Satch & Me Page 8

  The Stars threw real baseballs around to warm up. But one of the Stars was missing. There was nobody on the pitcher’s mound.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the announcer, “pitching for the New York Stars…the man you’ve all been waiting to see…the one…the only…the living legend…SATCHEL PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIGE!”

  13

  The Genius of Satchel Paige

  SATCH DIDN’T COME OUT OF THE DUGOUT RIGHT AWAY. I saw him waiting until the cheering got a little louder. Then he stepped onto the field and people started screaming his name.

  It seemed like it took an hour for Satch to walk from the dugout to the mound. He ambled out there like he had all the time in the world. With each step, the cheering got louder. When he finally reached the mound, everyone in the bleachers was stamping their feet. Satch really knew how to work a crowd.

  “Batting first for the Clowns,” said the announcer, “Eddie Jones.”

  Jones was the guy who had walked on his hands out to centerfield. But he wasn’t clowning around now. He was swinging his bat viciously in the on-deck circle.

  Before Satch threw a warm-up pitch, the announcer told the crowd, “Satchel guarantees he will strike out the first six batters, or every fan will receive free admission tomorrow.”

  A few people cheered, but one guy got up and shouted, “There ain’t no game tomorrow!” The crowd cracked up.

  Satch swung his right arm around a few times and lobbed four pitches to the catcher to warm up. That seemed enough. He held up a hand to quiet down the crowd as the batter walked to the plate.

  “No need to tote that wood up here, son,” he yelled to the batter. “You ain’t gonna need it. You’ll be sittin’ your butt back on that bench before you can work up a sweat.”

  The crowd laughed. The batter pumped his bat back and forth menacingly.

  “Which pitch do you want, son?” Satch asked. “I call my fastball the Midnight Rider. But I’ll give you my Bat Dodger, Jump Ball, or Whipsey-Dipsey-Do, if you’d prefer.”

  “Just throw the ball, old man,” the batter shouted back.

  “Okey-dokey.”

  Satch windmilled the ball around slowly one, two, three, then four times. He kicked his leg way up high over his head and held it there so everybody in the stands could see the sole of his shoe, where the word “Fastball” was written in white letters. He came forward until his foot hit the ground. Somehow, impossibly, he didn’t release the ball until a split second later.

  Satch had a funny windup.

  The ball shot out of his hand like a bullet. The batter was totally fooled by Satch’s motion and swung late. It seemed impossible for someone to wind up so slowly and then throw a ball so hard. The ball popped into the catcher’s mitt.

  “Steeeeerike one!” shouted the ump.

  “Oh, you shoulda chose,” Satch said. “That was my Hesitation Pitch.”

  “He can’t do that!” the batter yelled at the ump. “That’s an illegal pitch!”

  “Get back in the batter’s box,” said the ump.

  “What do you wanna swing and miss at now?” Satch asked the batter. “You want my Wobbly Ball, Little Tom, or my Four-Day Creeper?”

  The batter didn’t answer, so Satch went into his funny windup and whipped one in, sidearm this time. No swing.

  “Steeerike two!” shouted the ump.

  “I call that my Bee Ball,” Satch informed the crowd. “’Cause it be right where I want it to be.”

  The batter had two strikes on him now, and he looked really determined. Satch didn’t ask him which pitch he wanted this time. He just wound up like usual. But instead of throwing the ball hard, he lofted a high lob way up in the air.

  The ball rose maybe thirty feet and hung up there for what seemed like an hour. The batter looked like he wanted to kill the thing. When the ball finally came down, he swung so hard that he spun around and fell down.

  “Steeeerike threeeeeeee!” yelled the ump. “Yer out!”

  The crowd went nuts.

  “That was my Nothin’ Ball,” Satch said after the fans had calmed down. “’Cause it don’t do nothin’.”

  The Clown in the grass skirt was swinging a big war club in the on-deck circle. He dropped it and picked up a regular bat before coming to the plate. Satch threw him a fastball, and he couldn’t come close to catching up with it.

