Satch & Me Page 7

  “What happened?” Flip asked.

  “Well, my arm got all warm and twitchy,” Satch said. “It didn’t hurt no more. The next day I went out there and pitched me a no-hitter. That’s the truth. So I bought a bucket of the stuff from him, and I dab some on before every game. Keeps my arm young.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked. “It smells disgusting.”

  “It’s a secret formula,” Satch said. “The medicine man would only tell me he scoops water out of a hollow tree stump in the woods.”

  “If you were in North Dakota, why is it called Venezuelan snake oil?” Flip asked.

  Satch stopped rubbing the stuff on his arm and thought about it for a moment.

  “Maybe it was Venezuela where it happened,” he said. “I don’t rightly remember. Grab that catcher’s gear, Stosh. Let’s see if you can catch my speedball.”

  I was beginning to think that half the stories Satch told he just made up for the fun of it. But I didn’t care. Finally we were going to see how fast he really was.

  Flip got out the radar gun. I took a catcher’s mitt, mask, and chest protector out of the trunk and started putting everything on. The mitt was a fat, round little saucer with a pocket about the size of a ball. It didn’t look anything like the catcher’s mitts I had used. He didn’t have any shin guards.

  Satch finished rubbing on that evil-smelling snake oil. He pulled a baseball uniform out of the trunk and put it on. Spikes too.

  The uniform said NEW YORK STARS across the front. When I asked him why it wasn’t a Kansas City Monarchs uniform, he said that sometimes he pitched for the Monarchs, sometimes he pitched for the Stars, and sometimes he pitched for other teams.

  “I play for whoever pays,” he said. “When the green’s floatin’ ’round, make sure you get your share.”

  The three of us hopped a wooden fence and went out into the field. Satch found a bump that looked a little like a pitching mound. He paced off sixty feet and six inches and put a chewing-gum wrapper on the ground there.

  “You squat down right behind that,” he said.

  “That’s home plate?” I asked. “It’s a little small, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t you worry ’bout a thing,” Satch said. “I can hit a butterfly with a clamshell.”

  Satch went back to the “mound” and swung his arm around a few times.

  “Never do nothin’ till your muscles are all loosed up,” he said.

  I squatted behind the “plate.” Flip stood a few feet behind me with the radar gun and pointed it toward Satch.

  This was the moment. We weren’t just going to witness history, we were going to make history.

  I was a little nervous. I’m pretty good with the glove, but I had never caught anyone who threw really hard. Satch himself said that Josh Gibson wouldn’t be able to hit what he couldn’t see. What if I couldn’t see the ball coming at me? I made sure the catcher’s mask was strapped on tight.

  “I’ll start you off nice and slow and easy,” Satch said.

  I put the mitt up and got ready to receive the pitch. I watched his motion carefully so I’d see the ball the whole way. He brought his arms high over his head really slowly, kicked up his leg, and—

  I never saw the ball. It just exploded in the mitt like it had been sent to me electronically. It felt like a bomb went off in my hand. Tears came to my eyes.

  “75 miles per hour,” shouted Flip.

  Only 75? It felt like the ball must have been going 100 miles an hour.

  “You okay, Stosh?” Flip asked.

  “Yeah.”

  No way I was going to let them know how much my hand hurt. I threw the ball back to Satch.

  He caught it and wound up again. I braced myself for the impact. The ball made a weird humming noise after he released it, and it exploded in the mitt again. I didn’t have to move it an inch.

  “81 miles per hour,” Flip called.

  That one didn’t hurt as much as the first one. Maybe it was because I was ready for it. Or maybe it was because my hand was so numb I couldn’t feel anything. I threw the ball back to Satch.

  He let another one fly. Again, it hit the center of the mitt. The guy had incredible control.

  “89 miles per hour,” Flip called. “Is that your fastest, Satch?”

  “Not even close,” Satch replied, winding up for another one. It smacked into the mitt like a freight train.

  “94 miles per hour,” Flip called. “You think you can break 100?”

