King of the Mound: Chapters 7–9

This time Nick knew Satch was kidding. “I was wondering about something,” he said tentatively.

Nick clutched his seat, a combination of scared and exhilarated, as the wind whipped his hair and his blurry eyes tried to focus on the bouncing landscape.

“I’m not a visitor,” Satch said. “I’m practically family. In fact, they made me an honorary chieftain. Their medicine men tell a story about how I brushed back an evil Indian commissioner with a Rising Tom and saved the tribe.”

“Whooo, boy!” he said when he straightened. His voice was raspy.

“Medicine hut,” he said. “They put that hot rock inside and then one of their magic men throws hot water on it until the tent fills with steam. You sit in there for ten minutes and you’ll be hotter than a sheepdog in the bayou.”

When Nick finally found his courage, he carefully unscrewed the jar. The smell hit him first, a combination of kerosene and some fruit that Nick couldn’t identify, and it stung the back of his throat.

The fire ants had now doused themselves in gasoline and lit a match.

He furiously moved it up and down, his leg stuck forward toward the spigot, and as the first gush of cool water hit his skin, Nick groaned aloud in sweet relief.

And then, just as the fire abated enough that Nick could focus on anything other than his leg, he heard a loud laugh behind him.

“Satch gave me some medicine,” Nick said sheepishly. “It was supposed to make my leg better, but it just burned like hot coals.”

Nick pulled the battered trunk out from under his cot and rummaged around until he found his old pair of dark pants, collared shirt, and leather shoes.

He was standing on a corner at the center of town, his eyes locked on a makeshift mound that a few men were constructing in the street, and he grinned when he noticed Nick.

As they pulled up in front of Mr. Churchill, their huge horses snorting and lathered with sweat, the two men stood out of their saddles and saluted.

“Those about to play ball salute you!” they shouted in unison.

“Yes,” Joe replied. He spoke in a loud monotone. “We have found the greatest pitcher in all the land.”

“And where can I find this gallant champion?” Mr. Churchill asked, his voice booming.

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.

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 turned their heads to either side.

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?”

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 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.”

Satch smiled and then ambled back to the mound.

Nick glanced around him at the crowd—people were leaning forward, mouths open, totally focused on the lanky man standing on the makeshift mound.

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.

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 toward Satch, 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.

For the first half of the walk to the ballpark he was too excited and nervous to really notice how his leg felt, but as the adrenaline gradually wore off, he began to pay attention.

Nick watched the show, totally mesmerized.

The Coke was so cold that it had little flecks of ice stuck to the glass bottle, and Nick relished the fizz on his tongue and the quick rush of sweetness.