King of the Mound: Chapters 3–6

It felt like being slow-roasted over a smoldering fire—every minute he got more and more anxious until eventually his brain just shut down and he stared blankly at the floor.

Nick pushed himself to his feet and hobbled outside.

Just as Nick’s anger reached its peak, the door swung open and his father loomed over him, a faceless shadow in the dark.

For the second time in two nights Nick undid his brace in the dark, and by the time he lay down, his father’s resonant snores were echoing around the tiny cabin.

Nick felt elated as he put away the broom. He didn’t know where they were going or what they would be doing, but anything was better than staying at the cabin all day.

After another agonizing moment his father grunted and dropped the bag on the dirt driveway. “Just keep up,” he said.

But there was no way he was going to slow down—not after the look his father had given him—so he just gritted his teeth and pretended he was a soldier on a long march.

A billowing cloud of dust was moving toward them, and as it got closer Nick realized that it was the same strange-looking brown Chrysler that he and his father had driven back from the hospital.

Breaking in just one glove was a major undertaking, and there were fifteen gloves in the box.

First, he rubbed them with the oil until the leather was supple to the touch, then he threw a ball into the webbing as hard as possible at least thirty times, and finally he shoved the ball deep into the pocket and tied up the mitt with a towel.

Mr. Churchill shook his head. “You’re an industrious little guy.”

Nick gave him a last look and then carefully wrote in the ledger: “Satchel Paige—???” Satch stood so he could see the paper and then smiled.

Sometimes the simple act of throwing a ball could make all the stress and clamor of the world disappear.

After fifteen or twenty minutes both of their throws started getting a little erratic, and Nick realized that they were getting tired.

After a long bout of deliberation Emma got chocolate and Nick chose strawberry. When she finished paying, they went outside and sat on the curb, frantically licking so the ice cream wouldn’t melt and run down onto their hands.

They would stare at his brace and ask him questions about the hospital and whether or not he could pitch again—it would be a reminder of how much his life had changed since that fateful day when he woke up with a fever.

The policeman looked up from the glove box. His voice was gruff: “Get out of here, kid.”

“I’ll be watching you,” he said to Satch. “So don’t get uppity.”

A moment later he was back in his police car, and he violently pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the acrid smell of scorched rubber.

Satch revved the engine and then looked up at Nick, the jaunty half smile on his face again.

Mr. Churchill’s voice rose. “Those people should understand that it would be crazy not to buy this program. For a mere ten cents they can own a genuine collector’s item...a timeless memento to prove to their grandkids that they were at the park the day the great Satchel Paige returned to town.”

Red was from America but the program listed him as Cuban, which Nick had heard was a way for black players to be able to join segregated leagues.

The crowd was applauding, and Nick knew it wasn’t a tribute to his father for the years he had played for the team. It was a sarcastic thank-you to Mr. Churchill for taking him out of the game.

The crowd was applauding, and Nick knew it wasn’t a tribute to his father for the years he had played for the team. It was a sarcastic thank-you to Mr. Churchill for taking him out of the game.

Satch gave up only one more hit, and the bats came alive in the fourth and fifth innings and turned the game into a rout.

Nick leaped to his feet and raced to the exit to try to sell a few more programs. Most people passed him without even making eye contact, and he had begun to despair when he noticed a small crowd forming around the base of the stands.

On the one hand Nick was mortified that his father had yelled at Mr. Churchill, but he also understood his anger.

When Nick got home, his father was in the yard turning a huge branch into firewood with the efficiency of a sawmill.

With every passing year he remembered fewer details about her, but in his memory everything had been different before she caught tuberculosis.

Nick glanced up just in time to see her go swinging past him on the rope. She whizzed out high above the pond and then let go with a yelp and plummeted into the dark water.