by Dan Gutman
“Try me,” said Satch. “I seen it all.”
“It’s a radar gun,” Flip said. “It uses micro waves.”
“Microwaves?” Satch said.
There was no point in lying. I decided just to tell him the truth.
“Satch,” I explained, “Flip and I don’t live in 1942. We live in the twenty-first century. You see, I have the power to use baseball cards to travel through time.”
Flip shook his head, like he couldn’t believe I would be so dumb as to tell Satchel Paige the truth about us. But what was I supposed to say? How could I explain this machine that wouldn’t exist for thirty years?
“I heard taller tales than that one,” Satch said. “What can you shoot at with that thing?”
“You don’t shoot at anything,” Flip said. “It tracks the speed of moving objects.”
There was a car coming down the road from the right. Flip turned on the radar gun and pointed it at the car as it passed by. The little screen on the back of the gun flashed “38.”
“That car is goin’ 38 miles an hour,” Flip said.
“It’s digital,” I added. Satch let out a whistle.
“Lucky the police don’t have one of those,” he marveled. “I’d be in big trouble.”
Flip and I looked at each other again. There was no point in telling Satch that someday the police would have radar guns.
“Can that thing track a bird?” Satch asked.
“I guess so,” Flip said. He pointed the gun up in the air. A few seconds went by before a bird flew overhead. The little screen on the gun flashed “31.”
“Never seen nothin’ like that!” Satch said.
He helped Flip close his suitcase and we piled in the car. Flip got in the passenger seat. Satch put the key in the ignition, but he stopped before turning it.
“Say,” he said to Flip, “can you track a baseball with that thing?”
“That’s exactly what it’s made for,” Flip said. “In fact, we came here to see how fast you throw.”
“Well, I just might break that contraption,” Satch said, “’cause nobody can throw a ball as fast as old Satch. Shucks, I’m the fastest there ever was. Fastest there ever will be. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Does that thing go up to 100 miles an hour?”
“It sure does,” Flip said.
“Faster?” Satch asked.
“Yup,” said Flip. “Why don’t we find a ballfield and see how fast you throw?”
“My thinkin’ precisely,” Satch said.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life. He gunned the accelerator a few times before shifting the car into gear.
“You say you’re from the future?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Flip said.
“Well, that’s where I want to go,” Satch said. “The future. Maybe that gun of yours can help me get there. But first I got a business meetin’ to attend to in Pittsburgh.”
“A business meeting?” I asked.
“I got me a business meetin’ with Josh Gibson and the Homestead Grays,” he said. “We’re playin’ in the World Series.”
He hit the gas, the wheels spun on the dirt, and we roared off down the road.
10
On the Road
THE WORLD SERIES?
Why would Satchel Paige be playing the World Series? I don’t know as much baseball history as Flip does, but I do know that Jackie Robinson’s rookie year was 1947, and this was only 1942. Satch couldn’t be in the World Series.
“Is there a World Series in the Negro League?” Flip asked.
I didn’t even know that the Negro League had a pennant race. It wasn’t mentioned in my baseball books at home.
“Guess they didn’t tell you much about our league, huh?” Satch asked.
“Not much,” I admitted.
The car was bumping along a dirt road, and the needle on the speedometer was just about touching 50.
“You fellas need a little history lesson,” Satch said. “The Homestead Grays topped the National League in ’37, ’38, ’39, ’40, ’41, and ’42. We won the American League pennant in ’39, ’40, ’41, and ’42. But there ain’t been a World Series ’tween the leagues since ’27. So this is it. The best against the best to see who’s best.”
Satch was driving just a little too fast. The road was usually paved, but it wasn’t like a highway. I didn’t even know if highways existed in 1942. Satch was taking back roads. Making U-turns across pedestrian islands didn’t bother him, and he thought nothing of going the wrong way down a one-way street and zigzagging around the oncoming cars.
