Baseball Card Adventure: Satch And Me Part 12

"Women?" I suggested.

"The two strongest things in the world are money and women," Satch said. "The things you do for women you wouldn't do for anything else. Same with money. But you got to be mighty careful of love. Gettin' married is like walkin' in front of a firing squad. But you don't give up women no more than a carp gives up dough b.a.l.l.s."

"I'm shy around girls," Flip said.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' shy," replied Satch. "That girl was all big eyes for you. So that shy thing is workin' and you should stick with it. But you got to close the deal, man. If you want somethin', you got to go get it. That goes for women, for baseball, for anything. 'Cause nine times outta ten, you let somethin' like that slip away, and it's gone. No second chances."

Satch went on for a while, and at some point I noticed he wasn't telling Flip how to deal with women anymore. He was telling Flip how to deal with hitters.

"A bullfighter can tell what a bull is gonna do by watchin' his knees," Satch said. "A pitcher can do the same thing. You see the batter's knees move, and you can tell just what his weaknesses are. I was watchin' you warm up. You got good stuff. Real good stuff. But you need work on your motion and your control. You just gotta let the ball flow out of your hand like it's water. And slow down. Too many pitchers got the hurry-ups."

"That's it?" Flip asked.

"Pitchin' is easy," Satch said. "It's women that are hard. Just throw the ball where you want it to go. Home plate don't move. Keep the ball away from the bat and you'll be fine. And never throw two fast-b.a.l.l.s the same speed."

"Thanks, Satch."

"Don't mention it. You go where learnin' is flyin' 'round, some of it's bound to light on you."

The road was straight and smooth, and Satch wasn't afraid to step on the gas. The needle was over 70 miles per hour, and we pa.s.sed a sign that said WELCOME TO WEST VIRGINIA. Satch and Flip were talking baseball, but I must have dozed off, because suddenly I was jolted awake by the sound of a siren.

Satch cursed and pulled over to the side of the road. A police car stopped behind us.

"Don't go shootin' off your mouths," Satch told us as he rolled down the window. "Let me do the talkin'."

The policeman got out of his car and walked slowly up to the window. He looked the car up and down and checked us out.

"Nice automobile you have here, for a colored boy," he said.

"Thank you, officer," Satch said.

"It yours?" the cop said. "You didn't steal it from n.o.body, did you?"

"No, sir," Satch said. "Got my ownership papers right here."

The cop looked over the papers carefully. I kept expecting him to recognize Satch's name and suddenly get all nice and ask him for an autograph or something. But he never did.

"This is Satchel Paige, officer," I said, leaning forward. "He's famous!"

The cop looked up and glared at me.

"Son, did this colored fellow kidnap you?"

"No, of course not," I said.

"Then shut your mouth."

"Officer," Satch said politely, "I'm sorry I was speedin'. But we're in a rush to get to Pittsburgh."

"Boy, you drive like you're in a rush to get to heaven," the cop said, handing Satch a ticket. "It's gonna cost you forty dollars. I reckon that's a whole lot of money to you."

Satch pulled out his wallet and counted out a bunch of ten-dollar bills.

"I'm gonna give you eighty dollars," Satch told the cop, handing over the money, "'cause I'm comin' back this way again tomorrow."

Satch hit the gas and we peeled out of there while the cop was still counting the bills.

"Man," Satch said, "I got so many speeding tickets, the police should give me a discount."

We drove past a sign saying we had entered Pennsylvania, and it wasn't long before the flat countryside turned into houses, factories, smokestacks, and lots of signs with the word "Pittsburgh" in them. Satch knew his way around the city streets. Soon we were outside a ballpark. I saw those big letters: FORBES FIELD.

"Isn't this where the Pittsburgh Pirates used to play?" I asked as Satch pulled into the parking lot.

"Still do," Satch replied. "They rent it out to us when they're on the road."

Black people were not allowed to use the locker room, Satch explained as he pulled a brown-and-white Kansas City Monarchs uniform out of the trunk of his car. He put it on right in the parking lot. The cap had a "KC" on it and the Monarchs logo was a baseball with a crown on top.

As we crossed the street to the ballpark, Flip leaned over and told me that Forbes Field doesn't exist anymore in our time, and that Babe Ruth hit his last home run there.

