by Wes Tooke
Her dark eyes were locked on him, and Nick tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, there’s this one girl. She’s done a lot of really nice things for me, and I feel bad because I haven’t really thanked her.”
“Tell me more about this girl,” Emma said with a hint of a smile. “She sounds nice.”
“It’s just someone from the neighborhood. She knows a little bit about baseball. I mean, for a girl.”
Emma’s smile grew and she stared at him for another long moment. “I like it when you make jokes,” she finally said. “You’re usually so serious.”
“I used to joke a lot,” Nick said. “But it felt kind of weird to laugh in the hospital, so I guess I just kind of got out of the habit.” He paused, suddenly nervous. “I got something for you. You know, to say thanks for stuff.”
Nick quickly walked back into his cabin, feeling Emma’s eyes on him the whole way. He retrieved the little packet from under his bed, and when he got back outside, he hid it behind his back until he was again at her side.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to see around his body.
Nick twisted away, teasing her for one more second, and then pulled the packet from behind his back and handed it to her. “Programs,” he said. “One from every game this season. I got the players to sign most of them too. . . . Satch, Hilton Smith, Double Duty, Red. Even Mr. Churchill.”
Emma stared at the packet for a long moment, her face even whiter than usual, and the next thing Nick knew her arms were around his neck. He hugged her back, enjoying the moment, but also feeling a little awkward—the last time he’d hugged anyone it had been his mother. When they separated, Nick instinctively adjusted his shirt. She was staring at him, the small smile back on her face—but this time it wasn’t because of a joke. Nick glanced down at his feet, suddenly embarrassed.
“You want to come to the game?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.
The first part was easy. Nick’s adrenaline was surging as he walked up to the team, and it felt like old times as he met the other players, put on a uniform, and talked to the coach. But as soon as he sat on the bench at the beginning of the game, all of that energy leaked out of his body and suddenly Nick was as nervous as he had ever been in his life. Just because you decided that you ought to be ready to do something didn’t mean you were actually ready, and Nick wished he had been practicing more. And why hadn’t he insisted on throwing a batting practice or something before appearing in an actual game? Was he crazy?
Nick therefore focused on praying that the team wouldn’t actually have to use him, but they were tearing through pitchers, and in the bottom of the fifth the coach turned to him and said, “You’re next.” Nick remained frozen on the bench for a few seconds and then forced himself to stand and start pinwheeling his arm the way his father had taught him. He glanced at the team, wondering if anyone would be willing to warm him up, but the other kids were all focused on the field. Just as Nick decided that he should ask Emma, someone tapped on his shoulder. It was his father. He was holding his catcher’s mitt in one hand.
“You’re not going to be any good if you don’t get loose,” he said.
Nick stared at him for a stunned moment. “Okay,” he finally said.
They went to the little warm-up mound beside the field, and his father lowered himself into a crouch. Nick threw ten pitches, starting slowly before gradually building to his best fastball. His father didn’t say a word until they were walking back to the dugout.
“Have you been practicing a breaking pitch?” he asked.
“No,” Nick said.
“Then don’t throw one. You won’t be able to control it, and you’ll just hurt your arm. Stick with the fastball, low. Work both sides of the plate.”
Nick just nodded. He expected his father to walk off the field, but instead he stopped, his hand awkwardly gripping Nick’s shoulder.
“I know things haven’t been easy for us since your ma passed,” he said. “But Mr. Churchill says that you did a good job for him this season and that you can work for him anytime. Which is a good offer because he’s a big man around here.”
Nick knew what his father really meant, and he was grateful. Maybe it would be easier if his father could just say what he felt—if he could tell Nick that he was proud of him or even just that he was glad he was back from the hospital—but Nick had learned over the past few years to enjoy the good moments in life because things were never going to be perfect.
“I miss her too,” Nick finally said.
His father was frozen for a moment, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I know,” he said.
He turned and quickly walked off the field. Nick watched him go and then glanced at the bench—just in time to realize that the coach was pointing at him.
“You’re up,” he said. “Throw strikes and let your defense do the work.”
Nick slowly walked onto the field, feeling like every pair of eyes was locked on him, but when he reached the mound, his instincts took over. He stubbed his toe into the rubber to make sure it was firmly planted into the ground and then waited for the catcher to get into position so he could throw his five warm-up tosses. The final one made a satisfying crack in the mitt, and as the catcher threw down to second, Tom jogged in from his position at shortstop.
“It’s good to have you back,” he said. “Go get ’em.”
Nick nodded and stepped back onto the rubber. He took a moment before he looked in for the sign to glance around the field. His father was still behind the bench, one hand gripping the chain-link fence like a claw. Emma was up on the small hill behind home plate, and when she noticed his gaze, she waved. Nick took a deep breath, just the way his father had taught him, and as he exhaled and began his windup, one final thought flashed through his head.
He was home.
HISTORICAL NOTES
I have done my best to be accurate, but many details from this season exist only in legend. One fact is indisputably wrong—Satchel Paige did face a young Joe DiMaggio, but it was in February of 1936. The cable from the Yankee scout who saw the game read: “DiMaggio all we hoped he’d be. Hit Satch one for four.”
In 1936, the year following this story, the National Baseball Congress refused to allow any integrated or all-black teams to play in its tournament. Neil Churchill served as the mayor of Bismarck from 1939 to 1946 and was prominent in the community until his death in 1969.
Satchel Paige’s dream of playing in the major leagues was realized on July 9, 1948, when he came into a game between the St. Louis Browns and the Cleveland Indians as a relief pitcher. Over the remainder of that season he compiled a 6–1 record with a stellar 2.48 ERA and two shutouts. He was forty-two years old.
