by Wes Tooke
“He says he watches the knee. It tells him if the batter is gearing up for a fastball or keeping his weight back for a breaking pitch.”
“I heard that one,” his father said. “It’s kind of like what I learned from a coach back in prairie ball. You keep your eye on how the batter sets up in the box. If he’s trying to take away the curve, he moves as close to the mound as possible. If he’s worried that he can’t catch the fastball, he’s practically sitting in your lap.” He paused. “Of course, some batters are smart. They know you’re trying to read them, so they mix it up. That’s why we scout people. But when you can’t scout, you have to use every trick in the book.”
Nick was quiet again. He didn’t have anything to add, and he didn’t want to ruin the moment by saying something stupid. This had been the longest conversation he had shared with his father in years.
The morning of the semifinal game Nick awakened at his usual time and went downstairs to the little restaurant at the hotel to get bread and coffee for Mr. Churchill and his father. He left half the food in his room and then went down the hall and knocked on Mr. Churchill’s door. After twenty seconds without a response he knocked again and then pressed his ear against the wood. A moment later he heard what sounded like a faint groan.
“Mr. Churchill,” he called. “It’s time to get up!”
This time the groan was loud enough to carry clearly into the hall, and Nick tried the door and discovered that it was unlocked. He pushed it open a few inches and then spoke through the crack. “Are you okay, Mr. Churchill?”
“No,” Mr. Churchill said, the word trailing off into a long moan. “Get a doctor.”
Nick dashed downstairs, moving as quickly as he could on his bad leg—it was always stiff in the morning—and the desk clerk dialed the closest doctor. Ten minutes later a tall man in a dark cloak entered the lobby carrying a black valise. Nick guided him upstairs and then stood in the corner while the doctor conducted his examination to a chorus of labored moans and grunts from Mr. Churchill.
“Your stomach is agitated,” the doctor finally said.
“I didn’t need a doctor to tell me that,” Mr. Churchill said. “I want to know what I can do about it.”
“Stay in bed,” the doctor said. “And drink lots of water with baking soda.”
A moment later he had packed his equipment back into the valise and was gone. Mr. Churchill rolled over in bed, his sheet drawn up over his body like a shroud, and stared at Nick.
“I hate doctors,” he said. “Five dollars to give you a bunch of common sense.”
“I met some nice doctors,” Nick said. “But they want you to do everything they say even though they’re sometimes wrong.”
Mr. Churchill gave him a pointed look. “Were they wrong about you?”
Nick shrugged, embarrassed. “Maybe.”
Mr. Churchill slowly sat up and tried to swing his feet to the floor, but halfway through the motion he hunched over, groaning.
“You’re supposed to stay in bed,” Nick said.
“I’ve got to get to the park,” Mr. Churchill said. “The team needs a manager.”
“If you stay in bed today, maybe you’ll get better. You don’t want to miss the final, do you?”
Mr. Churchill half smiled and then flopped back against his pillow. “You sound like my mother.” He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “Who’s going to manage the team?”
“My dad.”
“Your dad is a good man. But I don’t know if he’s ready to be a manager.”
“Sure he is,” Nick said. “He was catcher and catchers always make good managers. Plus he knows more about the teams in this tournament than anyone.”
“I guess he does,” Mr. Churchill said. He rolled over on his side and looked at Nick, his face sallow in the faint light from the window. “Fine. Go tell your father that he’s running the show today.”
Nick nodded and then let himself out of the room before letting the huge grin spread across his face. His father was shaving in the common bathroom at the end of the hall, and Nick walked up behind him and then paused in the door.
“Mr. Churchill is sick,” he said. His father glanced up and looked at Nick in the reflection of the scratched mirror, his eyes dark and unblinking. “He can’t manage the team today and wants you to do it.”
His father drew the straightedge across the last bit of cream on his cheek and then carefully washed the blade before rinsing his face and patting it dry. When he was finally finished, he turned around to face Nick.
