Satch & Me (2 page)

NUMBERS AND STATISTICS ARE PRETTY IMPORTANT IN
baseball. Strikes. Balls. Outs. The score. Batting order. Innings. You've got to remember a lot of numbers. And if you forget a number as simple as how many outs there are in a crucial situation, you could be in big trouble.

I was in big trouble.

“There was
one out
, Stoshack!” hollered Blake. “You don't run on anything with one out!”

“You are such an idiot!” Mike said. “This one's gonna go down in history, man.”

I wasn't going to tell them that Flip messed up by ordering me to run on anything and costing us the game. Ever since my parents split up and my dad got hurt in a car crash, Flip has been like a father to me. I'd rather take the heat for not knowing how many outs there were than make Flip look
bad. It was an honest mistake. I just hung my head and went to pack up my stuff.

I was putting my glove in my duffel bag when Flip shuffled over to our dugout.

“Gather 'round, guys,” he said. “Listen up.”

Everybody stopped putting away their gear.

“Stosh wasn't the one who screwed up,” he said. “It was my fault. I told him to run on anything. I thought there were two outs. I'm the bonehead. I'm sorry.”

It was real quiet. You don't hear grown-ups apologizing to kids very often, even when they're wrong. It may have been a first.

“Maybe I'm gettin' too old for this,” Flip said, sitting down heavily on the bench.

I've had a few coaches in my years of playing ball, but none of them took winning and losing as seriously as Flip. To him, every game was like the seventh game of the World Series. We win some and we lose some, but this was the first time one of Flip's decisions lost the game for us. He looked so sad. I thought he might cry or something.

“It's just a game, Flip,” I told him.

“Yeah, fuhgetaboutit, Mr. Valentini,” said Jason.

“We'll get 'em next time, Coach,” Blake said.

I guess the other guys felt sorry for Flip too. Everybody was telling him all the stuff our coaches have always told us over the years when we did something dumb and blew a game.

“Y'know, I used to be young and sharp,” Flip said.
“My mind was like a steel trap. Now I can't remember where I put my glasses some days. Can't remember where I put my car keys in the mornin'….”

“It's okay, Mr. Valentini,” Tanner assured him. “You're still the best coach, man.”

“I used to pitch, y'know,” Flip continued. He closed his eyes, like he was remembering something from long ago. “I could really bring some heat in my day. Almost had a tryout with the Dodgers.”

“Really?” we all said. I knew he rooted for “Dem Bums” as he always called them. But he never told me he was good enough to play for them.

“Big-league teams used to hold open tryouts back when I was young,” Flip said. “Guys could walk in off the street and give it their best shot. I saw a notice in
The Brooklyn Daily Eagle
. It said to go to Ebbets Field that Saturday if you wanted to try out. But I didn't go.”

“Why not, Flip?” I asked.

“My mother said I had to do chores.”

“Chores!?” everybody yelled.

“Sounds like my mom,” Mike said.

“You mean you could've had the chance to play for the Dodgers, but you had to do
chores
instead?” asked Jason. None of us could believe it.

“That's child abuse, Mr. Valentini,” said Blake. “You should've sued your mother.”

“Oh, I don't know that I woulda made the Dodgers,” Flip said. “Prob'bly not. My control wasn't too good. But I could throw the ball
hard
. Guys were
afraid to hit against me. I always wished I'd tried out. I coulda done my chores later. I coulda…”

Flip's voice trailed off. Nobody said a word. I couldn't think of anything that would cheer him up.

Looking at Flip, it's hard to imagine that he was young once. He's a little stooped over, his hair is white, and the skin hangs off his neck and arms all loose, like it's one size too big for his bones.

I don't know too much about Flip's personal life. He's got a sister, but she lives in Texas and they don't see each other much. He doesn't have any kids, and he never got married. We're like the only family he has. His life is coaching our team and managing the store.

I always felt bad that he went home at the end of the day to a crummy apartment all by himself. There aren't a lot of old ladies around Louisville, as far as I know. One time Tanner said he could fix Flip up with his grandmother, who lives just across the Ohio River in Sellersburg, Indiana. We all laughed, and Flip said he wasn't interested. There used to be this little old lady named Amanda Young who lived next door to me. But she sort of disappeared. It's a long story.

“Hey, put that junk away,” Flip said suddenly. We all looked over at Mike, who had a bag of Doritos in his hand. “Don't be putting that crap in your body, Mikey. You wanna be needin' a triple bypass when you're fifty?”

After he had a heart attack years back, Flip
turned into a real health nut. The only thing he lets us eat in the dugout is sunflower seeds. The tasteless, unsalted kind.

“There's somethin' I wanna show you fellas,” Flip said, reaching into an equipment bag. “Almost forgot this too. I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached to my shoulders.”

He pulled out this machine that looked sort of like a handheld hair dryer, but there was no cord to plug in.