  “Whatsa matter?” Satch asked. “Too hot for ya?”

  The guy got ready again, and Satch blew another one right by him.

  “Got a headache yet?” Satch asked. “’Cause I’m throwin’ aspirins, and you’re gonna need ’em.”

  The Clown got set again, and Satch gave him nothing but heat for strike three.

  “That hummer just sang a sweet song!” Satch shouted. “The finest music I ever heard.”

  Two outs. The next Clown came up and Satch fanned him in similar fashion with three fastballs—one overhand, one sidearm, and one underhand.

  The crowd erupted in cheers as Satch ambled slowly back into the dugout.

  After one inning, there was no score. While the Stars jogged back to their dugout, a jeep came tearing out across the outfield with one of the Clowns driving it. He had that gigantic glove on his hand. One of the other Clowns picked up a bat and started whacking fungoes to the outfield. The Clown driving the jeep circled around, trying to catch the balls in his big glove. He missed the first four, but when he caught the fifth one the crowd gave him a standing ovation.

  The Clowns put on a great show between innings, and they clearly knew how to play the game. But I wasn’t sure that the game they were playing was baseball. One guy slid into second about five feet short, and he pretended to swim the rest of the way to the base. The whole thing looked sort of humiliating to tell you the truth, and I asked Flip what he thought.

  “You gotta remember, these guys are banned from pro ball,” Flip said. “They’re tryin’ to make a living. They’re tryin’ to entertain folks any way they can. Make ’em forget about the war goin’ on over in Europe for a while.”

  As Flip was talking, I noticed a white girl making her way down our row. When she got closer to us, I recognized her. It was Laverne, that cute waitress we met back at the diner! She had a suitcase with her.

  “Remember me?” she said, flinging an arm around Flip like they were boyfriend and girlfriend.

  Remember her? How could anyone forget her? With that little pink hat on her head, she looked even prettier than before.

  “What are you doing here?” Flip asked.

  Flip could be such a dope! Here was this beautiful girl throwing herself at him, and he was acting like she shouldn’t be there. If it was me, I would have hugged and kissed her and asked her what she was doing for dinner that night.

  “I ran away from home,” Laverne said.

  “What?!”

  “You saw what my daddy was like. I couldn’t take it anymore. Tomorrow I’ll be eighteen years old, and I can do what I want.”

  “How did you end up here?” Flip asked.

  “I was hitching a ride to Pittsburgh when I saw this poster about Satchel Paige playing against the Clowns. I thought I’d find you here. And I was right.”

  She gave Flip a peck on the cheek.

  “Remember me?” I said. “Joe Stoshack? Stosh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hi,” she said, totally unimpressed. I bet she would have liked me more if I had big muscles like Flip. And if I was five years older.

  The Indianapolis Clowns were back on the field again. We got Laverne a hot dog and Flip explained the fine points of Clown baseball to her. The third baseman was now sitting on a lawn chair next to third base and reading a newspaper. Somebody hit a pop-up at him, and he stuck out his glove and caught it without looking away from the paper. Laverne thought that was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. She had a nice laugh.

  The Stars went down in order and Satch took the mound again. The leadoff batter for the Clowns was that bearded guy who was dressed up like a woman. Laverne cou
ldn’t stop giggling.

  “You’re an overrated bum, Paige!” the guy yelled. “You should be in an old-age home!”

  Satch just laughed. He reared back and threw a fastball high and tight. The guy dove out of the way and landed face-first in the dirt.

  “Oooooooh!” went the crowd.

  “Take your base,” called the umpire.

  “What?!” Satch complained. “The pitch didn’t hit ’im!”

  “It hit his beard,” said the ump.

  “Those whiskers can’t rightly be called no part of a man,” Satch yelled. “They is air!”

  “Take your base.”

  The guy brushed the dirt off his skirt and jogged to first. The fans started yelling. Getting on base against Satchel Paige was big news. Satch stomped around the mound a while before facing the next batter, Shorty Potato, the midget shortstop. The guy must have been about the size of a fire hydrant, and his strike zone was a few inches at most. Satch had great control, but he couldn’t pitch to Shorty Potato. He walked on four pitches.