A newsboy was selling papers on the corner, and Flip said he wanted to see what they had to say about the World Series. He picked a newspaper up off the pile.

"You ain't gonna find nothin' 'bout our World Series in there," Satch said. "Better get a colored paper."

Man, everything was segregated. Blacks and whites not only had their own water fountains, hotels, restaurants, and baseball leagues, they even had their own newspapers. It was like there were two separate worlds living side by side.

Satch picked up a copy of something called The Pittsburgh Courier and Flip tossed the newsboy a nickel. There was an article about the World Series right on the front page.

Once Satch got us inside the ballpark, it sure looked like the World Series. There was a bra.s.s band playing in the centerfield stands. People were hawking scorecards and souvenirs. The place was jammed with fans. Most of them were black, and most were all dressed up like they were going to church. The smell of hot roasted peanuts made me hungry.

"Tell me again what Josh said 'bout me?" Satch asked us.

"He said he's gonna shut your big mouth in Pittsburgh," I answered.

"We'll see 'bout that."

People recognized Satch immediately. As he led us down toward the field, little kids ran over to him. They didn't want autographs. They just wanted to touch him. Once they made contact with him, they would just stand there staring at their hands in disbelief, saying things like, "I touched him!" or "I'll never wash this hand again!"

We finally made it down to the front row, near the third base dugout. Satch handed Flip two tickets and told us to enjoy the game. He'd meet us at the front entrance when it was over.

"Make sure you check my speed when I'm pitchin' to Josh," he instructed us. "I'll be throwin' my hardest."

As soon as he hopped over the low fence onto the field, a guy wearing a Monarch uniform charged over to him.

"You're late, Satchel!" the guy said, all agitated. "You missed the team warm-up."

"Calm yourself, Frank," Satch said. "You'll live longer. Only warm-up I need is to shake hands with the catcher."

Flip and I bought two bags of roasted peanuts from a vendor and sat down. One of the Homestead Grays was taking batting practice, and the rest were warming up on the first and third base sides. Their uniforms had a large "GR" on one side of the chest and "AYS" on the other side.

We spotted Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell, and a few of the other players we had met on the bus. They waved h.e.l.lo as they played catch in front of us. Josh's son, the kid we had seen back in the diner, was the Grays' batboy.

Photographers were snapping pictures, and one of them had a good idea. He pulled Satch out of the Monarchs' dugout and brought him over to Josh Gibson so they could pose together.

"Five bucks says I strike you out today."

Josh and Satch were only about ten feet in front of us, and we could hear every word they said.

"Dogface!" Satch said, shaking Josh's hand. "How you doin'? Five bucks says I strike you out today."

"You got a bet, Satch," Josh replied.

"Gibson, your turn for batting practice," somebody shouted.

Josh jogged over to the Grays' dugout and came out with the longest bat I had ever seen. A hush fell over the crowd as he stepped into the batting cage. The peanut vendors stopped selling their peanuts. The bra.s.s band stopped playing their instruments. Everyone who was doing anything stopped to watch.

The batting practice pitcher waited until Josh was ready. Josh rolled up his sleeve and spread his legs wide apart. He gripped the bat at the very end and held it up high. He didn't dig and scratch at the dirt, and he didn't wag his bat around the way a lot of hitters do. He looked like a statue. The only movement I could see was in Josh's mouth. He curled his tongue like a hot dog. Then he nodded that he was ready.

The batting practice pitcher wound up and threw. Josh didn't bend his back or knees, and he didn't take a big stride forward. He stood flat footed. He waited until the ball was almost on him. Then he lifted his left foot up very slightly and at the last possible instant attacked the ball with his arms and wrists.

A hush fell over the crowd.

It was a quick, fluid, compact stroke, a cla.s.sic swing. It almost seemed like he took the ball out of the catcher's mitt.

There was a distinct crack when Josh's bat made contact with the ball. It was a crack I had only heard once before, when I went back to 1932 to see Babe Ruth's famous "called shot" home run. The sound that Ruth's bat made hitting a ball was the same sound that Josh's bat made. I'll never forget that sound.

The ball whistled out of the batting cage on a low trajectory, barely over the pitcher's head. But the spin on it must have been tremendous, because then the ball hopped up and soared like a golf ball. It was over the centerfield fence almost before you could snap your fingers.

"Oooooooh!" moaned the crowd.

