King of the Mound: Chapters 1–2

The rubber ball nailed the center of the chalk square on the wall, skipped neatly on the polished linoleum, and landed next to Nick in the hospital bed.

Polio was a terrifying disease. In mild cases you would get symptoms similar to the flu, but if you were sick enough to get transferred to this hospital, it meant you had nerve damage, which often meant paralysis.

The brace was made of iron with two creaky hinges and thick leather straps. It stretched from the top of Nick’s thigh to just above his ankle, and when he wore it for more than a few hours, it would chafe and leave big red swaths on his skin.

The brace was made of iron with two creaky hinges and thick leather straps. It stretched from the top of Nick’s thigh to just above his ankle, and when he wore it for more than a few hours, it would chafe and leave big red swaths on his skin.

His father noticed them emerge from the elevator, and he trudged across the lobby, his worn felt hat in his calloused hand.

His father noticed them emerge from the elevator, and he trudged across the lobby, his worn felt hat in his calloused hand.

His father noticed them emerge from the elevator, and he trudged across the lobby, his worn felt hat in his calloused hand.

“Nick’s doing great,” Dr. Miller said. “But I’d be wary of giving you a specific prognosis.”

“Nick’s doing great,” Dr. Miller said. “But I’d be wary of giving you a specific prognosis.”

He wouldn’t miss the sharp, antiseptic smell of the ward or the chatter of the nurses early in the morning or that horrible, lonely feeling you got just before you fell asleep.

His father rolled his eyes. “Are you crazy? That newfangled body looks like a squashed cow patty. And those idiots in Detroit built it so badly that the engine falls out whenever it hits eighty.”

Polio had ambushed him. One morning in late May he woke up with a fever and a stiff neck, and the moment the doctor heard his symptoms he was whisked into quarantine at the local hospital in Bismarck.

Polio had ambushed him. One morning in late May he woke up with a fever and a stiff neck, and the moment the doctor heard his symptoms he was whisked into quarantine at the local hospital in Bismarck.

Polio had ambushed him. One morning in late May he woke up with a fever and a stiff neck, and the moment the doctor heard his symptoms he was whisked into quarantine at the local hospital in Bismarck.

Nick’s father had caught four of those games, and Nick, who was ten at the time, had sat in the first row of the stands and watched as Satch’s magical arm bewildered helpless batters.

In fact, that had been one of the things that Nick dreaded most when he went into the hospital—the idea that Satch might be pitching in Bismarck while he was trapped in a ward five hundred miles away had been too painful to contemplate.

In fact, that had been one of the things that Nick dreaded most when he went into the hospital—the idea that Satch might be pitching in Bismarck while he was trapped in a ward five hundred miles away had been too painful to contemplate.

The car had pulled up outside a dilapidated house on the outskirts of town.

The car had pulled up outside a dilapidated house on the outskirts of town.

His father was shaving—staring into a tiny mirror above the sink as he intently concentrated on the sharp blade—but he stopped and turned around when Nick swung his legs off the cot.

Nick wolfed down his breakfast and then made the beds, swept the room, and unpacked his duffel into a battered chest of drawers.

Emma shrugged. “You’ve been gone a long time.” Nick felt a pang in his stomach. It was true—he had been gone a long time.

You could always tell the farmers from the townspeople because the farmers had a lost, desperate look in their eyes.

Satch was wearing the team uniform—a white jersey with “Bismarck” printed across the chest in bold letters—and waving at the crowd, a bemused half smile on his face.

In a town of skinny, hardscrabble people he stood out like an elephant in a herd of cattle.

“Behold the return of the great Satchel Paige!” he bellowed. His voice was as loud as a steam engine. “A legend who needs no introduction...a man who dazzled us with his talents two summers ago. Inventor and master of pitches too numerous to name, including the Bat Dodger, Midnight Creeper, Four-Day Rider, Nothin’ Ball, and infamous Rising Tom!”

“Behold the return of the great Satchel Paige!” he bellowed. His voice was as loud as a steam engine. “A legend who needs no introduction...a man who dazzled us with his talents two summers ago. Inventor and master of pitches too numerous to name, including the Bat Dodger, Midnight Creeper, Four-Day Rider, Nothin’ Ball, and infamous Rising Tom!”

Double Duty Radcliffe was one of the most versatile players in baseball: He had earned his nickname during the 1932 Negro League World Series when he caught a shutout from Satch in the first game and then threw a shutout in the second.

Satch stared in at home plate as if waiting for the sign, his long arms dangling loosely by his sides and his intense brown eyes narrowed into menacing slits.

And then the ball clipped the cigarette and slammed into the bottom of the backstop. Double Duty casually leaned over and picked up the cigarette from the ground.