by Wes Tooke
Satch rolled his eyes. “Please . . . that woman lasted one day in this little town before turning around and hightailing it back to Pittsburgh. Not enough black folks around these parts for her—and not enough shopping, neither.”
“There are a bunch of stores downtown,” Nick said.
Satch laughed again, this time slapping his leg and leaning back in his seat. Nick wished he would keep his eyes on the road. “Most women’s idea of a shopping district isn’t a gas station and a five-and-dime,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “You’d better learn that before you get too much older.”
“I don’t know anything about women,” Nick said.
“Then here’s a piece of advice. There are lots of things a woman will say she loves before she marries you. She might pretend she likes to run around the country and go to jazz clubs and watch your games, but the moment that ring lands on her finger—oh boy, you sure find out the truth right quick.”
“How did you realize that you wanted to marry her?” Nick asked.
Satch stared out the windshield, a funny half smile on his face. “Well, there aren’t a lot of women who would put up with old Satch. Maybe for a night or two, but eventually they all get tired of . . .” His voice trailed off. “I guess what I’m saying is that Janet’s an awfully patient woman. Even if she couldn’t stand to be in Bismarck for more than twenty-four hours.”
The convertible slowed. As they rattled over a cattle guard, Nick glanced out the window. They were passing a worn Office of Indian Affairs sign, and his stomach contracted as he suddenly realized where they were.
“This is the reservation,” he said.
Satch arched an eyebrow. “You got something against Indians?”
“No. I’ve just never been out here.”
“Then be ready,” Satch said. “These people are poor as dirt. Reminds me of Down the Bay.”
“What’s Down the Bay?”
“The neighborhood where I grew up. Part of Mobile.” Satch’s lips were tight, the words not rolling out of his mouth the way they usually did. “These folks on the reservation would starve if the government didn’t send them food. But it’s no fun to eat old cheese and beans seven days a week.”
They came over the top of a small hill and a small settlement appeared: a cluster of tents surrounding a little wood house. The dirt road ended near the closest tent, and as Satch turned off the engine, three men watched them from the shadows of the house. They were wearing a strange mix of clothes—beads and worn buffalo hide and other traditional Sioux gear that Nick recognized from his books at school, but also wool army jackets and leather boots. They must have been hot beneath all those layers.
“Why are they wearing army clothes?” Nick asked as Satch opened his door.
“Because that’s what the government sends them.”
As Satch stepped out of the car, Nick took a deep breath. He wanted to stay in his seat, but he knew it would be rude so he forced himself to get out and walk over to Satch’s side. The three Sioux men were walking toward them, and Nick felt as if he could feel other eyes spying on him from the shadows of the tents. White people never came out to the reservation—there had been a kid in school who claimed his father had taken him once, but nobody had believed him.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Nick asked. “I heard they don’t like visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” Satch said. “I’m practically family. In fact, they made me an honorary chieftain. Their medicine men tell a story about how I brushed back an evil Indian commissioner with a Rising Tom and saved the tribe.”
“Really?” Nick asked doubtfully.
“If I’m lying, I’m dying,” Satch said with a broad smile.
The three Sioux men reached their side. “Hello, Long Rifle,” the oldest one said. His hair was gray, but his eyes were as black as ink. “Are you here to hunt?”
“Not today,” Satch said. “Just deer oil. And maybe a drop of something to light a little fire in my belly.”
One of the other Sioux men pulled out a clear bottle filled with a brownish liquid. He handed it to Satch, who uncorked it and drank. As soon as Satch swallowed, he bent over, his fists clenching and the veins in his neck standing out like ropes.
“Whooo, boy!” he said when he straightened. His voice was raspy. “That’s as fine as any of the moonshine down south.”
“Take what you want,” the older man said.
Satch shook his head as he handed back the bottle. “I generally believe that too much of a good thing ain’t hardly enough, but I’m supposed to be pitching tomorrow. Not to mention that I always believe in setting a good example for youngsters.” He glanced at Nick. “Remember that, kid. One sip is medicine. More than that is slow poison.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick said.
