King of the Mound: My Summer With Satchel Paige by Wes Tooke Read Free Book Online

“Let’s do it again, kid.”
    He winked and a moment later was gone. Nick walked back toward the office, the remaining change a heavy ball in his pocket. He had only a few programs left—and had made Mr.Churchill an extra dollar twenty-five with the autographs—so he was feeling pretty good as he approached the shack. But then he heard his father’s voice booming from inside.
    “I played too hard for you, Churchill,” he was yelling. “There weren’t no need to embarrass me like that.”
    Mr. Churchill’s voice was quiet and calm. “It was going to be more embarrassing if I left you in that game, Ben.”
    “I ain’t done. I got a lot more ball left in me.”
    “Nobody’s saying you don’t. But I’ve got two younger catchers and a team that can play with any team in the country—major league included. So . . .”
    There was a long pause. When Nick’s father spoke again, his voice had lost its energy. “What do you want me to do?”
    “I want you on my bench. You know these local teams, you can read pitchers, and if Double Duty or Quincy gets hurt, I’ll need you. But that’s the best I can offer.”
    “I’ll have to think about it.”
    “I know you could pick up with someone else,” Mr. Churchill said. “But I hope you stay. This could be a real special season.”
    Footsteps clumped toward the door, and Nick ducked into the shadows of the shack. He caught a glimpse of his father’s face as he emerged—his skin was bright red and the muscles of his jaw stood out like two tight knots. He strode past Nick, his eyes focused straight ahead, and Nick waited until he was out of sight before emerging from the shadows. On the one hand Nick was mortified that his father had yelled at Mr. Churchill, but he also understood his anger. Nick had learned what it was like to have baseball suddenly taken awayfrom you, and he knew the game was everything to his father—it was the only good thing in his life now that Nick’s mother was dead.
    Nick leaned against the shack, his mind racing. If his father really quit the team, they’d probably go back to the tiny mining town where Nick’s grandparents lived. And that would be a disaster, since most people there spoke only Croatian and none of the kids liked baseball. The three days they used to spend with his grandparents at Christmas had always felt like three weeks; Nick would rather go back to the hospital, where at least they had a radio and some nice doctors and nurses, than live in a place like that.

When Nick got home, his father was in the yard turning a huge branch into firewood with the efficiency of a sawmill. He was trimming the smaller branches from the main trunk with a hatchet—chips of wood flying in all directions—and then sawing the branches into perfect foot-long pieces that he could split into quarters with the ax. He must have been working since he got home because his shirt was drenched in sweat and the ground around his feet was colored tan by sawdust.
    Nick sat on the porch and watched him for a few minutes before it occurred to him to help. He got the canvas satchel from the cabin and started gathering the perfect chunks of firewood, carrying them inside, and stacking them neatly by the iron stove. His father gave no indication that he noticed Nick, but Nick didn’t mind the silence. Nothing that his father said when he was in one of his moods was likely to be nice.
    Nick had been working for about half an hour and was unloading the satchel into the wood rack by the stove when he heard a yelp from his father followed by the loud thud of something slamming into the wall of the cabin. Nick dashed outside, moving as fast as he could on his bad leg. His father was bent over at the waist, clutching his left thumb with his right hand. Something dark was dripping from his fingers, and Nick felt his throat clench as he realized that it was blood. He reached up and grabbed a clean shirt from the clothesline and then hopped over to his father