  “Piece of cake,” Satch replied, grabbing my return throw and immediately winding up for another one. “I ain’t even hit the gas yet.”

  My legs were getting tired from squatting. My hand was killing me from the pounding it had taken. But I wasn’t complaining. I was going to catch the fastest pitch ever thrown. How many other kids could say that?

  Satch let another one loose and it popped into the mitt.

  “99 miles per hour,” Flip called out excitedly.

  I returned the ball to Satch. This was it. He was throwing harder with each pitch. The next one was sure to crack 100 miles per hour, and who knows how much faster Satch could throw? Maybe he could hit 105…110 even.

  “Your hand okay?” Satch yelled.

  “It feels great!” I lied. “Is that all you got?”

  “Burn it in, Satch!” hollered Flip. “Stosh can take it.”

  Satch went into his windup. He was about to bring that whip of an arm down.

  Bam!

  It was a blast. A gunshot. I heard a bullet ricochet off a tree. Satch never even let go of the ball.

  “Drop that gun, sonny!” somebody yelled.

  12

  The Clowns

  THE THREE OF US FROZE.

  I really wanted to find out whether or not Satch could break 100 miles per hour on the radar gun. But staying alive seemed like a pretty good idea too. I looked around, but I couldn’t see the guy who had shot at us. He must have been hiding behind a tree or something.

  “We better do as he says,” Flip said.

  “Listen,” Satch said calmly, “I been in plenty of situations like this. That fella don’t mean no trouble. He just wants us off his land.”

  “So what should we do?” I asked.

  “Do like I do,” Satch said. “Walk slowly to the car. Don’t run. That’ll only rile him up.”

  I was shaking, but I followed Satch’s lead. Flip and I walked to the wooden fence near Satch’s car and climbed it. But just as we got to the top—

  Bam!

  The gun exploded again, and this time a bullet thwacked against the fence, not more than five feet from my foot.

  “Okay, now you can run!” Satch yelled.

  The three of us climbed, fell, clawed, or somehow made it over the fence. I didn’t need Satch to tell me what to do after that. I was running toward the car like an Olympic sprinter. I even got there before Flip, and he was moving pretty fast.

  “You promised me I wouldn’t have to run!” Flip shouted.

  “Get in the car!” I yelled, diving into the backseat and slamming the door behind me.

  Flip and Satch jumped in the front. Satch turned the key and I was glad the engine started, because there was another gunshot, and I thought I heard the bullet ricochet off the dirt behind the car. Satch hit the gas and the wheels spun a second or two before they finally grabbed the road and we tore out of there.

  “Woooo-heeee!” Flip screamed as we pulled away. “Look at us! We’re like outlaws! We should call ourselves the Baseball Banditos!”

  “That guy shoots worse than I do!” Satch said, cackling with laughter. “But still, sometimes it’s best to get outta town fast.”

  The two of them were slapping each other on the back like they were best buddies or something. I couldn’t believe the laughing lunatic in the front seat was the same Flip Valentini who had been worried that traveling through time might be too dangerous.

  Me, I was still curled up in a ball on the backseat, just in case that nut wi
th the gun got off another shot. I didn’t sit up until we were miles away from that field.

  Satch drove for about an hour, then he and Flip switched places to give Satch a rest. I could tell Flip was having the time of his life, driving an old Packard with Satchel Paige sitting next to him. He and Satch started singing old songs Flip remembered from his childhood, and Satch told more of his hard-to-believe baseball stories.

  I was anxious to get to Pittsburgh already. We had been in the car for a long time. The sun was dipping low in the sky. I was getting hungry and I had to go to the bathroom.

  There was a sign at the side of the road: WELCOME TO VIRGINIA. We came to a little town. There were some African Americans on the street here, I noticed. We passed a gas station and Satch said it would be a good place to stop and fill up. Flip pulled over.

  “Hey, check it out, Stosh,” Flip said. “Gas is nineteen cents a gallon!”

  “Too bad we can’t bring some home with us,” I said.

