Jim & Me (12 page)

BOBBY AND I RUSHED THROUGH THE TURNSTILE AND OUT
the front gate of the Polo Grounds, elbowing our way through the crowds. If Jim killed himself, it wouldn't be John McGraw's fault for being mean to him. It would be
our
fault for not saving him. And if we didn't save Jim, Bobby was a goner. That would be
my
fault alone, because I was the one who had brought him to 1913 in the first place.

I must admit there were times I wished Bobby Fuller would vanish off the face of the earth. But deep down inside, I didn't want to make that happen. We had our ups and downs, but he had actually been an okay time-traveling companion. I also felt sorry for him because he was addicted to drugs. And he did save my life from that wrecking ball.

We ran down Eighth Avenue to that bar where Jim had been drinking before the game. He seemed
to be a regular there, so we figured he might have gone back. But when we rushed in the door, we didn't see Jim anywhere.

“Is Jim Thorpe here?” I asked the bartender breathlessly.

“I kicked him out 'bout ten minutes ago,” he replied. “Drunk again.”

The guy looked like he was mad. I don't get that. It's a
bar
. They sell alcohol. What do they expect to happen when people drink it? Isn't getting customers drunk the whole purpose of a bar?

“We've gotta find him!” Bobby said. “It's a matter of life and death!”

“I think Jimmy's living at the Trinity Hotel till he finds an apartment,” the bartender told us. “It's ten blocks downtown. If you find him, tell him he owes me for the whiskey. I don't know what that guy does with all the money the Giants pay him. He's always broke.”

I knew what he did with the money. He gave it away to total strangers on the street who needed it more than he did. We thanked the bartender and ran out of there.

It seemed like we were always late. We had been too late to stop him from entering the Olympics. And if he had any plans to kill himself, we might be too late to stop those too.

Bobby and I ran eight city blocks—I counted—when we passed a park on our right. The sun was starting to set. There was a big, grassy field, and
people were strolling, walking dogs, and reading newspapers on benches. Bobby suddenly slowed down, and then stopped running entirely.

“What's the matter?” I asked. “You need a rest?”

“Look,” Bobby said.

There were some boys in the park playing football. Touch football, three on three.

“You want to play football
now
?” I asked in dis-belief.

“No, moron,” Bobby said. “Check out the guy sitting under the tree.”

It was Jim! He was alive!

Jim was watching the boys play football. We ran over and sat on the grass next to him. He was obviously drunk. I wasn't sure he could even stand up if he tried.

“Now
this
is
my
game,” he said when he noticed us, slurring his words badly. “I was a two-time All-American in college, y'know.”

“Jim, let us take you to your hotel,” I said gently.

“I could throw a pass
90
yards,” Jim continued. “When I ran with the ball, guys would try to tackle me and I'd drag 'em halfway across the field. One time I punted and ran 50 yards to catch my own punt. Those are
facts
.”

“We believe you,” Bobby said.

“We had this trick play we called the Dig,” Jim whispered, like he didn't want anybody to hear. “Two guys would go out for a pass, one short and the other guy about ten yards deeper. The quarterback
would throw a pass to the first guy, but he wouldn't catch it.”

“He'd drop it on purpose?” Bobby asked.

“No,” Jim said, “he'd tip it backward over his head. The defense would go to tackle him, leaving the second guy free to catch the ball and score. That's the Dig.”

“It's genius!” Bobby said.

“Oldest trick in the book,” said Jim.

When Jim was talking about football, a look of peace and contentment came over his face. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but he seemed more relaxed. He almost looked like a different person.

“Why don't you quit baseball?” Bobby asked him. “That's what I did. I bet you'd be a star in the NFL.”

“The
what
?” Jim asked.

Of course Jim couldn't join the NFL, I realized. There
was
no NFL in 1913. There was no NBA or NHL either. There were basically two sports athletes could earn money playing—baseball and boxing.

The brief peaceful look on Jim's face vanished when he turned away from watching the football game. His eyes got all squinty and bitter again.

“Six months ago everybody called me the greatest athlete in the world,” he said. “Now they call me a bum.”

“You're not a bum,” I told him.

