by Dan Gutman
“So do it!” I said.
“I can’t,” Flip said. “I got the store to take care of, and the team.”
“The team?!” I couldn’t believe he was worried about my team. “It’s just a Little League team, Flip! It’s not important. You’ll have a new life here. A better life.”
“I’ve lived my life, Stosh,” he said. “I don’t want to live it all over again. Once is enough.”
I wasn’t going to talk him into staying. He was set in his ways. That’s one thing about old people. They can be so stubborn. So I thought of the next best thing.
“Then let’s take Laverne back home with us, Flip!” I said. “If I can take one person with me, I can probably take two.”
“I thought of that,” Flip said. “But she’s 18 years old, Stosh. When we get back home, I’m gonna be 72 again. She’s not gonna want me in our time. And she wouldn’t go with us anyway. If we told her we’re from the future, she’d think we were crazy. You’re a great friend, Stosh. I really appreciate you tryin’ to help me. But it just wouldn’t work.”
“Hey!” Satch yelled from the field. “Will you two hurry it up? My arm’s gettin’ stiff from lack of grease.”
Flip and I went back out to the field. Satch had taken off the chest protector and the catcher’s mask. Laverne helped Flip put them on. He crouched behind the plate and Satch went out to the mound.
“Be ready now,” Satch said, “’cause I’m throwin’ hard.”
He buzzed the first pitch in, and it slapped into the mitt with a loud pop.
“90 miles per hour,” Laverne called out.
“Now watch this,” Satch said.
He threw again, and the gun clocked the pitch at 91. The next two pitches were 92 and 93.
Laverne said the gun was getting a little bit too heavy for her to hold. I took it from her and she moved off to the side.
“Can you throw that fast consistently?” Flip asked.
“Nope, I do it all the time,” Satch replied. Then he threw the next pitch 94 miles per hour, and the one after that was 95.
“Ya-hoooo!” shouted Laverne, “If you were white, you would be in the majors for sure.”
“Yeah,” Satch said, “if.”
She meant well, but Laverne’s comment seemed to take something out of Satch. I could see his shoulders sag and his head hang a little. I guess he had forgotten about his situation for the moment. Laverne had reminded him that he was the best pitcher in baseball but he was banned from playing at the highest level because of the color of his skin.
“Maybe I should hang ’em up,” Satch said. “Only guy I can’t strike out is Jim Crow. You don’t keep swingin’ when a fight’s all over.”
Flip pulled off the catcher’s mask and ran out to the mound.
“Satch, quitting would be a big mistake,” he said seriously. “You gave me a lotta advice. Now lemme give you some. You’re gonna make the majors. You’re gonna be very famous one day. You’ll be in the Hall of Fame. You gotta believe me. You can’t give up now.”
“No kiddin’?” Satch said softly. “Hall of Fame?”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Flip said. “But it’s the truth.”
“Then get back behind the plate,” Satch said, more confidence in his voice. “Let’s see how speedy I can wing this thing.”
Flip put the catcher’s mask back on and took his position. I aimed the gun. Satch wound up again and burned one in.
“97 miles an hour,” I hollered.
The next one clocked at 98, and the one after that was 99 miles per hour. I’m sure Flip’s hand was killing him, but he wasn’t complaining.
“Okay,” Satch said, “I’m gonna cut one loose now. Be ready.”
Satch went into his windup. He kicked that leg way up high. He brought that slingshot of an arm down and let it fly. It was the moment of truth.
The instant the ball slammed into the mitt, there was a crack. It sounded like a gunshot.
In fact, it was a gunshot. Suddenly, the radar gun just exploded in my hand. I mean, it disintegrated. Pieces of plastic went flying everywhere. I closed my eyes so they wouldn’t blind me. When I opened them again, the gun was gone. All that was left in my hand was the handle.
“Laverne!” a voice shouted from across the ballpark. “Get over here!”
“It’s my father!” Laverne shrieked.
