Free Satch & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

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.”
    â€œYou’re gonna get in the majors, Satch,” Flip said. “I can tell you that for sure.”
    â€œWell, they better hurry up,” Satch said. “I’m just prayin’ I get to the big show before my speedball loosens.”
    â€œHow old are you, Satch?” I asked.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œAll this talk is depressin’,” Satch said. “How about a song?”
    â€œSounds good to me,” said Flip.
    â€œAnd 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 seat 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.
    â€œWhere are we?” I asked when Satch turned off the engine. “Is this Pittsburgh?”
    â€œGood 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. Somecows were grazing in the distance.
    â€œWhy’d you stop here, Satch?” Flip asked.
    â€œI feel like throwin’ some,” he replied. “Why don’t you crank up that gun of yours, and we’ll see how high she goes?”
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œMy secret weapon,” Satch said, “Venezuelan snake oil.”
    The stuff smelled horrible.
    â€œI 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’tplay. 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,