Flip was in the front seat, and he was gripping the seat like it was a life raft. Forget about airbags, padded dashboards, and safety glass. This car didn’t even have seat belts. I guess when cars crashed back in the old days, people just went flying through windshields.
“Slow down!” Flip finally barked, and Satch eased off the gas a little.
It didn’t look like he was in a big hurry. This was just the way he drove. Once I was in a car driven by Babe Ruth, and he was even worse. But that’s another story.
“How come you don’t take the bus with the rest of the Monarchs?” Flip asked.
“I ain’t gonna beg some fleabag hotel to let me sleep in their bed,” Satch said. “I ain’t gonna beg some greasy-spoon restaurant to let me eat their food. I sleep where I want and I eat where I want. I get my own food. I got my dignity. Besides, I like to fly free. I ain’t one for the settled-down life. A man rusts sittin’ in one spot.”
We had come to a stop sign in a little town. There was a row of stores on the left side of the street. A sign on one of them read:
IMPERIAL LAUNDRY COMPANY
WE WASH FOR WHITE PEOPLE ONLY
“I see what you mean,” Flip said.
“Are you boys really from the future?” Satch suddenly asked after we had passed through the town. “You got television in the future? I heard about television, but I ain’t seen one yet.”
“Oh yeah,” I told him. “We’ve got wide-screen TVs and DVDs and digital cameras and video games—”
“Here’s somethin’ you can take back with you to the future,” Satch interrupted. “This one game we were leadin’ 1–0 in the ninth, and they had runners on first and third. Nobody out. Full count on the batter.”
“You were pitching?” Flip asked.
“Not yet,” Satch said. “But they called me in to put out the fire. Well, I didn’t have my good stuff that day, and I knew it. If you can’t overpower ’em, you outcute ’em. So I had to use psychiatry. I come out of the bull pen with a ball hidden in my glove. The manager handed me the game ball. So now I got two balls in my glove.”
“What did you do with them?” Flip asked, snickering. Flip loves those old baseball stories. He eats that stuff up.
“So I go into my windup,” Satch said, “and I throw both balls at the same time. One to first and one to third. I picked off both runners, and my motion was so good, the batter took a swing, and he struck out too!”
“Triple play!” Flip said, collapsing with laughter. “Game over!”
“If you can’t strike ’em out, you gotta psych ’em out,” Satch said.
It occurred to me that Satch didn’t care about TV or the technology we would have in the future. He cared about how history was going to remember him.
Major league players got written up in the newspapers every day, even back in the 1940s. Their statistics and accomplishments were preserved for posterity. But Negro League players must have been ignored. Nobody knew what they did. No white people, anyway.
Satch wanted to be remembered. That’s what he meant when he said the radar gun could take him to the future. If we returned to the twenty-first century and told everybody that he could throw a baseball faster than anyone, he would go down in history.
“How about pulling over and we’ll see how fast you throw?” Flip suggested again.
“Yeah,” Satch said, “soon’s I find the right s
pot.”
We climbed up a short mountain road, and Satch didn’t seem to want to take his foot off the gas, even though the wheels were skidding around the hairpin turns. One slip and the car would go sliding off the side of the mountain.
“How did you get the name Satchel?” Flip asked, once the road finally leveled off.
“I grew up in Mobile, Alabama,” he said, “with twelve brothers and sisters. My momma took in washing. We didn’t have no money. I used to go down to the train station and carry people’s satchels for ’em. Ten cents a satchel. That was good money back then. Anyways, I got me a bright idea. You always got to be thinking if you wanna make money. I got a pole and rope so I could sling three or four satchels together and carry ’em all at one time. Looked like a big old satchel tree. So folks started callin’ me Satchel.”
I could tell that Flip was filing this stuff in his brain. He was having the time of his life. I was so glad I took him with me.
“We bumped into Josh Gibson and the Home-stead Grays before we met up with you,” Flip told Satch. The road was winding through woods now.
“That a fact?”
“Josh said he’s gonna shut your big mouth in Pittsburgh,” I blurted out.
