Free King of the Mound: My Summer With Satchel Paige by Wes Tooke Page A

and pointed. “Behold!”
    As the word echoed off the buildings, three cars turned the corner at the end of Main Street. The first, a giant black sedan, was filled with the horn section of a band—tubas and trumpets sticking out the windows as they played a rollicking song. The second car, also a sedan, had a bunch of Bismarck players in their full uniforms hanging off the sideboards and waving at the growing crowd. The third was Satch’s silver convertible. He was sitting in the back between two men dressed in outrageous silver suits, and as the convertible slowed to a stop in front of Mr. Churchill, the two men simultaneously turnedtheir heads to either side. Huge billows of flame burst from their mouths, and Nick stared, stunned. The only time he’d ever seen fire breathers was at the carnival that set up on the outskirts of town late every August.
    Mr. Churchill stepped forward, his eyes locked on Satch. “Your coming has been foretold,” he said. “Are you the greatest pitcher in all the land?”
    “I be the man,” Satch said.
    Mr. Churchill smiled broadly. “Excellent. We hear that you possess wondrous powers. Can you demonstrate a few of them for us? Your magical hesitation pitch, perhaps?”
    “It depends,” Satch said. “I only demonstrate my powers to true believers.”
    People had been emerging from storefronts and pouring out of the little alleyways that fed onto Main Street, and Satch cocked his head toward the growing crowd. The response was a loud shout and a smattering of applause. Satch smiled to himself and then got out of the convertible and walked over to the mound that Mr. Churchill had built in the street. As Satch made a big production out of stretching his arm, Nick’s father emerged from the crowd, a catcher’s mitt on his hand. Nick stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to get his wounded thumb into the stiff leather.
    “Here it comes, folks,” Mr. Churchill shouted. “The infamous hesitation pitch.”
    Satch started his windup, his hands going down as his leg went up, but then—right at the top of his motion—he froze, balancing neatly on one foot.
    “What’s the matter?” Mr. Churchill asked after a moment. “Are you scared to throw the ball?”
    “Not scared,” Satch said. “Just pondering.”
    “Pondering what?”
    Satch turned his head just slightly so he could look at Mr. Churchill. “I am hesitating right now so I can cogitate on how I am going to throw my hesitation pitch.”
    The crowd laughed. When it was silent again, Mr. Churchill waved impatiently at Satch. “Well, don’t cogitate all day,” he said. “Throw a strike!”
    Satch whipped his body toward the glove and the ball flashed out of his hand—maybe not his best fastball, but still moving like it wanted to get somewhere. As the ball cracked into the mitt, the crowd, which had been steadily growing, went wild. Satch bowed and Mr. Churchill gave him a proud smile.
    “That was wonderful,” he said. “Do you have anything else in your bag of tricks that you might be able to show this amazing crowd?”
    Satch scrunched up his forehead. “Well, I have my internationally famous chicken ball.”
    “Chicken ball?”
    “Yes, sir. The very same ball that I threw for the king and queen of England and the king and queen of Spain. And I’ll tell you . . . them royalty just ate it up.”
    “I’d like to see a chicken ball,” Mr. Churchill said. “But I don’t know about the rest of these good people.” His eyes scanned the crowd. “What about you? Do you want to see a chicken ball?”
    This time the cheer echoed up and down Main Street—loud enough that they probably heard it all the way out on the Indian reservation. Satch smiled and then ambled back to the mound. When he was in position, he bent over at the waist, staring in at Nick’sfather. He made a show out of shaking off the first sign—and the second—but he nodded firmly at the third and then came to a set, his glove at his chest