“Uh-oh,” Satch said as he ran off the mound. “We better do some fast steppin’. He sounds mighty perturbed.”
What happened next was a blur. The four of us went running in different directions. I heard Laverne screaming and her father yelling at her. There was another gunshot.
The lights in Forbes Field suddenly went out. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me. I tripped over something and fell down in the dark. I was afraid to make a noise.
“Where are you, boy?” Laverne’s father shouted. He was somewhere in the infield now, walking around. “When I find you, I’m gonna kill you.”
I didn’t know if the “boy” he was talking about was me or Flip or Satch. I wasn’t going to take any chances. I crawled down into the dugout on the first base side and took a baseball card out of my pocket. In the distance, I heard an engine start and a car peel away. It was probably Satch, making a getaway.
“Where are you, Laverne?” her father said. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, sweetheart. I just want him.”
Wherever Laverne was hiding, she didn’t answer. Her father’s voice was closer to me now. He was right outside the dugout. A few feet away. If he came into the dugout, he could trip right over me. Then I’d really be in trouble. I wondered where Flip and Laverne were. I hoped they were together.
I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. His footsteps were on the dirt right outside the dugout now. I held the baseball card in my hand and tried to keep my breathing quiet. I had no choice. I had to get out of there. I just wanted to go back to Louisville. I had to leave Flip behind.
Soon the tingling sensation came. It started in my fingertips and moved up my arm. Across my body. Down my legs.
He was in the dugout now. I could hear him breathing. I smelled alcohol. And just before he would have bumped into me, I disappeared.
19
Another Life
I WAS AFRAID TO OPEN MY EYES. I WAS AFRAID OF WHAT I might see. Or what I might not see.
What if I arrived back in the twenty-first century and Flip’s Fan Club was gone? What if Flip Valentini had died years earlier and he never opened up the store? Or what if he settled down in Atlanta or Los Angeles or someplace other than Louisville? What if I did something or simply said something back in 1942 that changed history forever? It would be my fault. Whatever good or bad that had resulted from my actions would be my responsibility.
I opened my eyes.
I was in Flip’s Fan Club. I breathed a sigh of relief.
There was good old Flip behind the counter, wrinkled and stooped over. Everything in the store looked just the same.
A little girl and her mother were talking to Flip. I remembered them. They had been asking about Barbie cards the last time I was in the store. The girl wanted to buy new Barbie cards, but Flip only had some old ones to sell.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Valentini?” the girl asked. “It’s for my cousin’s birthday. He’s a big fan.”
A big fan? Of Flip? That was strange. Why would anyone want Flip’s autograph?
“How much do you charge?” the girl’s mother asked, opening her purse and taking out her wallet.
This was too weird. Somebody was willing to pay Flip for his autograph? I must have been hallucinating.
“Fuhgetaboutit,” Flip said. “What’s your cousin’s name?”
“Steven,” the girl said.
Flip reached under the counter and took out a black-and-white photo of a baseball player who looked a lot like Flip. He wrote across the bottom with a black marker:
I looked at the photo. It was a guy in a Brooklyn Dodgers uniform. He was w
inding up to pitch. Now I was sure I was hallucinating.
Flip handed the photo to the girl, and she held it like it was a treasure. She and her mom must have thanked Flip about ten times before they finally left the store.
“Stosh!” Flip said after the door jangled shut. “How ya doin’?”
“You…you played in the majors?” I croaked.
Flip looked at me strangely.
“You know I played in the majors,” he said. “Are you okay, Stosh?”
“I think I need some water,” I replied.
While Flip went to get me a drink, I looked around the store. At first it looked like everything was the same. But then I looked at the photos of the old Brooklyn Dodgers on the wall. Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider. I’d seen those photos a hundred times. But there was something different about them now. I went over for a closer look.
There was a difference. There was a second person in each photo now. And the second person was Flip! Young Flip.
I thought I might faint.