  A black guy came out of the gas station to pump the gas. He took one look at Satch and pointed at him.

  “You’re Satchel Paige!” the guy gushed.

  “All day,” Satch replied.

  The attendant looked at Flip and me for a moment, as if he was wondering why two white guys would be riding in the same car with Satchel Paige.

  “They’re with me,” Satch explained, and the guy went to pump the gas.

  I hopped out of the car and found the bathroom. I was in there doing my business when a piece of paper taped to the wall caught my eye.

  I grabbed the paper and brought it out to the car with me. Flip was looking at a map while Satch paid for the gas. I got in the backseat and showed them the flyer.

  “What’s up with this?” I asked.

  “Green is my favorite color,” Satch said. “When somebody waves that green in my face, I can’t resist.”

  We got back on the road and it wasn’t long before we pulled into a parking lot next to a ballfield. It was a rickety old dump with wooden bleachers.

  “I assume this is not the World Series,” Flip said as we got out of the car.

  “Son, this is about as far from the World Series as you’re gonna get,” Satch said, grabbing his glove out of the trunk.

  We walked over to the ballfield, and the first thing I noticed were the lights. Night games must have been a novelty in the early 1940s, because the lights were really primitive.

  There were these giant poles that were mounted on the tops of trucks, and at the top of each pole was a big floodlight pointing down at the field. There was a truck near the first base line, one near the third base line, one behind the plate, and three of them right in the middle of the outfield. If somebody hit a deep fly ball out there, the outfielder could very easily run headfirst into a truck.

  Behind the outfield fence, there was this big generator that sounded like an old steam locomotive. It must have provided the power for the lights. When it coughed or sputtered, the bulbs went dim for a moment and then got bright again.

  A sign at the gate said that admission was 75 cents. Flip pulled out some of the change Laverne had given him back at the diner, but we didn’t need it.

  “They’re with me,” Satch told the guy taking tickets, and he let us in.

  As soon as we were inside the gate, a big black guy with a cigar in his mouth came rushing over to Satch.

  “You’re late, Paige!” he sputtered. “I got three thousand people here demanding their money back!”

  “I hit a dog on the road, Bobby,” Satch told the guy as he winked at me. “Had to take the poor fella to the animal hospital. The little guy looked like he was fixin’ to die. I stayed with him all afternoon and thank the Lord he pulled through. You understand, don’t you, Bobby?”

  “Don’t be runnin’ your mouth on me, Paige! I got a business here! No show, no dough!”

  “Oh, stop flappin’ your gums, Bobby,” Satch said. “You’ll bust a gasket. Don’t worry none. When old Satch shows up late, it makes folks want him even more.”

  “You almost gave me a heart attack, Paige!” Bobby said before storming off.

  The bleachers were full. Most, but not all, of the crowd was black. Satch looked around and nodded his head with satisfaction.

  “This Hitler fella sure is good for business,” he said. “Ever since Ted Williams and Bobby Feller and Hank Greenberg went away to fight them Nazis, more folks than ever want to see me pitch.”

  “How come you’re not in the service, Satch?” I asked.

  “Well, if Uncle Sam don’t consider me man enough to sleep in his hotels or eat in his restaurants, he can’t very well ’spect me to fight for his democracy, can he?” Satch replied. “Besides, I got flat feet, so they wouldn’t take me.”

  Satch led us through a tunnel behind the stands. A few kids were hanging around waiting for autographs, and Satch signed one for each of them. Just before he reached a door marked LOCKER ROOM, a white guy wearing a jacket and tie stuck a piece of paper and a pen in his face. Satch signed it and handed it back to the guy.

  “Ain’t you a bit old to be collectin’ autographs?” Satch asked him.

  “I’m a lawyer, Mr. Paige,” the guy said, handing Satch a business card. “I represent your wife. Those are divorce papers you signed.”

  Satch stopped for a moment and watched as the guy walked away.

  “I didn’t know you were married, Satch,” I said.

  “I guess I ain’t anymore,” he replied.

