King of the Mound: Chapters 10–13

Satch accounted for six of those wins, giving up only four runs—three on a fluke double that Moose Johnson lost in the sun—and striking out forty-five batters.

The team’s bats were also hot, and they collectively hit .322 with six home runs and fifty-two runs scored.

Nick was sitting in the back of the Chrysler with most of the black players, and as they pulled up in front of a ramshackle hotel in the center of town, he noticed that a group of men across the street were staring at them.

Red burst out laughing. “And there was Satch, nodding and smiling like he’d just pulled the perfect con.”

It was a funny story, but Nick was too preoccupied with the men across the street to smile.

Satch’s next pitch, a fastball, cleaved the heart of the plate.

“I think you want to finish this game,” he said when he reached Mr. Churchill. He nodded slightly at the stands. “If you and your boys walk off this field, I won’t be liable for what these people do.”

Mr. Churchill’s voice had risen, and his last words carried clearly into the stands, sparking a cavalcade of catcalls.

The group of men behind home plate were half leaning onto the field, their faces ugly and contorted, and the Bismarck players in the infield instinctively moved toward Satch on the mound.

The group of men behind home plate were half leaning onto the field, their faces ugly and contorted, and the Bismarck players in the infield instinctively moved toward Satch on the mound.

Nick’s father got up from the bench and sidled over to the on-deck circle.

“Watch his front knee. That tells you everything.” Nick looked at Satch skeptically, and Satch made a little cross over his heart.

The crowd had been subdued for several innings, lulled to a stupor by Satch’s relentlessly overwhelming pitching, but when they realized that the rest of the team wasn’t coming out of the dugout, they rose to their feet, the catcalls suddenly surging with renewed intensity.

The crowd had been subdued for several innings, lulled to a stupor by Satch’s relentlessly overwhelming pitching, but when they realized that the rest of the team wasn’t coming out of the dugout, they rose to their feet, the catcalls suddenly surging with renewed intensity.

The crowd had been subdued for several innings, lulled to a stupor by Satch’s relentlessly overwhelming pitching, but when they realized that the rest of the team wasn’t coming out of the dugout, they rose to their feet, the catcalls suddenly surging with renewed intensity.

His dreams were vivid, culminating in one that he’d had many times at the hospital: He was standing on a pitching mound, everyone from school clustered around the field, and as he started his windup he would glance down and suddenly realize that he wasn’t wearing any clothes other than a ratty pair of underwear.

Their old fishing hole was just below the railway bridge north of the center of town, where a small sandbar often formed in the eddy around the concrete pilings.

The summer before Nick went to the hospital, he and his father had gone almost every day there wasn’t a game, and in addition to walleyes they’d caught just about every fish you could find in this stretch of the Missouri: brown trout, rainbow trout, lake trout, cutthroat trout, northern pike, chinook salmon, and a variety of catfish.

Nick, who had seen her only from a distance, had thought that her hair was tinged with gray, but on closer inspection he realized that it was actually just blond streaks.

Nick ruefully patted the top of his head. “I tried to use a comb. Does it look stupid?”

“That was a fine meal,” he said. “Me and my boy are much obliged.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. William “Wild Bill” Langer was a notorious figure.

“It’s nice,” Nick said.
Mr. Churchill smiled. “It ought to be nice. They worked on this monstrosity for twenty years....”

“Because according to state law any property under construction is exempt from taxes. So as long as they kept working on it, they didn’t owe the tax man a red cent.”

“I heard they built a secret tunnel connecting the basement with the train station,” Nick said. “So they could smuggle stuff inside during Prohibition.”

“I generally don’t eat people until suppertime,” Wild Bill said when the laughter subsided.

Mr. Churchill reached for a chair, but Wild Bill shook his head. “Don’t sit,” he said. “I’ve just got a quick proposition for you.”

“I was talking with one of my compatriots the other day,” Wild Bill said, his voice rising, “and we realized that Bismarck has never won a championship in any sport. Which, we agreed, is an outrage. This city is the capital of the great state of North Dakota, and as such it should achieve glory commensurate with its stature. Do you not agree?”

“I was talking with one of my compatriots the other day,” Wild Bill said, his voice rising, “and we realized that Bismarck has never won a championship in any sport. Which, we agreed, is an outrage. This city is the capital of the great state of North Dakota, and as such it should achieve glory commensurate with its stature. Do you not agree?”

“I was talking with one of my compatriots the other day,” Wild Bill said, his voice rising, “and we realized that Bismarck has never won a championship in any sport. Which, we agreed, is an outrage. This city is the capital of the great state of North Dakota, and as such it should achieve glory commensurate with its stature. Do you not agree?”