes one right down the middle. See if you can hit it.”

  Buck O’Neil took a big swing and fouled the ball off to the right. Strike two.

  “What? Only a foul?” Josh said. “Okay. Don’t go swinging at the next one, ’cause we’re gonna waste it outside.”

  The pitch came in and O’Neil leaned over the plate to foul it off.

  “Oops!” Josh said. “Sorry. My pitcher messed up and hit the corner. Let’s do that one over.”

  This time the pitch was way outside, but Buck O’Neil took a wild cut at it anyway and missed everything.

  “That would be three strikes, Mr. Buck,” Josh said as the umpire called O’Neil out. “You are excused for the time being. Perhaps you’ll do better next time.”

  It went on like that. Loud, fast, exciting baseball. The players didn’t hide their emotions, the way they seem to in major league games. When a guy struck out, he got mad, and he showed it. The players took more chances, running the bases recklessly and diving for any ball within reach. The fans really got into the game too, heckling or shouting funny remarks as the mood struck them.