“We’re going to win,” he said. “Because if we don’t, there’s no future for us in Bismarck.”
The semifinal game was against the Omaha V-8’s. Before the first pitch, his father gathered the team and gave them a short scouting report on Omaha’s pitchers. Nick could tell he was nervous by the way he gripped his notebook and the hint of a tremor in his voice.
“It’s simple,” he said at the conclusion of his scouting report. “Be patient because some of these pitchers can’t find the strike zone. And run the moment you get on base because that catcher’s got a noodle for an arm. And if we do that, we’ll get some early runs and win this one for Mr. Churchill, okay?”
The team nodded quietly in assent and then went out and did exactly what Nick’s father had asked. Five of the first nine batters walked, they ran at will on the opposing catcher, and by the time the dust settled they had won 15–6 to advance to the finals. As soon as the game was over, Nick ran back to the hotel with the lineup card. Mr. Churchill was sitting up in his bed, a tall glass of cloudy water perched on his enormous stomach, when Nick burst into his room.
“We won!” Nick said. “We’re going to the finals!”
Mr. Churchill punched the air and then looked at Nick, a huge grin on his face. “One more win,” he said. “One win and people will remember this team forever.”
The championship was a rematch against the Duncan Cementers from Oklahoma. Nick was so nervous that he barely slept the night before the game—maybe Satch had shut them down the first time they played, but it was hard to beat a good team twice. The good news was that the tournament had scheduled a few extra days between the semifinal and final, and Satch therefore would be pitching on a full three days of rest, which was more than he had gotten in months.
The team obviously shared Nick’s nerves because the players were quiet as they took pregame batting practice. Even Satch seemed affected; he hopped back and forth on the balls of his feet during the national anthem like a boxer trying to keep warm before a fight. The first few innings of the game were agonizing. Every Cementers hit felt like a punch to Nick’s gut—and they had plenty of hits. But Satch was also getting lots of strikeouts, and he managed to limit the damage.
In the top of the seventh it was tied 1–1, and Nick was reduced to huddling at the end of the bench, nervously chewing on his dirty fingernails. Joe Desiderato led off with a double, and Red Haley worked a tough walk before Double Duty hit a soft chopper toward third—an easy out at first, but good enough to advance the runners to second and third. The whole team was standing on their feet and shouting as Moose strode to the plate, but he lunged at the first pitch and hit a soft flare to the shortstop for the second out of the inning. Satch, who had been gently swinging a bat in the on-deck circle, glanced at Mr. Churchill.
“It’s good you pay me a lot of money because I’ve got to do everything myself,” he said with a cocky grin.
A moment later he was standing at the plate, his shoulders slumped and his bat twirling a lazy circle over his back shoulder. He looked too sleepy and lanky to be dangerous, but Nick had learned that was just an act. Satch watched the first two pitches—a ball and a strike—his body language betraying no interest in swinging the bat. But as the pitcher went into his windup for the third pitch, Satch crouched, his gaze suddenly intent.
“Come on, Satch!” Nick heard himself yelling. “Hit it!”
Satch had already started his swing, his bat moving f
orward in a smooth stroke as his head stared down at the ball. A clean crack echoed around the ballpark as a white blur streaked past the glove of the leaping second baseman. Nick was on his knees, fist pounding the dirt, as Joe and Red crossed the plate. It was 3–1. They were winning!
“Nine more outs,” his father said tersely beside him. “Nine outs to a championship.”
Quincy struck out to end the top of the seventh. Nick ran out to bring Satch his glove, but Mr. Churchill got to him first. He was so nervous that the words were pouring out of his mouth in a steady stream.
“How’s the arm?” he was asking Satch as Nick approached. “Are you still feeling strong? Should I get Chet up? We’ve got lots of relief. Hilton can throw too. Or maybe even Double Duty.”
Satch put a calming hand on Mr. Churchill’s shoulder. “There’s no reason to be all crazy,” he said. “Why don’t you go put your feet up and relax because old Satch has got it from here.”