  Runners on first and second. Nobody out. People were screaming for a hit.

  Satch wasn’t fooling around anymore. The guy wearing the tuxedo was up, and Satch threw him smoke. The guy squared around and dropped a perfect bunt down the third baseline. The Stars third baseman ran in and tried to barehand it, but the ball slipped out of his fingers.

  Everybody was safe. Bases loaded. Nobody out. Satch was in a jam. The crowd was going crazy now.

  Satch asked the umpire for time-out, and he leaned over and put his hands on his knees like he was going to throw up or something. A hush fell over the crowd.

  A pretty girl wearing a nurse’s uniform came running out of the Stars’ dugout. She was holding one of those black bags doctors always carry.

  “Whatsa matter, Satch?” the nurse asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Must be nerves, ma’am,” Satch said, rubbing his belly. “I got the miseries playing in my stomach. I might have to go home.”

  “No!” the fans hollered.

  “You got yourself into this mess, Paige!” some fan yelled. “Let’s see you get out of it!”

  The nurse reached into her bag and pulled out a spoon and some medicine. She filled the spoon and stuck it in Satch’s mouth. Satch stood there for about a minute. Then he let out a belch that we could hear in the bleachers. Everybody laughed.

  “Okay,” he announced. “My stomach is peaceable now.”

  Everybody whistled when the nurse ran off the field. The hitter stepped into the batter’s box. Satch turned to face his outfielders and waved his arms, signaling that they should move in. The three of them took a few steps forward, and he waved to them again. They took a few more steps toward the infield, but Satch kept waving them in, more urgently.

  “All the way in,” he hollered. “You boys can have the rest of this inning off. I’ll take it from here.”

  “He’s pullin’ the outfield!” Flip marveled. The crowd gasped when all three outfielders jogged off the field.

  The batter grinned as he took a few practice swings. All he needed to do was hit a ball past the infield and the Clowns would score three runs. Maybe four.

  Next, Satch turned toward his infielders.

  “You too,” he shouted, waving them off the field. “You boys look like you need a rest.”

  The first baseman, second baseman, third baseman, and shortstop jogged to the dugout. The only Stars left on the field were Satch and his catcher. The crowd was buzzing. People around us started pulling out money and betting on whether or not Satch would strike the batter out.

  “Is he crazy?” asked Laverne.

  “Maybe,” Flip said. “Maybe not.”

  14

  A New Pitcher

  I HAD NEVER HEARD OF A PITCHER CALLING IN HIS fielders and working with no defense behind him. It was insane! Without any fielders to hold them on, the runners at first, second, and third took good long leads. The field looked so empty out there.

  “Now it’s just you and me, son,” Satch said to the batter. “Ain’t this cozy?”

  “Let’s see what you got,” the batter shouted back, licking his lips. All he had to do was put the ball in play and the Clowns would score four runs.

  Satch windmilled the ball over his head a few times and burned the first pitch in. The batter looked at it.

  “Steeeeerike one!” called the ump, and the crowd’s noise went up a notch.

  The batter got set again and Satch gave him another fastball. Swing and a miss.

  “Steeeeerike two!” called the ump.

  The fans were screaming now. Satch stepped off the mound and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The batter dug his cleats into the batter’s box. Satch went into his windup and the guy took a furious swing. The only thing he hit was air.

  “Steeeeerike three!”

  The crowd roared as the next Clown—their catcher—stepped in to face Satch. One out.

  “He should bunt it down the first or third baseline,” I said to Flip and Laverne. “Satch wouldn’t have a chance to field the ball.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t be any fun,” Flip said.

  Satch was throwing all fastballs, so he didn’t even bother looking for a sign. He got two quick strikes on the batter, who called time and stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment.

  “Whatsa matter?” Satch asked. “You nervous? Hey, I’m the one that ain’t got no defense!”

  The crowd laughter turned to cheers when Satch hummed in another fast one and the guy waved at it.