“Stosh!” said Flip.
“That what Josh said?” Satch threw back his head and let out a good laugh. “I’m the best pitcher in baseball, and Josh is the best hitter. When we played together on the Crawfords, me and Josh always said we’d like to face off in a big game one day with the bases loaded. That would be somethin’ to see.”
“What do you think would happen?” Flip asked.
“Don’t rightly know,” Satch said. “But I’ll tell you this. Josh can’t hit what Josh can’t see.”
Suddenly, without any warning, Satch slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a stop. I almost went flying into the front seat, and Flip nearly banged his head on the windshield.
“What’s the matter?” Flip yelled. “Did you hit something?”
“Not yet,” Satch said, pushing open the door. He ran out of the car and around the back to open the trunk.
“What’s he doin’?” Flip asked.
“Beats me.”
The next thing we knew, Satch was running off into the woods, and he had a rifle in his hand! Flip and I jumped out of the car and followed him.
“Where’s he going?” I yelled to Flip.
“Maybe he’s goin’ crazy,” Flip replied.
We finally caught up with Satch, hiding behind a bush next to a bubbling stream. He was taking aim with the rifle.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Dinner,” Satch whispered, not taking his eyes off his target.
I looked off in the distance where he was pointing the gun, and I could see what he was aiming at. It was a deer. A beautiful white-tailed deer, standing motionless in the forest. It must have been about a hundred yards away.
“Are you gonna kill it, Satch?” I asked.
“Darn tootin’ I am.”
Now, I have mixed feelings about hunting. I mean, it’s not like I’m a vegetarian or anything. I eat hamburgers. I eat steak. I don’t mind animals being killed for food. I just don’t particularly like watching it happen.
Satch pulled the trigger and bam!
He missed. Startled by the noise, the deer dashed off into the woods.
“Shoot!” Satch said. “Woulda had ’im if I was throwin’ a ball.”
We went back to the car so Satch could put his gun away. You should have seen the trunk of that Packard. He kept food and a portable stove in there. There was a heat lamp, an electric massager, and a ukelele. Bats, balls, a couple of gloves, and catcher’s equipment. Then there were his clothes. He had a bunch of suits, shirts, and at least two dozen ties. I don’t know how all that stuff fit in there.
“What’s this?” Flip asked, picking up a pair of red-and-yellow-flowered shorts. They looked like they were made from silk or something.
“Those are my underdrawers, thank you very much,” Satch said, snatching them away.
The trunk of the car looked like somebody’s closet. I suppose that made sense, because Satch seemed to live in his car.
“I’m starved,” Satch said, taking a fishing pole out of the back of the trunk. “You boys up for chow?”
Now that he mentioned it, there was that empty feeling in my stomach. The whole time Flip and I spent at that diner, I never did get anything to eat. We had given all our food to Josh Gibson and the Homestead Grays.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be late for the World Series?” Flip asked. “The Monarchs’ bus must be miles ahead of us by now.”
“Don’t you worry ’bout that,” Satch said. “They can’t start the game without me. That’s why they call it the startin’ pitcher, right?”
Satch pulled out his stove and told us to make a fire. He grabbed the fishing pole and a bag and went back into the woods. I gathered some sticks and wood that were lying around under a tree. Flip built the fire. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes when Satch came back with a bag of fish.
“Catfish!” Satch said. “Oh, we’re gonna eat good tonight!”
Flip offered to cook, but Satch said nobody cooks catfish like he does. He gutted each fish in a few seconds, and then he pulled all kinds of spices and sauces out of the trunk. Soon the smell of roasting fish had my mouth watering. Satch cooked up some potatoes too, which he had stashed in another box.
The food was truly excellent. Flip told Satch that if he ever stopped playing baseball, he could make a good living as a chef.
“Oh, I don’t know ’bout that,” Satch said, scraping the last of the potatoes off his plate. “Maybe I’ll pitch forever. I pitched over a thousand games already, you know.”
