King of the Mound: Chapters 14–18

The mound was much taller and firmer than the little bump Emma had dug in their backyard, and the divot in the earth where the pitcher’s foot landed after he strode forward seemed impossibly far from the rubber—this was a mound for men, not boys.

Satch nodded curtly. “I make a point of always negotiating for myself.”

Satch nodded curtly. “I make a point of always negotiating for myself.”

The State Capitol, also known as the Skyscraper on the Prairie, towered nineteen floors above Bismarck, and as the elevator whirred upward Nick felt an exhilarating combination of nerves and excitement.

Wild Bill and two other men were sitting in modern-looking chairs, but Nick was mesmerized by the view—beyond the window stretched the tops of roofs and the curl of the Missouri River and the vast expanse of brown fields that eventually faded into the horizon.

“Your friend will still make plenty of money. We’ll sell out every game in that brand-new stadium, and he’ll get all kinds of free publicity because every newspaper in the country will write a story about how an integrated team from North Dakota somehow managed to win a national tournament.”

Sometimes Nick would stare at the numbers and shake his head—it seemed impossible that any pitcher, even one as supernaturally gifted as Satch, could be so consistently dominant.

After a noontime game on a Saturday—an 8-1 blowout of a traveling team from St. Cloud, Minnesota—Mr. Churchill gathered the team in the center of the diamond.

Nick had been known for one thing before he went to the hospital: being the best young pitcher in Bismarck. And it was petrifying to imagine stepping back onto the field before he really knew whether he was going to ruin that reputation.

As they waited in the long, slow-moving line, Nick scanned the program. According to the opening section this was going to be the most diverse tournament ever held in the United States—or maybe anywhere.

“Hap Dumont,” he said. “I’m the one who put this little shindig together.”

“That’s nonsense,” Mr. Churchill said brusquely. “You’ve got a bunch of black teams and a team filled with Japanese. Why aren’t they a problem?”

Where are you from?” he asked.
“Fort Smith, Arkansas,” the man said in a low drawl.

“You know the drill,” he said. “My team will get you the gate because people want to see if my boys are as good as advertised. If the great Satchel Paige really could be a big-league pitcher. That’s why you paid us the appearance fee and that’s why you’re going to keep us in the tournament, even if it means losing a team from the teeming metropolis of Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“You know the drill,” he said. “My team will get you the gate because people want to see if my boys are as good as advertised. If the great Satchel Paige really could be a big-league pitcher. That’s why you paid us the appearance fee and that’s why you’re going to keep us in the tournament, even if it means losing a team from the teeming metropolis of Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“Throwing hard?” he asked incredulously. “I saw Double Duty put a steak in his glove so Satch wouldn’t take his hand clean off. So, yeah...I’d say he was throwing plenty hard.”

They were a brutish team with sluggers up and down the lineup, and to that point in the tournament they had been averaging the stunning total of thirteen runs per game.

When the team poured into the small locker room beneath the stands after the game, Mr. Churchill clambered onto a chair and cupped his hands to his mouth.

It was easier to enjoy the rhythms of baseball when you were quiet.
Nick was therefore surprised when late in one of the games they were scouting—an error-ridden slugfest between two mediocre teams—his father turned to him.

Ten minutes later a tall man in a dark cloak entered the lobby carrying a black valise.

Nick guided him upstairs and then stood in the corner while the doctor conducted his examination to a chorus of labored moans and grunts from Mr. Churchill.

Mr. Churchill rolled over in bed, his sheet drawn up over his body like a shroud, and stared at Nick.

He rolled over on his side and looked at Nick, his face sallow in the faint light from the window.

Nick could tell he was nervous by the way he gripped his notebook and the hint of a tremor in his voice.

The team nodded quietly in assent and then went out and did exactly what Nick’s father had asked.

“Nine more outs,” his father said tersely beside him. “Nine outs to a championship.”

Over his few months with the team, Nick had learned many things, but he knew that the most important lesson, the one that would stick with him for the rest of his life, had come from watching the dignified way that Satch dealt with the transparent injustice of his situation.

“So long, Hopalong,” Satch said as he rolled down his window. He glanced at Nick’s legs. “Although I got to admit that nickname doesn’t seem right, now that you don’t have much of a hitch in your gait.”

The car lurched into gear and drove a few feet forward, but then it stopped.

Her dark eyes were locked on him, and Nick tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Well, there’s this one girl. She’s done a lot of really nice things for me, and I feel bad because I haven’t really thanked her.”