"Maybe he will shut Satch's mouth," Flip said.

Josh pounded about a dozen b.a.l.l.s over the fence, one after the other. Then he signaled to the pitcher that he was done, as if he wanted to save some of those long b.a.l.l.s for when they would count.

"You're gonna break that bat, Josh," one of the Grays said.

"I don't break bats," he replied before going to the dugout. "I wear 'em out."

The players cleared the field. Satch grabbed his glove and was getting ready to pitch the first inning when his manager called him back to the dugout.

"You ain't startin', Paige," he said.

"What?!"

"You showed up late. So you sit."

Satch threw his glove down and sulked in the dugout. The announcer introduced the Monarchs as they ran out on the field. A guy named Hilton Smith was their starting pitcher.

He was good too. Smith retired the Grays in order in the first inning. Josh Gibson didn't get the chance to hit, because he was fourth in the batting order.

When the Grays took the field, Josh came out with his catching gear on. Buck O'Neil led off for the Monarchs. When O'Neil stepped up to the plate, Josh started in trash-talking loud enough for the first few rows to hear.

"So this is the famous Mr. Buck O'Neil," Josh said. "I been readin' a lot 'bout you in the papers. You didn't do too good last Friday, did you? Well, you're gonna do worse today."

"Oh, hush your mouth, Josh," O'Neil said.

The pitcher, Roy Partlow, pumped in strike one.

"Oh, you missed that one," Josh said. "Too bad. Now, Mr. Buck, here comes one right down the middle. See if you can hit it."

Buck O'Neil took a big swing and fouled the ball off to the right. Strike two.

"What? Only a foul?" Josh said. "Okay. Don't go swinging at the next one, 'cause we're gonna waste it outside."

The pitch came in and O'Neil leaned over the plate to foul it off.

"Oops!" Josh said. "Sorry. My pitcher messed up and hit the corner. Let's do that one over."

This time the pitch was way outside, but Buck O'Neil took a wild cut at it anyway and missed everything.

"That would be three strikes, Mr. Buck," Josh said as the umpire called O'Neil out. "You are excused for the time being. Perhaps you'll do better next time."

It went on like that. Loud, fast, exciting baseball. The players didn't hide their emotions, the way they seem to in major league games. When a guy struck out, he got mad, and he showed it. The players took more chances, running the bases recklessly and diving for any ball within reach. The fans really got into the game too, heckling or shouting funny remarks as the mood struck them.

Hilton Smith breezed through the first eight innings. Josh didn't get a hit and the Grays couldn't score on Smith. It looked like he might pitch the whole game, and Satch would never even get the chance to face Josh.

But the Monarchs had a 2-0 lead going into the ninth when an announcement came over the public address system.

"Coming in to pitch for Kansas City, LEROYSATCHELPAIGE!"

16.

Satch versus Josh EVEN BEFORE SATCH PUT A FOOT ON THE FIELD, THE crowd was roaring. Some of the fans loved him, and some hated him. With every slow-motion step he took toward the mound, the noise level rose. It didn't quiet down until the batter, Boojum Wilson, stepped up to the plate. Satch got set to pitch the ninth inning with a two-run lead. "Ain't no need for signs," he yelled to his catcher. "Just show me the glove and hold it still. I'll hit it."

Satch struck out Boojum Wilson, and the next batter, Jelly Jackson, grounded out to short. It didn't look like we'd have the chance to clock Satch's fastball against Josh. A few fans started making their way toward the exits. I guess they figured a two-run lead was safe with Satch on the mound, and they wanted to beat the traffic out of the parking lot.

I noticed Satch kept looking into the Grays' dugout. He was looking at Josh. There were two outs now, and Josh wasn't due up for three more batters. It wasn't likely that he was going to get another chance to hit.

"When do I get my five bucks, Satch?" Josh shouted out to the mound.

The next batter, Jerry Benjamin, didn't look intimidated by Satch. He took a strike and a ball, and then lined a single to left. The tying run was at the plate now, with two outs. A guy named Howard Easterling was announced, and he stepped up to the plate.

Satch looked at Josh in the dugout again, and then he called time-out. He motioned for first baseman Buck O'Neil to come over to the mound. The two of them looked like they were arguing about something. O'Neil called for the manager, Frank Duncan, to come out to the mound.