“What's that, Flip, a ray gun?” asked Jason.

“Yeah, next time we lose, Flip's gonna zap us,” said Blake, and everybody laughed.

“No, you bums,” Flip said. “Ain't you never seen a radar gun before?”

I had. They clock the speed of a pitch. Somebody sits behind home plate and points the gun at the pitcher. The gun registers the speed of the pitch in miles per hour. Usually when you watch a game on TV, they show the velocity of each pitch. That's because somebody is clocking it with a radar gun.

“Those things are cool,” said Tanner.

“See,” Flip explained, “the gun shoots out a microwave beam—”

“Can that thing make popcorn?” asked Blake, and a few guys laughed.

“Very funny, Blake. The microwave bounces off the movin' baseball and then it goes back in here,” Flip continued. “The gun calculates the difference in frequency between the original wave and
the reflected wave, and then it translates that information into miles per hour.”

“Can we try it, Flip?” asked Jason, who can probably throw harder than anyone on our team.

“Well, whaddaya think I brung it for?” Flip said.

Flip had us line up in alphabetical order at the pitcher's mound. He told Ryan to put on the catcher's gear and get behind the plate. Flip stood behind him with the gun and pointed it at the pitcher's mound. He fiddled with the buttons.

Flip said we could each throw five pitches. Rob Anderson, who couldn't pitch if his life depended on it, got to throw first.

“Now, I don't want you bums hurtin' yourselves,” Flip told us. “Throw the first two nice and easy. Just lob 'em in. Put a little more on your third and fourth pitch. And on your last throw, give it all you got.”

“What does that thing go up to?” asked Rob.

“Don't worry, Anderson,” said Flip. “You ain't gonna break it.”

Rob gripped the ball and went into a really pathetic windup. The ball went sailing over Ryan, over Flip, and over the backstop. Everybody cracked up.

“Try again,” Flip said. “That one didn't register. Nice and easy, now.”

Rob threw one reasonably near the plate. Flip looked at the back of the gun.

“Twenty-two miles per hour,” he announced. We just about fell all over ourselves laughing. Every body knows that a major league fastball is around 90 miles
per hour, and a few pitchers can even crack 100.

“I could
walk
the ball to the plate faster than that,” cracked Blake.

“Knock it off, Blake,” Flip said. “You ain't no Sandy Koufax either.”

Rob got a little better with his next three pitches, but the best he could do was 36 miles per hour. I knew I could throw harder than
that
. Some of the guys were snickering. But I wasn't. There was always the chance that I'd make a fool of myself too.

Mike Baugh was next. He pitches for us sometimes, and he's got a decent arm. In four pitches, the gun recorded 35, 38, 43, and 50 miles per hour.

“Okay, cut it loose now, Mikey,” said Flip.

Mike reared back and gave it everything he had.

“Fifty-nine miles per hour!” Flip shouted.

I was surprised. It looked like Mike was throwing pretty fast, but major league pitchers can throw 40 miles per hour
faster
. It was hard to believe.

We went through the line one at a time. Most of the guys reached the 50s on their final pitch, and one or two guys reached the 60s. Jason clocked 67 miles per hour on one pitch.

I'd like to say that when it was my turn I threw the ball so hard that the gun registered “Wow!” or “Sign the kid up!” But the truth is, my hardest pitch was only 56 miles per hour. Pretty weak.

After we all had a turn, the guys started getting on their bikes or drifting over to the parking lot, where some of the parents were waiting in their cars.

“How fast could
you
throw, Flip?” asked Tanner. “I mean, in your prime.”

“Geez, I dunno,” Flip said. “They didn't have these gizmos when I was in my prime.”

“Hey, Flip,” I asked, “how fast was the fastest fastball?”

Flip scratched his head.

“Well, guys like Roger Clemens, Randy Johnson, and Nolan Ryan clocked 100 miles an hour,” Flip told us. “A few other guys too. Maybe 102, 103 even.”

“No, I mean
ever
.”

“You wanna know who threw the fastest pitch
ever
?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, they've only had radar guns since the 1970s,” Flip said. “Guys like Walter Johnson and Bobby Feller and Satchel Paige were plenty fast in their day. But they all pitched long before the 70s. There was no way to clock 'em.”

“Couldn't they take old movies of those guys and figure out how fast they threw?” asked Jason.

“Guys like Cy Young were pitching even before they had movie cameras,” Flip said. “Nobody knows how fast those guys threw the ball. It's one of those mysteries that'll never be solved, I guess.”

I looked at the radar gun. Then I looked at Flip. Flip looked at me. Then he looked at the radar gun.

I wondered if Flip was thinking what I was thinking.

THERE'S SOMETHING YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND ABOUT
me. I've got a secret power.

No, I can't read minds. I can't fly and I can't predict the future and I can't communicate with the dead or anything weird like that. My secret power is that I can travel through time. Not only that, but I can travel through time with baseball cards.