“Whenever I mess up, they say my brain isn't as smart as a white man's,” Jim said. “And when I do
good, they say I'm a savage who was raised with a fighting spirit. But I'm just a man, like any other.”

Jim may have been drunk, but I didn't doubt the truth of what he was saying.

“The white man stereotyped Indians to justify killing us and stealing our land,” Bobby said.

“Baseball and money ruined my life,” Jim went on. “Playing ball for money before the Olympics ruined me. Now it's ruining me again.”

We needed to get him home. Maybe a good sleep would snap him out of it. But Jim just wanted to talk, so we let him.

“Y'know, one day in semi-pro I hit three homers in one game, and I hit 'em in three different states.”

“That's impossible,” Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

“We were playing a few miles from Texarkana, close to the border,” Jim said. “In the first inning, I hit a ball over the leftfield wall and it landed in Oklahoma. In the third inning, I hit one over the rightfield wall that landed in Arkansas. Then, in the seventh inning, I hit an inside-the-park homer. That was in Texas. Three states. Nobody ever did that before or since, and that's a
fact
. Of course, those pitchers couldn't break off a big yellow yakker like the boys do up here.”

“Yakker?” I asked.

“Curveball,” he replied.

“Is that your whole problem?” I asked. “Hitting the curve?”

“I hit the straight ones just fine,” Jim said. “But
once they found out I couldn't hit the curve, I never saw any more straight ones. And McGraw won't give me the chance to learn.”

“I know how to hit a curve!” I said, getting up off the grass. “I can show you.”

“You're just a kid,” Jim said.

“Oh, Stoshack is good,” Bobby said, and that was probably the nicest thing he ever said about me. “He can teach you.”

Jim struggled to get up and then crossed his arms over his chest, like he didn't believe I could teach him anything. But I told him everything I knew about the curve—the stitches on the ball, the spin, the tornado, all that stuff my dad told me.

I told Jim it's nearly impossible for a pitcher to throw a fastball and a curve with the same motion. Most pitchers “telegraph” when they're throwing the curve. Maybe their delivery is a little different, or their arm speed is slower. But if you watch carefully, you'll know when the curve is coming. Sometimes you can see the pitcher twist his wrist as he releases the ball.

I taught Jim how to read the spin of the ball. A fastball has backspin because it tumbles off the pitcher's fingertips as they come straight down. So the seams spin
up
. With a curve, the ball spins sideways, and if you watch carefully you can see the seams as they spin. I taught him some other stuff too.

“Nobody ever told me that,” Jim said when I
finished my little lesson. “Thank you kindly. I'll try that next time.”

“Let us help you back to your hotel,” Bobby said.

“I can manage,” said Jim, as he started walking away slowly. “So long, boys. And thanks again.”

“Are you sure you're gonna be okay?” I asked.

“A good sleep cures all ills,” Jim said. “And I sleep like a log. Tomorrow's another day.”

BOBBY AND I WATCHED AS JIM WALKED DOWN EIGHTH
Avenue. He moved slowly, but he wasn't falling-down drunk or anything. He seemed okay. I was no longer worried that he might be a danger to himself or anybody else.

It was getting late. Time for us to go. I was tired, hungry, and hadn't used the bathroom in almost a hundred years. I pulled my new pack of baseball cards out of my pocket.

That's when two of the guys who were playing touch football on the field walked over to us. I hid my cards.

“Hey, we gotta go home for dinner,” one of them said. “You guys wanna play?”

I looked up at the other four guys still on the field. They were waving their arms for us to come over.

“Thanks, but—” I said.

“You bet!” Bobby said, and he waved back to the guys.

I hate when he does that! I didn't want to play. I don't even like football, and the last time we played together, I had demonstrated pretty conclusively how terrible I am at the game. But Bobby didn't care. He started jogging over without even looking back.

I could have let him go. I
should
have let him go and just gone home by myself. That would show him. I could just leave him in 1913 and never have to deal with him again.

But I couldn't do that. Being the dope that I am, I put my baseball cards back in my pocket and followed him.

“Do we really need to do this?” I asked angrily. “I want to go home. I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Just hold it a little while, Stoshack,” Bobby replied. “Have some fun for once in your life.”