  Satch didn’t seem to be all that troubled by what had just happened. He pulled open the door to the locker room and put his other arm on Flip’s shoulder.

  “This won’t take long, boys,” he said. “I only gotta pitch two innings. Get yourself some seats and enjoy the show. But don’t be pullin’ that speed gun of yours out here. I’m savin’ up my best stuff to throw at Josh in Pittsburgh.”

  Satch said he’d meet us later. So Flip and I found some open seats a few rows behind the dugout on the first base side. I talked Flip into using some of our change to buy hot dogs and sodas. They were real cheap, so we still had money left in case of emergency. Flip complained about having to eat junk food, but he bit into that hot dog like it was a gourmet meal.

  I looked around. Flip and I were the only white people in our section. It felt a little weird. We were the “minority group.” Flip said this must be what it feels like for a lot of African Americans all the time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed out of a loudspeaker. “Welcome to Victory Field. You are in for a rare treat because this evening we bring to you the greatest baseball show on earth. The kings of the diamond. Let’s hear it for the world-renowned…IN…DI…AN…APOLIS…CLOWNS!”

  The crowd applauded and the Clowns took the field.

  Now, I need to explain something here. In the major leagues, the Detroit Tigers aren’t really tigers. The St. Louis Cardinals and the Baltimore Orioles aren’t really birds. But the Indianapolis Clowns were real, honest-to-goodness clowns!

  “Well, this is different,” Flip said.

  The third baseman had white makeup and war paint on his face, and he was wearing a grass skirt over his uniform. The second baseman wore a tuxedo and a top hat. He balanced a baseball on his hat and tilted his head to make the ball roll around and around the brim. The first baseman had on a regular uniform, but he was wearing a glove that was about four feet tall. The shortstop was a midget who had the words “Shorty Potato” on his back.

  One outfielder had a really long beard and he was dressed like a woman. Another was dressed like a fireman. The third wore a polka-dotted clown costume and walked on his hands all the way from the dugout to centerfield.

  The pitcher was dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh, with KING TUT written on his back. The catcher dragged out a rocking chair, which he put behind home plate and sat in while he warmed up the pitcher.

  Except for the catcher and pitcher, all the other players were dancing to the big-band music that was coming
out of the speakers. The guy in the tux was juggling three baseballs.

  “Well, this is different,” Flip said, biting into his hot dog.

  We watched the infielders throwing a ball around, or at least I thought they were throwing a ball around. When I looked more closely, I could see that they were just pretending to throw a ball around. They were doing a baseball pantomime show, scooping up imaginary grounders, throwing invisible balls, and making spectacular fake diving catches in slow motion. The whole thing was like a circus, and the crowd loved it.

  “Leading off for the New York Stars,” boomed the announcer, “Jimmy Mitchell.”

  The batter came out of the other dugout, and all the clowning suddenly stopped. King Tut went into his windup and threw the first pitch.

  “Steeerike one!” shouted the umpire.

  The batter took a couple of balls, and then hit a grounder to third. The third baseman—the guy with the grass skirt—expertly scooped up the ball and threw it to first…from behind his back! The first baseman was lying on the ground with his leg up in the air and the glove stuck on the end of his foot. He caught the ball that way! It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

  These guys were clowns, but they could really play.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” boomed the announcer, “coaching at first base is Bullet Billy Roberts, who set a Negro League record for pitching two games at the same time—his first and his last.”

  King Tut struck the next guy out. Before the batter went back to the dugout, King Tut ran off the mound, grabbed the guy’s bat, and pretended to give him some hitting pointers. The crowd roared. The next guy popped up to short, where the midget shortstop tossed away his glove and caught the ball in his baggy pants.

  Three outs. The Clowns ran, skipped, hopped, juggled, and cartwheeled their way back to their dugout.

  Before the New York Stars took the field, some acrobats who called themselves the Flying Nesbit Family put on a little show in the infield. It was amazing. Then the Stars came out. They looked perfectly normal, especially after seeing the Clowns.