Oh, go ahead and yuk it up. Have your little laugh. I don't care. Whether you believe me or not, I've had this power for a long time. When I pick up certain baseball cards, I get this weird tingling sensation in my fingertips. Have you ever touched a TV screen really lightly, and felt that static electricity on your fingers? That's what it feels like when I touch certain baseball cards.

If I drop the card right away, nothing happens. But if I keep holding it, the tingling sensation
gradually moves up my arm, across my body, and down my legs. In about five seconds, I completely disappear from this world and appear back in the past.

If I'm holding a 1919 baseball card, it will take me to the year 1919. If I'm holding a 1932 card, I'll show up in 1932. It's just about the coolest thing in the world. As far as I know, nobody else can do it. But I
can
take people with me when I go back in time. I know that because I've done it.

The power seems to have become stronger. Or maybe I'm just getting better at it with practice. Under the right conditions, I can even send myself back through time with a plain old photograph. But baseball cards work best, and especially older cards.

I don't exactly go around bragging about my “special gift.” That's what my mom calls it. A special gift. I don't want the kids at school thinking I'm some kind of a freak. The only people who know about it are my mom and dad, my uncle Wilbur, who's really old, and my annoying cousin Samantha. Oh, and this really jerky kid named Bobby Fuller who has always hated me. But he doesn't even play in our league anymore. He's into football now.

There's just one other person who knows I can travel through time with baseball cards. Flip.

Flip didn't believe me at first. When I told him that I could travel through time with a baseball card, he just laughed in my face. So I went back to 1919 with an old card and brought back two pieces of paper signed by Shoeless Joe Jackson. His auto
graph was one of the most valuable in history. I gave them to Flip, and the money he got from selling those autographs saved his store from going out of business. Flip never doubted me again.

As soon as I got home from the game against the Exterminators, I called up Flip.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I asked.

“Well, that depends on what you're thinkin', Stosh.”

“I'm thinking that I could take a radar gun back in time with me,” I said. “I could take it back to the time before they had radar guns, and I could track the speed of pitches. It would be cool to find out who was the fastest pitcher in baseball history.”

“That's exactly what I was thinkin',” Flip said. “Great minds think alike.”

Flip got all excited. He's a member of this organization called SABR. It stands for Society for American Baseball Research. They're a bunch of die-hard baseball fans who devote themselves to digging up facts and stats that nobody knows about. Like, one guy might devote his life to counting how many times Lou Gehrig got a hit on a 3-1 count when he was playing away games in July. Stuff like that. Some of them are obsessed, if you ask me.

Anyway, Flip is really into baseball history, and the idea of finding out who was the fastest pitcher appealed to him.

“One problem, though,” he said.

“What?”

“I borrowed the radar gun from the coach of the
high school baseball team. I promised him I'd give it back to him as soon as I'm done with it.”

“Can't I just borrow it for a day or two?” I asked. “He'll never know I had it.”

“These guns cost a bundle,” Flip told me. “If something happened to it, the coach would go nuts. He'd have my head.”

“Oh, come on, Flip!” I begged. “Nothing's gonna happen. I promise. I'll be real careful with it.”

He was quiet for a few seconds, and I thought he was about to cave, but he didn't.

“I'm sorry, Stosh,” Flip finally said. “These guns are delicate. I'm responsible for it. I gotta make sure I return it to the high school in perfect condition.”

That's when I got a brainstorm.

“What if you went
with
me, Flip?” I asked.

“Went with you where?”

“Back in time!” I said. “We'll go back and meet guys like Walter Johnson and Bob Feller and the others. We'll see how fast they
really
were. We'll find out who was the fastest pitcher in baseball history! Can you imagine? When we get back and you tell everybody what you found, you'll be like the king of SABR, Flip!”

“Oh, they'd never believe me.”

“I won't touch the gun,” I begged. “You can hold it the whole time. Oh, come on, Flip. If nothing else, it'll be fun!”

Again, I thought I had him. There was silence at
the other end of the line. He was thinking it over.

“Stosh, I'm seventy-two years old,” he said wearily. “I don't fly no more. With my crappy vision, I shouldn't even be drivin' my car. I can't be doin' somethin' crazy like travelin' through time.”

“Please?”

“Adventure is for the young,” Flip said. “I've had enough excitement for my life.”

“Oh man, Flip!” I said. “You never go anywhere. Just think of it. We'll get to meet those old-time players you're always talking about. We can tell Cy Young they named an award after him. It will be so cool!”

“I'm sorry, Stosh. No can do.”

Well, that was that. I gave it my best shot. Baseball historians would just have to keep on speculating which pitcher was the fastest. I hung up with Flip and went upstairs to take off my uniform. Then I got started on my homework.

Later that night, I was playing a computer game when the phone rang. My mom picked it up and hollered that Flip was calling for me.

“I thought it over,” Flip said. “I'm in.”