Satch looked back at the Sioux men. “I’ll be needing two bottles of deer oil today. One for me and one for my friend here.”
“I got a new batch in my tent,” the older man said. “Follow me.”
Satch and the three Sioux headed through the camp, Nick trailing a few feet behind them. Although Satch looked like he was walking slowly, his legs were so long that both the Sioux and Nick had to hurry to keep pace. They stopped in front of a large tent on the far side of the camp, and the oldest Sioux man went inside. Nick stood close to Satch, his eyes scanning the surrounding landscape. Down the hill from the camp was a small lake. The coals of what must have been a huge bonfire smoldered on its shore, and a tent made of animal hides stood a dozen feet from the water. A man wearing only a simple loincloth had pulled a large stone out of the coals and was dragging it toward the tent with a pair of giant iron tongs.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, pointing.
Satch turned and looked. “Medicine hut,” he said. “They put that hot rock inside and then one of their magic men throws hot water on it until the tent fills with steam. You sit in there for ten minutes and you’ll be hotter than a sheepdog in the bayou.”
“Why do they do it?”
“They say you can see things in those huts. Visions of your life.” Satch paused. “The government men want these people to give up their religion, so they hate those huts. Trust me, if a government man comes around here, that tent will disappear faster than Cool Papa can run from first to third.”
Nick’s brain tripped on the last bit of Satch’s sentence. “You know Cool Papa Bell?”
Satch smiled broadly. “Know him? I’ve played with the man. In fact, there ain’t no ballplayer worth a busted nickel who hasn’t played with old Satch.”
“Is he really as fast as they say?”
“Is Cool Papa fast? That boy could turn out the lights and get in bed before the room got dark. I’ve seen him hit a ground ball up the middle that hit him in the chest as he was sliding into second base.”
Nick could feel his forehead wrinkling. “Is that true?”
“Depends,” Satch said. “There’s book true and there’s baseball true.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There are thousands of people who would swear on the Bible that they saw that ground ball hit Cool Papa. And maybe it happened that way or maybe it didn’t, but the important thing is that it feels true. Because Cool Papa is the fastest man ever to play the game.”
“Faster than Ty Cobb?”
“Faster than Cobb?” Satch snorted. “Don’t take this personally, but a black man is always going to be faster than a white man. That’s just a hard fact of life. A white man running against a black man just ain’t going to cut it. That’s like asking a bulldog to keep up with a greyhound.”
Just then the Sioux man emerged from the tent clutching two glass jars filled with a yellowish liquid. Satch pulled a small wad of bills from his pocket and separated out a few dollars. As the two men traded the money for the jars, Nick stared at the liquid. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed like it had an evil tint.
“What is it?” Nick asked when he couldn’t contain his curiosity any
longer.
“Magic potion,” Satch said. “Folks come out to the ballpark because they want to see Satch pitch, so I’ve got to be ready every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”
“And that stuff helps?”
“It keeps my arm as fresh as a baby.” Satch handed one of the jars to Nick. It was slick on the outside with grease, and Nick had to clutch it tightly to keep it from dropping. “Use it on your bum leg. Just rub it in and wait for the heat.”
“My doctor said that medicine won’t help,” Nick said.
Satch rolled his eyes. “Doctors and religious folk will both tell you the same thing. . . . Their way is the only way. But the truth is that there’s more than one road in life. You understand what I mean?”
“Yeah.” Nick gave the liquid another glance. “I’ll give it a try.”
Satch patted him on the shoulder. “Good. But be careful with that stuff. First time I used it, my arm nearly jumped out of the room.”
