Satch & Me (9 page)

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 asked.

“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.

“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.

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 sud
denly 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.