Next to the photos were some yellowed old newspaper clippings, and they were all articles about Flip. I scanned the headlines. FLIP FLIPS CARDINALS IN 3-1 VICTORY…VALENTINI WINS 20TH GAME…FLIP VALENTINI ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT.
The last one was dated 1963. I read the first paragraph:
Flip Valentini, fireballer who pitched with the Dodgers, Cincinnati Reds, and Pittsburgh Pirates over a long and productive National League career, retired yesterday after his 18th season. Valentini finished his career with 287 wins, 2,856 strikeouts, and an earned run average of 2.87. He had an overpowering fastball, but credited his success to his baffling Hesitation Pitch, which he learned from the great Satchel Paige before either of them reached the majors.
“Are you okay, Stosh?”
I turned around to see an old lady standing there. She handed me a glass of water and held the back of her hand against my forehead, just like my mom does when she thinks I’m coming down with something. Flip was standing behind her.
“Who are you?” I asked, taking a sip.
“See what I mean, Laverne?” Flip said. “We should call his mother.”
“Laverne?” I asked. “You’re Laverne?!”
I searched the old lady’s face. Her hair was gray and her skin was wrinkled, but it was Laverne! I could see a faint resemblance in her eyes.
“Well, of course I’m Laverne, you silly willie,” she said, chuckling. “Who else would I be?”
Suddenly it was all clear to me. I had traveled back to 1942 with Flip. We met Satchel Paige, and Satch taught him how to throw the Hesitation Pitch. We also met Laverne in 1942, and she and Flip fell in love. When Laverne’s dad went psycho and tried to shoot us, I had to leave Flip behind and come back to the twenty-first century by myself. After I left, Flip and Laverne must have run off together, and Flip must have tried out for the Dodgers. He had a baseball career. He had a new life. And now Flip and Laverne were an old married couple!
“You’re just a little dizzy, Stosh,” Laverne said. “You’ll be fine. Flip, will you please call up Mrs. Stoshack and ask her to come get him?”
Flip was about to pick up the phone, when it rang.
“Hello?” he said into the receiver. “Yeah, this is Flip Valentini…. Very funny…You’re kiddin’ me…. You sure this ain’t some joke?…Okay, thanks.”
Flip let the phone fall back on the hook. He had sort of a glassy-eyed look on his face.
“What is it?” Laverne asked. “Is something wrong? Did somebody die?”
“You’ll never believe me,” Flip said.
“Try me,” said Laverne.
“Not in a million years,” Flip said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They voted me into the Baseball Hall of Fame.”
For a moment, the three of us just stood there. It was like somebody had just told me that an elephant had landed on the moon. It was so different from anything I expected to hear that I didn’t know how to react.
But it wasn’t long until we were all screaming and jumping up and down and hugging one another. Somebody must have seen us through the window, because people started streaming in to congratulate Flip. Soon the tiny store was jammed with people, and we were in the middle of a party. Somebody produced a bottle of champagne and squirted it at Flip. The phone started ringing and it didn’t stop.
After about an hour, Laverne told everybody that all the excitement had tired Flip out and he had to go home and rest. I was about to leave when she pulled me aside.
“None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you,” she whispered in my ear. “You realize that, don’t you? Flip and I owe everything to you. Will you come join us for dinner tonight?”
“What are you having?” I asked.
“Roast chicken and corn bread,” she told me. “It’ll make you think you died and went to heaven.”
She was right. Dinner was great. Flip and Laverne had a nice house too, much nicer than the dumpy apartment Flip used to live in. He seemed so much happier now.
While we were eating, the conversation turned to baseball, as it usually did whenever Flip was around. Laverne said it would be interesting to travel to the future to see what baseball would look like a hundred years from now. But that would be impossible, Flip and I pointed out. I always go to the year on the card. I would need a future card to go to the future, and obviously, future cards don’t exist until you get there. Flip suggested some players from the past I might want to visit, like Roberto Clemente, Ty Cobb, or Ted Williams. I tossed out Joe DiMaggio and Hank Greenberg.