We went over to the boys on the field and introduced ourselves. They told us their names, which I forgot instantly. Short attention span, I guess.

But these guys were easy to remember, because one of them was really tall, one was kind of short, one was fat, and the fourth one had blond hair. I
did
remember that last guy's name, because his friends called him Blondie.

It seemed that Tall, Short, and Fat were on one team. The two guys who had to go home had been on
the team with Blondie. Me and Bobby were invited to take their places, and Bobby quickly agreed. Tall seemed to be the leader, and he showed us the trees on either end of the field that they were using as goal lines.

“You guys kick off,” Bobby said.

“Fine,” Tall said. “Say, do you want to make it interesting?”

“Sure,” said Bobby.

“What do you mean, make it interesting?” I asked.

Bobby pulled me aside.

“Moron,” he said, “when somebody asks if you want to make it interesting, it means they want to bet on the game.”

“Bet money?” I asked.

“No, idiot. Bet Popsicle sticks. Of
course
bet money!”

“How about a buck per man?” Short suggested as he and his teammates dropped back to kick off to us.

“Sure,” Bobby agreed. “A buck it is.”

“All we have is the 20 cents the groundskeeper gave us!” I whispered to Bobby. “If we lose, we won't be able to pay, and those guys will probably beat the crap out of us.”

“You worry too much, Stoshack,” Bobby whispered back. “Look at that fat guy and that shrimp. You think they're gonna beat us? The only money that matters is theirs, 'cause we're gonna take it.”

“You
know
I can't play,” I reminded him.

“Just do what I tell you,” Bobby said, “and the money's in the bank.”

Man, I wish I had that kind of confidence. Or maybe he was just stupid. Anyway, the other team kicked off and Bobby caught the ball on one bounce. It was a little wider than the footballs in our time, but the same length.

Bobby lateraled the ball to Blondie, who ran a few yards upfield. Just before he was about to get tagged, he lateraled it to me. I was cornered and got tagged before advancing the ball a yard.

I could describe every play of the game in detail for you, but it would be boring. Basically, Bobby and Blondie did the heavy lifting for our team. Blondie was our quarterback, and he had a good arm. Bobby caught most of the passes for us. I was holding my own. I blocked a few passes. I didn't make any spectacular plays, but nobody burned me or made me look dumb either.

After we had played for half an hour or so, there was no score. Even so, the game was interesting enough, in my opinion, without having to put money on it. Especially money we didn't have.

It was starting to get dark and I really had to go to the bathroom
bad
. When Blondie suggested we call it a game as soon as somebody scored, I was thrilled.

It was our ball, and we huddled up.

“Okay, what do you wanna do?” Bobby asked Blondie. I wasn't even part of the discussion, as they
had already established the fact that I totally sucked and should have no say in the matter.

We had tried all the standard passing and running plays. They weren't fooling anybody.

“We need something different,” Blondie said.

“Hey, you wanna try the Dig?” Bobby suggested.

“Oh no,” I said. “Not the Dig.” I remembered that goofball play Jim Thorpe told us about.

“The Dig?” Blondie asked. “What's the Dig?”

“It's a trick play,” Bobby whispered. “Oldest trick in the book. They'll never know what hit 'em.”

Bobby explained the Dig to Blondie and he nodded his head excitedly. They both agreed that because the other team was covering Bobby more carefully than me, it would make sense for me to be the digger and he would be the ultimate receiver.

We broke from the huddle. Bobby and I lined up on the left side and I hiked the ball to Blondie. I ran out about 15 yards, stopped, and turned around. Bobby ran deeper, maybe 10 yards or so past me.

“Hit me!” Bobby screamed. “I'm open!”

But he was just a decoy. Blondie threw the ball to me instead, just like we had planned. It was a perfect pass, chest high. As the ball flew toward me, I could sense the two defenders running over to tag me as soon as I made the catch.

I didn't catch the ball, though. I wasn't
supposed
to catch it. Instead, I put both hands under the ball, like you do when you're playing volleyball, and I tapped it up high into the air, over my head and
backward. I had no idea where the ball was going to land. The two guys tagged me, but I didn't have the ball.