  “Steeeeerike three!” yelled the ump. “Two outs!”

  The next Clown up must have been reading my mind, because as soon as Satch wound up, the batter squared around to bunt. Satch threw the ball way inside, and the Clown dove backward like a train was coming at him.

  “Don’t be buntin’ on me!” Satch yelled as the batter got up off the dirt. “Take your three swings like a man!”

  That’s exactly what the guy did.

  Strike one.

  Strike two.

  Strike three.

  And that was it. Satch had struck out the side with the bases loaded and the only fielder in fair territory was himself. The crowd just about exploded as Satch walked off the mound. I thought the wooden stands were going to collapse. Flip was going crazy. Laverne stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

  After that second inning, the Stars replaced Satch with another pitcher. He wasn’t nearly as much fun to watch, but we stuck around anyway. We really didn’t have a choice, because Satch was our ride. I figured he’d come get us when he was ready to go.

  I kept looking over at Flip and Laverne to see how they were getting along. They were talking to each other, but it didn’t look like any romantic sparks were flying. I kept whispering in Flip’s ear that he should put his arm around her, but he wouldn’t do it.

  The score was 2-2 in the eighth inning when the manager of the Clowns came out on the field carrying a bullhorn.

  “Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “Due to illness, our pitching staff is deeply depleted. We got nobody left.”

  “Booooooooo!” the crowd replied.

  “But I have good news!” the manager hollered. “I’m lookin’ for a fresh arm. Anybody out there know how to pitch?”

  A buzz went through the crowd, but nobody came out of the stands.

  “Stosh told me you’re a ballplayer, Flip,” Laverne said. “Why don’t you go out there and pitch?”

  “I’m really not that good,” Flip mumbled.

  “Go on, Flip!” I said. “What’ve you got to lose?”

  “Nah, it’s been years since I threw a ball.”

  Flip was hopeless. I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up out of my seat.

  “Hey,” I shouted, “my friend here can pitch!”

  “Stosh!” Flip whispered. “I’m not goin’ out there!”

  “What’s your friend’s name, son?” the manager aske
d.

  “His name is Flip,” I said, even as Flip was trying to put his hand over my mouth. “Flip Valentini. He’s a great pitcher.”

  “We got a white boy here who’s a great pitcher!” the manager hollered. “Come on down, Flip!”

  “Go ahead, Flip,” urged Laverne. “Show ’em what you can do.”

  The fans started stamping their feet on the bleachers and chanting, “Flip! Flip! Flip!”

  I don’t think I ever saw anyone look so embarrassed in my life. Reluctantly, Flip stood up, and everyone cheered. People clapped him on the back as he made his way down to the front row. He climbed over the low fence next to the dugout.

  Somebody gave Flip a glove, a hat, and a pair of cleats to put on. The manager gave him a little shove and Flip walked out to the pitcher’s mound.

  “Now pitching for the Indianapolis Clowns,” said the announcer, “FLIP VAL…EN…TI…NI!”

  The catcher tossed him a ball, and Flip promptly threw his first warm-up pitch over the catcher’s head and against the backstop. A few hecklers shouted out good-natured insults. Flip looked nervous, but settled down and found the plate with his next pitch.

  You could tell Flip was a natural pitcher. He had a nice, easy motion. The ball popped into the catcher’s mitt like it had some velocity. It was obvious that he knew what he was doing out there.

  “I’m so excited!” Laverne squealed, crossing her fingers.

  “Batter up!” called the ump.

  Laverne and I leaned forward in our seats. This is perfect, I thought. Even if Flip didn’t know how to get to first base with Laverne, she’d be so impressed by his pitching that she’d fall even more crazy in love with him. Girls dig jocks.

  “Flip! Flip! Flip!” chanted the crowd.

  On the mound, Flip got set and the Star first baseman stepped up to the plate. He was a big, mean-looking guy. Flip went into his windup. He threw. The guy swung.

  Bam!

  I don’t think I ever saw a ball go so far. It was still rising when it cleared the left field fence. It probably landed somewhere near Pittsburgh.