And Satch was exactly right. He gave up nine hits in the game but struck out fourteen, and when the last Cementer swung and missed at a final sharp curveball and the team exploded onto the field in celebration, he just smiled as if the outcome had never been in doubt. He kept that same smile through the awarding of the championship trophy and the special ceremony where the writers covering the tournament gave him the MVP, which was an obvious choice since he’d won four games, gotten a key save, and struck out sixty batters—a record that everyone agreed was likely to stand for a very long time. In fact, his smile didn’t fade until the team was back in the little locker room and Quincy Trouppe came over to him and Double Duty and Hilton Smith and Chet Brewer.
“I was just talking to a scout,” Quincy said. “And you know what he told me? He said that he would recommend signing all of us to play pro ball for a hundred thousand dollars each if we was white. What do you think about that?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” Satch said. He glanced at the trophy, which Mr. Churchill was cradling as if it were made out of solid gold. “I just want to enjoy this.”
“But that scout was right,” Hilton Smith said. “I bet this team would have a good chance of winning a pennant. If they’d just let us play.”
“No doubt,” Satch said. “And if we had Josh Gibson, we’d win that pennant going away. It wouldn’t even be fair.” He paused and glanced around the locker room. “I’ll tell you one thing and it ain’t just talk. . . . I’ve played on a lot of teams, but this just might be the best.”
Satch usually said that kind of stuff like a boast, but this time his voice had a different tone—regret, maybe. And Nick thought he knew why. It was possible that Satch was the best pitcher in the world, yet he never got a real chance to prove it: He should have been facing down the Yankees in the World Series in front of tens of thousands of people rather than dominating a semipro tournament in Kansas. Nick didn’t understand why that was fair. Why couldn’t Satch and Hilton and Double Duty play in the majors? Who wouldn’t want to see the best play against the best? Did the color of a person’s skin really matter that much?
It was at moments like these that Nick realized that some things in the adult world simply made no sense. But he was nevertheless grateful for Satch’s example—Nick’s little limp felt like an awfully minor problem when compared to a rule that prevented you from ever reaching the pinnacle of your profession. Over his few months with the team, Nick had learned many things, but he knew that the most important lesson, the one that would stick with him for the rest of his life, had come from watching the dignified way that Satch dealt with the transparent injustice of his situation.
Like most barnstorming teams, the Bismarck Churchills fell apart quickly. Hilton Smith and Double Duty left Wichita on a train for points south, and they dropped off Chet Brewer at a gas station on the outskirts of Kansas City. The little caravan of cars pulled back into Bismarck late on a Monday afternoon, and by the time Nick finished unloading the gear, most of the remaining players were already gone. For a terrible moment Nick thought he had missed his chance to say good-bye to Satch, but then the familiar convertible pulled up next to the Plymouth.
“So long, Hopalong,” Satch said as he rolled down his window. He glanced at Nick’s legs. “Although I got to admit that nickname doesn’t seem right, now that you don’t have much of a hitch in your gait.”
“It’s okay,” Nick said. “I kind of like it.” He paused. “Are you coming back next season?”
Satch shook his head. “I’ve learned never to say never. But I think old Satch has worn out his welcome here in Bismarck.”
Nick was going to ask why he had worn out his welcome, but Mr. Churchill had wandered over from the office. He stuck out his hand, which Satch shook.
“You did what you promised,” Mr. Churchill said. “And I sure am grateful.”
Satch smiled a salesman’s grin. “I always do what I promise.” The smile dimmed. “So what kind of deal did you cut with Wild Bill? Did he promise you something if we won the tournament?”
“A gentleman never tells,” Mr. Churchill said. “But don’t be surprised if someday I end up being the mayor of this little town.”
Satch raised an eyebrow. “If you send me the keys to the city, maybe I’ll come back.”
“Okay,” Mr. Churchill said. “Deal.”
