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

and his eyes glaring at the catcher’s mitt. His leg moved back and his hands rose as if he were starting his windup, but then he paused and returned to the set. The crowd muttered. Satch took a breath and then his leg and hands moved again, but again he stopped.
    Nick glanced around him at the crowd—people were leaning forward, mouths open, totally focused on the lanky man standing on the makeshift mound. Nick looked back just in time to see Satch start a third windup. He paused again, and the crowd grumbled, louder this time, but then Satch’s leg kicked up and his arm whipped toward the catcher’s mitt. Nick looked for the ball, his eyes straining in the twilight, but instead he saw a strange, floppy figure flying down the street—
    It was a rubber chicken . It made it halfway to Nick’s father and then skidded to a stop in the dirt, its legs akimbo and neck twisted at a strange angle. One of the horn players from the band made a strange sound with his instrument—a bawk, bawk, bawk —and suddenly the crowd erupted with laughter. People were slapping their knees and bending over and pointing at the chicken, tears running down their faces. It was absolute pandemonium.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, you saw it right here in downtown Bismarck,” Mr. Churchill bellowed. “The infamous chicken pitch! And if you want to see more amazing feats, come on down to the ballpark tomorrow, where you can see these fine boys play the best ball anywhere in the Dakotas. Heck, maybe the best in the world.”
    The brass band started playing and the crowd pressed towardSatch, and for the next twenty minutes Nick was giving away flyers as fast as his hands could move. He finally ran out just as the crowd was reduced to dregs. Mr. Churchill was still talking to a few people, but Satch was getting into his convertible, alone. Nick walked over to him.
    “That was pretty funny,” he said when he was within earshot.
    Satch looked at him and grinned. “I figured it would go over like gangbusters. This is a farm town, and farmers are the same everywhere. Simple folk like simple jokes.”
    “You’ve done this before?” Nick asked.
    “Only in every little town south of the Mason-Dixon Line. And it didn’t matter if the crowd was black or white. . . . If they were the kind of folks who knew the business end of a chicken, they’d laugh.” Satch gave Nick a look. “Churchill said you were trying to give away a mess of flyers.”
    “Yup,” Nick said. “And I gave away all of them, which means I get to go on the next road trip.”
    “Good.” Satch paused. “And what about that deer oil? You try it?”
    “It felt like someone set fire to my leg,” Nick said. “But I walked without my brace.”
    Satch smiled again. “Attaboy. We’ll get you back on that pitching mound yet.”
    Nick nodded, but he didn’t really believe it—there was a big difference between running out of a house because your leg was burning and playing baseball. But it was awfully nice that someone thought he could be a pitcher again. Especially since that someone knew more about pitching than anybody for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

Nick awoke the next morning with a smile on his face. Every day that he got to see Satch pitch felt like Christmas, but today was particularly special, since the flyer had promised that Satch was going to strike out the first nine men or the fans would get their money back. His father left for the ballpark right after breakfast, but Nick still had to do the chores, so he rushed through sweeping the cabin and cleaning the ash from the stove. When he was done, he sat on his bed with his pants rolled up staring at his brace. Fragments of his doctor’s orders echoed through his head: “The correction will happen gradually. . . . It’s important to stick with the program. . . . Don’t push yourself too far or too fast. . . .”
    Nick undid the straps of the brace, tore it off his leg, and shoved it deep under his cot. He rolled