A few hours later Nick was staring at the jar again, only this time he was back in the cabin. He had taken off his brace and was sitting on his bed wearing just his underwear, and as he stared down at his legs he realized that they looked as if they belonged to two different kids—the bad one was so skinny that his knee stuck out like a doorknob. When Nick finally found his courage, he carefully unscrewed the jar. The smell hit him first, a combination of kerosene and some fruit that Nick couldn’t identify, and it stung the back of his throat. Before he could second-guess himself, Nick stuck a rag in the jar, swirled it around, and then wiped his bad leg from midthigh to ankle. The smell became so intense that tears were running down Nick’s cheeks, and when he finished covering every bit of exposed skin, he lay back and closed his eyes.
The sensation was gentle at first—a faint warm tingling that felt like someone gently stroking a feather against the hair of his leg. But as the seconds passed, the heat got more and more intense, until after a few minutes it felt like a battalion of fire ants was assaulting his skin in steady, vicious waves. Nick clutched the blanket under him, his fingers so tight that every muscle in his arm ached.
“Dad!” he shouted, even though he knew his father wasn’t home.
Silence. The fire ants had now doused themselves in gasoline and lit a match. Nick opened his eyes and glanced down at his bad leg. It was bright red. He started to count backward from ten, promising himself that he would feel better by the time he reached zero. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
“Aaaahhhh!” Nick was in so much pain that he wasn’t sure he was the one yelling as he leaped out of bed and dashed toward the door of the cabin. He burst outside and half fell down the stairs before grabbing the handle of the water pump with both hands. He furiously moved it up and down, his leg stuck forward toward the spigot, and as the first gush of cool water hit his skin, Nick groaned aloud in sweet relief. As he kept pumping, his skin separated into little puddles of hot and cold. It was an indescribably strange sensation. And then, just as the fire abated enough that Nick could focus on anything other than his leg, he heard a loud laugh behind him.
“What the heck are you doing?” a female voice asked.
Nick slowly turned around. Emma was standing in the middle of the yard, her arms folded across her chest and a broad smile on her face.
“I’d tell you what I was doing,” Nick said, “but it would sound pretty stupid.”
Emma giggled. “It can’t be any more stupid than what I’m imagining.”
Nick looked down and suddenly flushed as he realized that he was wearing just his underwear and a T-shirt. His bad leg was also so red and splotchy that it looked like it was covered in wet paint.
“Satch gave me some medicine,” Nick said sheepishly. “It was supposed to make my leg better, but it just burned like hot coals.”
“Are you sure it didn’t work?” Nick gave Emma a wary glance, not sure if she was kidding. “I mean, you got all the way out here without your brace, didn’t you?”
A long moment passed and then Nick’s mouth fell open. She was right. He had run all the way from the cabin to the pump, and now he was standing in the middle of the yard without his brace as if it was normal.
“You’re right,” he said. “I guess I did.”
Emma smiled one more time. “Well, maybe you should try that stuff again. Except next time you should probably wear some pants.”
Nick’s father got back to the cabin in the early evening, and as he strode inside, he glanced at Nick.
“Put on your Sunday best,” he said gruffly. “Mr. Churchill needs us downtown.”
Nick pulled the battered trunk out from under his cot and rummaged around until he found his old pair of dark pants, collared shirt, and leather shoes. He and his father had bought them for his mother’s funeral, and at the time they had been a few sizes too big so Nick could grow into them. But that had been a long time ago, and the pants and shirt now clung to his body as if they were trying to strangle him, and the shoes pinched his toes like pliers. When Nick stood up and attempted to button his pants—a hopeless effort—his father looked at him and shook his head.
“Those are what your grandma used to call high-water pants,” he said.
“Why?” Nick asked.
“Because you could wade across a stream without having to roll them up.” He glanced at Nick’s bad leg and then at the bed, where the brace was lying next to the pillow. “Why aren’t you wearing your machinery?”
“I walked without it,” Nick said. “Today in the yard.”
“Don’t be a fool. You keep that thing on until a doctor tells you to take it off. Understand?”
Nick nodded. “Yes, sir.”
His father gave his pants another look. “Well, I guess we’d better go downtown and find you something.”