“A thousand?” I asked. That was hard to believe.
“I won 31 games in 1933,” he said, leaning back against a tree. “Threw 64 scoreless innings. Once I won 21 games in a row.”
“I didn’t know that,” Flip said, and he knew just about everything there was to know about baseball.
“Nobody knows,” Satch said sadly. “I feel like the majors is a big old house, and it’s Christmas morn-in’ and there are presents everywhere. And I got my nose pressed against the window lookin’ in.”
“The major league record is 24 wins in a row,” Flip said. “Carl Hubbell.”
“Major league record?” Satch spit on the grass. “Major league records don’t mean nothin,’ ’cause I ain’t in the major leagues. I don’t wanna sound big-headed, but if I was up there, they’d have to rewrite that record book, and you better believe it.”
“You’re gonna get in the majors, Satch,” Flip said. “I can tell you that for sure.”
“Well, they better hurry up,” Satch said. “I’m just prayin’ I get to the big show before my speedball loosens.”
“How old are you, Satch?” I asked.
“Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “My momma told me she kept my birth certificate in the family Bible. But then the house burned down. I’m guess-in’ I’m ’bout thirty-six, give or take a few.”
Satch got up and dusted himself off. He went to the trunk and came back with his ukelele. It was dark out now. I was really tired.
“All this talk is depressin’,” Satch said. “How about a song?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Flip.
“And you ain’t even heard my melodious voice yet,” he replied.
Satch strummed the uke and then he started to sing, “‘Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you….’”
He could really sing and play! Forget about becoming a chef, I told Satch. He should become a musician.
I can’t tell you which songs he played or how long he played or anything like that. Because in the middle of Satch’s little concert, I fell asleep right there in the grass.
11
Catching Satch
THUD!
That was the sound my head made when it whacked against the front sea
t of Satch’s car. I had fallen off the backseat when Satch hit the brakes. That woke me up fast. Flip told me I’d slept so soundly that he and Satch had to pick me up off the grass in the middle of the night and throw me in the backseat of the car.
I felt like I had slept a hundred years. It was daytime now. Flip was in the front seat. I was groggy, like I had jet lag. In a way, I did.
“Where are we?” I asked when Satch turned off the engine. “Is this Pittsburgh?”
“Good mornin’,” Satch said. “No, we are in the great state of North Carolina.”
I sat up and looked out the window. We had pulled off the road at the edge of a field. Some cows were grazing in the distance.
“Why’d you stop here, Satch?” Flip asked.
“I feel like throwin’ some,” he replied. “Why don’t you crank up that gun of yours, and we’ll see how high she goes?”
“Sure thing!” I yelled, hopping out of the car. I wasn’t groggy anymore. This was the whole reason why I came.
Satch got out and opened the trunk. He took off his fancy clothes and folded them up neatly. He really did wear red-and-yellow-flowered underwear!
You would think that a guy who can throw a baseball so hard would have tremendous arm muscles. But when Satch took off his shirt, he seemed to have no muscles at all. His arms were unbelievably long. His right arm must be like a slingshot, I figured, with rubber bands instead of muscles.
Satch rooted around in the trunk until he pulled out a jar. There was no label on it. He unscrewed the top and scooped out some brown gooey stuff with two fingers. Then he rubbed the stuff on his pitching arm.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My secret weapon,” Satch said, “Venezuelan snake oil.”
The stuff smelled horrible.
“I discovered it when I was playin’ in Bismarck, North Dakota, in ’35,” Satch went on. “There were these Sioux Indians up there, and I got to know ’em real good. One day I had a sore arm and I couldn’t play. These Indians invited me to their reservation. Well, one of ’em got bit on the leg by a snake and he’s rollin’ ’round like he’s gonna die. The medicine man pulls out some goop and rubs it on the leg to take away the hurt. That put me to thinkin’. I asked him if he could rub some of the stuff on my arm. He said no, it’s only for snake bites. So I give him ten American dollars and he rubs some on my arm.”
