Wall Ball by Kevin Markey Read Free Book Online

do.’”
    Suddenly the words made sense. A whole lot of sense. They were about the real-life, old-time ace Satchel Paige.
    “Well done, Gabby,” Mr. Swickle said. “Thank you.” He walked around his desk and sat on the front edge. “Can anybody tell us anything about Satchel Paige?”
    Immediately, Stump’s hand shot up. Big surprise. His idea of a clever verse may have begun and ended with “He who smelt it, dealt it.” But his knowledge of baseball was tops.
    “He was a pitcher,” Stump said. “Maybe the best ever.”
    “Very good.” Mr. Swickle nodded. “Anything else?”
    “Sure,” continued Stump, warming up to his task. “Satchel started in the Negro Leagues. This was like eighty years ago, back when African Americans weren’t allowed to play in the bigs. He had really nasty stuff. But nobody knew exactly how good he really was, because he couldn’t pitch against major-league hitters. They finally found out after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947. That’s when African Americans entered the major leagues for the first time. The next year, Satchel joined the Cleveland Indians. He was an old man by then, like more than forty.”
    “Ancient,” said Mr. Swickle. “Older than Methuselah.”
    “I don’t know who this Methuselah character is,” said Stump, frowning. “Did he play for the Reds maybe?”
    “Never mind. A little joke,” said Mr. Swickle with a twinkle in his eye. “Go on, Stump. You’re doing great.”
    “Well, a lot of people figured major-league batters would knock Satchel down a notch or two. Plus, like you said, the guy was older than Methuseh-whoever. His best years were behind him. But Satchel rocked their world. He blew people away with these crazy pitches nobody had ever seen.”
    Slingshot raised his hand, and Mr. Swickle called on him.
    “Satchel had names for all his pitches,” the Rambletown pitcher said admiringly. “The poem talks about some of them. The looper, the drooper, the two-hump blooper.”
    “It sounds as though this guy had a lot of fun,” Mr. Swickle observed.
    “Nothing in the world is more fun than whiffing a batter,” Slingshot said firmly. He would know. Our own ace pitcher had fanned more than his share.
    “Why do you think the poet calls his poem ‘Father Time Is Coming?’” asked Mr. Swickle.
    “Easy,” said Stump. “Because Satchel was so old.”
    “So, the best hitters in the world learned to respect Satchel?” Mr. Swickle asked.
    “More than respect. They were awed. Yankee Hall of Famer Joe DiMaggio, he’s in the poem, called him the best and fastest pitcher he’d ever seen,” said Stump. “Satchel’s enshrined alongside DiMaggio in Cooperstown now.”
    “Very impressive, Stump,” said Mr. Swickle. “You sure do know your stuff.”
    “Got to,” said Stump. “I’m a ballplayer. Need to know the history of my game.”
    “If only you approached regular history with the same diligence,” Mr. Swickle said with a smile.
    We all laughed. Stump’s face turned as red as his stand-up hair, but he smiled too.
    We spent another half hour discussing Satchel Paige and baseball and what it meantto be a hero. Every so often, I looked over at Orlando. His mouth hung open and his eyes bugged wide. Apparently they didn’t cover baseball at his old school.
    “When a rare individual like Satchel Paige comes along,” said Mr. Swickle, “a Mozart, a Picasso, an Einstein, well, their extraordinary accomplishments seem to elevate the whole human race.”
    It was a pretty intense idea for a Monday morning. The first day back from vacation, no less. But I thought I understood what he meant. Just knowing that Satchel could do what he did, could overcome so many barriers and accomplish something great, it made you feel good inside. It made you feel hopeful and proud and amazed. To me, that’s what the poem was about.
    In any case, it was one of the best classes ever. I wished Mr. Swickle would give us more poems about