The something they found turned out to be a heavy wool suit that was on sale at Woolworth’s and a white dress shirt with so much starch that it felt as if it were made out of paper. The instant Nick stepped out of the store into the warm summer night, sweat began pouring from his armpits and down the small of his back, and his entire body felt like one giant itch. His father had also decided that his shoes still fit—the definition of wishful thinking—so he was hobbling even more than normal as they walked up to Mr. Churchill. He was standing on a corner at the center of town, his eyes locked on a makeshift mound that a few men were constructing in the street, and he grinned when he noticed Nick.
“You look like a priest,” he said. “Do you worship at the altar of our Almighty Father or the Church of Baseball?”
“Baseball,” Nick said. “Except on Sunday morning.”
“Good answer,” Mr. Churchill said. He reached into a satchel lying on the pavement next to him and pulled out a stack of flyers. “Easy assignment tonight. You just have to give away all of these.”
Nick glanced around the street, which was quiet for a Tuesday night. “To who?”
“I’m willing to make a bet that this street is packed in ten minutes,” Mr. Churchill said. “How about a nickel?”
“I don’t have a nickel to bet,” Nick said.
Mr. Churchill pursed his lips. “Well, it’s Tuesday night so we have to make some kind of bet.” His eyes focused on the flyers in Nick’s hands. “How about this. . . . You give away all of those flyers and you can come on our next road trip. Otherwise, you’re stuck here in Bismarck while we barnstorm across the great Midwest.”
Out of the corner of his eye Nick noticed his father’s eyebrows shoot up, but he didn’t say anything. “Deal,” Nick said.
He and Mr. Churchill shook hands, and then Nick glanced down at the top flyer. It was just three sentences printed with bright red ink: THE LEGEND RETURNS! BISMARCK CHURCHILLS PRESENT LEROY SATCHEL PAIGE, GUARANTEED TO STRIKE OUT THE FIRST NINE MEN OR YOUR MONEY BACK! TICKETS GOING FAST!
“They look pretty good, don’t they,” Mr. Churchill said. “And if you give them all away, we’ll have a full house tomorrow.”
Nick
gave the street another glance. “I’ll do my best.”
“I already told you not to worry about finding people,” Mr. Churchill said. “Believe me, I’ve got a whole mess of tricks up my sleeve.”
The tricks began ten minutes later while Nick was standing outside the five-and-dime store trying to convince an old woman to take a flyer even though she claimed she’d never been to a game because “that little ball moves too fast.” The first sign that something unusual was about to happen was the honking of a car horn in the distance. Nick turned his head in time to see two men on horseback galloping down the street. They were carrying a banner between them that read BISMARCK CHURCHILLS—TEAM OF CHAMPIONS. As they pulled up in front of Mr. Churchill, their huge horses snorting and lathered with sweat, the two men stood out of their saddles and saluted. Nick’s eyes widened as he realized that it was Moose Johnson and Joe Desiderato from the team.
“Those about to play ball salute you!” they shouted in unison.
Mr. Churchill stepped forward. In the few minutes since Nick had last seen him, he had wrapped himself in a white sheet and put a wreath of leaves on his head. He looked like a Halloween version of a Roman emperor.
“Have you brought me tribute?” he asked.
“Yes,” Joe replied. He spoke in a loud monotone. “We have found the greatest pitcher in all the land.”
“And where can I find this gallant champion?” Mr. Churchill asked, his voice booming.
Joe turned and pointed. “Behold!”
As the word echoed off the buildings, three cars turned the corner at the end of Main Street. The first, a giant black sedan, was filled with the horn section of a band—tubas and trumpets sticking out the windows as they played a rollicking song. The second car, also a sedan, had a bunch of Bismarck players in their full uniforms hanging off the sideboards and waving at the growing crowd. The third was Satch’s silver convertible. He was sitting in the back between two men dressed in outrageous silver suits, and as the convertible slowed to a stop in front of Mr. Churchill, the two men simultaneously turned their heads to either side. Huge billows of flame burst from their mouths, and Nick stared, stunned. The only time he’d ever seen fire breathers was at the carnival that set up on the outskirts of town late every August.