They shook hands again, and then Mr. Churchill walked toward his office. He paused in the doorway and glanced back at the convertible. “You can forget the rest of the payments on that car,” he said loudly.
Satch winked. “That’s good. Because I wasn’t going to pay you anyhow.”
Mr. Churchill snorted and then disappeared into the office. Satch looked at Nick and then reached into a bag sitting on the passenger seat and pulled out a glass bottle filled with a familiar liquid—deer oil.
“I got this for you,” he said. “I know your leg is feeling better, so maybe you can use it on your arm. Once you start pitching again.”
Nick carefully took the bottle. “Thanks, Satch.”
Satch turned the key, and the convertible’s engine started with a sputter. The car lurched into gear and drove a few feet forward, but then it stopped. Satch glanced over his shoulder.
“Hey, Hopalong,” he said. “Here’s one more piece of old Satch’s famous wisdom. . . . Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”
Satch waved a giant hand and then the tires spun and he was gone. Nick stood frozen amid the swirling dust, wondering what he was supposed to do now. All summer the team had been his life, but now with one roar of an engine it was over—the Bismarck Churchills would be a team in name only until the following spring. In fact, Nick didn’t even know if he and his father would be back the following season. Maybe they would move to a new town or maybe his father would become a manager on a different team or give up baseball or . . .
Nick’s head swirled; it was all just too overwhelming. He had gotten used to the faces on the team: Satch and Quincy and Barney and Hilton and Joe and Double Duty and Red and Moose and Chet. They had been his family—and a way to avoid the reality of his return from the hospital—but that was over now. It was time for him to make his own life, which meant that he had to stop hiding. The challenge was finding a way to start.
It began, of course, with baseball. The day after the team returned from the tournament, Nick was pumping water in the yard when Emma emerged from her house.
“That team wants you to play,” she said. “Another one of their pitchers got hurt and they need help. Today.”
“The team with Tom and Nate?” Nick asked, stalling for time.
“Of course,” she said. “I told them you had been practicing and could pitch at least a couple of innings.”
Nick could feel the familiar fear rising in his chest, but he knew this was an important moment. It wasn’t going to get any easier to throw himself back into his old life.
“Okay,” he said before he could change his mind. “Just let me get my glove. And tell my father.”
/>
“He’s in my house,” Emma said, an eyebrow raised. “Fixing the stove.”
Nick just grunted and then went and got his glove from the cabin. He changed his mind ten times about whether he actually would tell his father, but when he got back to the yard, he walked straight past Emma and into the main house. He followed the sound of their voices to the kitchen, where his father was patching a rusty spot on the stove’s iron chimney as Mrs. Landry watched from the kitchen table. They were in the middle of a conversation, a smile on both their faces, but they stopped abruptly as Nick came through the swinging door.
“I’m going to play baseball,” Nick said, his eyes locked on his father. “A team wants me to pitch.” His father just stared at him, expressionless. “And I haven’t been wearing my brace. Not for weeks.”
“I know,” his father said. “I decided that if you’re determined to be a fool, I’m not going to stop you.”
Nick felt his cheeks flush, and the words came in a jumble: “My leg’s doing better. It’s not perfect, but that’s okay. I mean, nothing is perfect, right? Because if things were perfect Mom would still be here and you would still be playing baseball and wouldn’t say mean things all the time.”
His father was silent for what felt like a minute, and then he picked up his sandpaper and returned to working on the chimney. Nick watched him for a few ferocious strokes and then turned and headed for the door.
“Don’t raise your voice at me,” his father said as the door swung shut. “Ever again.”
Nick ignored him and went outside. Emma was still waiting in the yard, and when she noticed the expression on his face, she instinctively touched his arm.
“What is it?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Nick said.
“What were they doing?”
“Just talking.” Nick paused. “I think they’re friends. Which is good, I guess. My dad doesn’t have any friends. Just teammates.”
“What about you?” Emma asked. “Do you have friends?”