After hovering up in the air for a few seconds, it landed, of course, right in Bobby's hands. The guy who was supposed to be covering Bobby had switched to covering me as soon as he saw the pass heading in my direction. So when Bobby caught the ball, nobody was covering him. He ran the length of the field untouched.

“Oh yeah!” Bobby screamed. “
That's
what I'm talkin' about! Touchdown! We win! In your face! You owe each of us a dollar!”

He spiked the ball and did a touchdown dance like those receivers do on TV. The guys on the other team looked at him like he was crazy. I guess the end-zone celebration hadn't been invented yet in 1913.

“You can't do that!” Tall shouted.

“Why not?” Bobby asked.

“It's against the rules,” insisted Fat.

“It was a forward lateral,” said Short.

“No it wasn't,” Bobby explained. “Stoshack never had possession of the ball. He just tipped it up in the air and I happened to be there to grab it.”

“Yeah, I tipped it,” I agreed.

They couldn't argue. Bobby was right. It was a devious play, and a little underhanded—in more ways than one. But there was nothing illegal about it.

“One dollar for each of us,” Bobby said, holding
out his hand. “Cash only, please. We don't accept credit cards or any other kind of lame money you use here.”

They looked like they wanted to kill us, but a bet is a bet. Tall, Short, and Fat managed to come up with the money. It occurred to me that three dollars probably seemed like a lot more money in 1913. Instead of just handing it over, Tall threw some bills and coins at Bobby's feet.

“You guys cheated,” he said.

“Sour grapes,” Bobby said as he gathered up the cash. He gave a dollar to Blondie, who thanked us and ran off. Tall, Short, and Fat stomped away, muttering to themselves.

“I
told
you we'd beat those guys!” Bobby said as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Let's go home,” I said. “I gotta pee bad.”

“Y'know, I was thinking,” Bobby said. “We oughta give this money to Jim. We never woulda won it without him. It's the right thing to do.”

“Since when do
you
do the right thing?” I asked.

“Come on, Stoshack. He needs it more than we do.”

I had to admit he was right. Jim was broke. Besides, we probably couldn't spend the old money in the twenty-first century. And I could use the bathroom at Jim's place.

We walked a couple of blocks down Eighth Avenue until I spotted a sign for the Trinity Hotel. It didn't look like a very fancy place. In fact, the
lobby looked a little dumpy. It was the kind of hotel you wouldn't want to stay in if you were on vacation.

There was one of those little bells on the front desk. I love ringing those things. Bobby tapped it and soon a guy appeared.

“May I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Can you please tell us Mr. Thorpe's room number?” Bobby asked in his polite, suck-up-to-adults voice. “I'm a long-lost relative.”

“Yeah,
really
long lost,” I added. Bobby stomped on my foot.

The guy looked at us over his glasses. For all I knew, autograph hounds showed up at the hotel all the time and he was about to call security to kick us out.

“Room 413,” the guy said. “You rock, dude,” Bobby replied, and the guy just stared at him.

There was no elevator. We found the steps up to the fourth floor. Room 413 was at the end of the hall.

Bobby knocked on the door softly. When nobody answered, he knocked harder. Still no answer. Finally, he twisted the doorknob to see if it would turn, and the door opened a crack.

“We shouldn't just walk in,” I said.

“Come on,” Bobby said, pushing the door open.

The front room was a mess. Paint was peeling from the walls. Boxes were scattered around, like Jim hadn't fully unpacked yet. But leaning against the walls were photos of him playing football and competing in the Olympics. Jim in his glory days.

Pictures of Jim in his glory days were leaning against the walls.

“It's hot in here,” Bobby said. “We should turn on the air conditioner.”

“Sure,” I said, “as soon as they invent it. I don't think Jim's here.”

“He's gotta be here.”

The place was pretty big for a hotel. There was a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen with just a stove and a sink. No dishwasher or refrigerator.

There was a door leading off the living room, and Bobby put his hand on the knob.

“Don't open it!” I said. “That must be Jim's bedroom.”

“Then that must be where he
is
, Stoshack!” Bobby said, and he opened the door.

Jim was lying on the bed, facedown.