It was a great evening, for all of us. The only disappointment, we all agreed, was that we never did clock Satch’s best stuff on the radar gun.
“Now that it’s all over,” I asked Flip, “how fast do you think Satch really was? Do you think he could have thrown 105 miles an hour?”
“Maybe it’s none of our business,” Flip replied. “Some legends oughta stay legends. Some mysteries oughta stay mysteries. It’d be nice to know, but it’s better to wonder.”
Facts and Fictions
Everything in this book is true, except for the stuff I made up. It’s only fair to tell you which is which.
From 1898 to 1946, African Americans were banned from professional baseball for no other reason than the color of their skin. Many of the greatest players in history never played major league baseball.
Satchel Paige was arguably the greatest pitcher who ever lived, and certainly the most quotable. (Much of his dialog in this book was spoken or written by Satch himself.) Negro League statistics were not always written down, but Satch claimed to have pitched 2,600 games and won 2,100 of them. He also said he pitched 300 shutouts and 55 no-hitters. Of course, Satch was known to have stretched the truth on occasion.
Satch really did drive his car (and sometimes fly his own plane) to games, rather than take the team bus. He pitched for any team that would pay him, sometimes blowing into town and fronting a hastily assembled team of local amateurs (like the New York Stars) for one game. The Indianapolis Clowns, however, were a real Negro League team. A young Hank Aaron, by the way, started out on the Clowns at age eighteen.
Satch really did call in his fielders sometimes and strike out the side, and he really was served with divorce papers by somebody pretending to want an autograph.
I played a little fast and loose with the facts about the 1942 Negro League World Series. It was actually Game Two when Satch walked two batters intentionally so he could pitch to Josh Gibson with the bases loaded. That incident took place in the seventh inning, not the ninth. Satch pitched in all four of the World Series games that year, and he won three of them.
After a long Negro League career, Satch finally made his first major league appearance for the Cleveland Indians on July 9, 1948. He was 42 years old by then, and possibly older. (Satch was always cagey about his age.) Satch won six games and lost just one that year, helping the Indians win the American League pennant. (The league
banned the Hesitation Pitch as soon as Satch used it.)
But he still wasn’t finished. Satch went on to pitch four more seasons. Finally, after being out of the big leagues for a dozen years, the Kansas City Athletics brought him back for one last appearance on September 25, 1965. Satch was almost sixty years old. He pitched three shutout innings that day. It had been nearly forty years from his first professional game until his last.
In 1971, Satchel Paige became the first Negro League player inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. He died on June 8, 1982, in Kansas City. He is buried there, in Forest Hill Memorial Park Cemetery.
Just as Satchel Paige was quite possibly the best pitcher ever, Josh Gibson may have been the game’s greatest hitter. He hit around 800 home runs in his career, with a batting average of .352. In exhibition games against major league pitchers, he hit an incredible .426.
But by 1942, Josh had begun to fade. He was experiencing bouts of dizziness and headaches. He only made 2 hits in 13 at bats in that 1942 World Series.
Four months later, on New Year’s Day, 1943, Josh fainted and was in a coma for ten days. It was determined that he had a brain tumor. Josh refused to have an operation to remove it, and things got worse. Over the next four years, Josh suffered from nervous breakdowns, hallucinations, alcoholism, and addiction to heroin. After several suicide attempts, he was briefly admitted to a mental hospital.
On Sunday, January 19, 1947, Josh went to a movie. When the lights came up, he was found slumped in his seat. He died in the middle of the night at his mother’s house. He was only 35 years old.
Nobody knows if Josh died from a brain hemorrhage, a stroke, or a drug overdose. Some say he died of a broken heart. He had hit more home runs than Babe Ruth, but he never was allowed to play in the big leagues. He was virtually unknown outside the world of black baseball.
Josh Gibson was buried in an unmarked grave in Pittsburgh’s Allegheny Cemetery. Twenty-five years later, his accomplishments were recognized and he became the second Negro League player inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Money was raised for a proper gravestone.
