Jim & Me (14 page)

“
MAKE A SOUND AND WE
'
LL KILL YOU
!”
SAID THE GUY
who grabbed me. Ugh, his breath stunk.

“Let go of me!” said Bobby.

I looked to my right and saw that Bobby had been grabbed by another guy. It was hard to see in the dim light, but I recognized the guy holding Bobby. He was Fat, one of the guys we had beaten in the football game before we went to Jim's hotel. The two of them must have been waiting for us the whole time we were upstairs with Jim.

“You guys cheated,” said the one who was holding me. He must have been Tall, because he sure wasn't Short. “We want our money back.”

“We don't have your money,” Bobby told them, struggling to get free. “We gave it away.”

“That's a lie!” said Fat.

I didn't know if these guys had weapons or not. I
also didn't know what they were planning to do with us if we couldn't come up with any cash. But there was one thing I knew for sure—I wasn't going to let them go through my pockets looking for it. If they found my baseball cards and decided to take them, that would be the end of us. Bobby and I would be stuck in the past forever.

Frantically, I looked around for something I could use to get free. The only thing in the alley was a bunch of garbage cans that were lined up a few feet to our left. The old metal kind. They would have to do.

Tall was already pulling me from behind. I had to take the risk that he didn't have a gun or a knife. I leaned back so I was pushing hard against him. Then I rammed him into the garbage cans.

“Hey!” was all he managed to say before the two of us fell over backward. His body took the brunt of it, slamming into the cans with the added weight of me on top of him. Tall also cushioned my fall, and in the process of crashing into the cans, he let go of me.

I don't know how Bobby got free, but when I jumped up, he was holding a garbage can over his head. Fat was on the ground below him. Bobby slammed the can down on Fat. Then he picked up another can. I thought he was going to hit Fat or Tall with it, but instead he tilted it and dumped the garbage over their heads. Nice touch. And they didn't have Hefty bags in 1913. It was disgusting.

“Run!” I yelled, and we tore out of the alley onto Eighth Avenue.

“Let's get 'em!” I heard one of them shout behind us.

“Split up!” Bobby yelled when we reached the corner. “It'll make it harder for them to find us.”

I ran down the street and into the park where we had been playing football. There were lots of good hiding places in there. I hoped Bobby had the same idea. We would be hard to find in the dark.

The problem was, it was hard to find those hiding places because the streets were lit with these dinky little gas lamps and I couldn't see five feet in front of me. I found that out the hard way when I tripped and almost took a header over a tree root. I decided it would be safer to hide behind a bush and wait there until Fat and Tall got tired of hunting for us.

I was sweating, and I could feel my heart pounding. There was some shouting in the distance, but it didn't sound like Fat and Tall were heading in my direction. It sounded like they were running down the street. I wondered where Bobby was.

As I crouched there in the dark, I checked my pocket for my pack of baseball cards. Got 'em.

It would be so easy
, I thought as I took out one of the cards. I could get out of here. I could go back home, and be safe. I wouldn't have to worry about those guys chasing us. And I wouldn't have to worry about Bobby Fuller ever again, because I could just leave him in 1913.

Would that be so horrible to do? I mean, he was going to do the same thing to
me
. He just couldn't. But I
could
. What would be so wrong with leaving him behind?

I started feeling the faintest tingling sensation in my fingertips.

I tried to imagine what would happen if I left Bobby behind. I would get home and Bobby Fuller simply wouldn't exist anymore. He could never bother me again. He could never bother
anybody
again. Maybe I would be doing the world a service. I could even be saving lives, if Bobby were to grow up to become a murderer or a dangerous criminal.

The tingling sensation in my fingers started getting stronger. It was moving up my arm.

If I left Bobby behind, nobody would ever know what had happened to him. The police would search all over Louisville, with dogs. They might question me, because I was the last person who had seen him before his disappearance. Maybe they'd bring in one of those psychic detectives you see on TV. There would be newspaper articles, flyers stapled to telephone poles around town, and pictures of Bobby on milk cartons.

But eventually the police would have to give up. They'd never find a body or any evidence of wrong-doing. They'd have to conclude that Bobby Fuller had just vanished. It would be the perfect crime.

I dropped the card.

What was I, crazy? What kind of a monster had I
become? I was seriously thinking about doing away with someone!

Just because Bobby would be willing to leave
me
behind didn't mean it would be okay for me to leave
him
behind. If I lowered myself to his level, I would be no better than he was.

“Bobby?” I called, quietly at first, and then a little louder. “Bobby!”

The park was silent. At least five minutes had passed since I'd last heard the voices of those guys who were chasing us. Either they were gone or they were hiding in the dark, waiting to grab me again.

“Over here,” Bobby finally called.

I felt around in the dark until I found him about 50 feet away, hiding behind a tree.

“Are they gone?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Let's blow this pop stand.”

“You got that right,” Bobby replied.

Bobby and I found a comfortable spot on the grass under the tree. We were both anxious to go. He gave me the card he had stolen from me earlier and grabbed my hand. I closed my eyes, even though I could barely see anything with them open anyway. It didn't take long for the tingling sensation to come back and do its magic as it worked its way up my arm and across my body.

Soon I reached the point of no return. I felt our bodies disappearing.

We were gone.

“
JOEY
!
HURRY UP
!”

The instant Bobby and I got back from 1913, my mom started yelling that I was late for my game. Bobby went home and Mom dropped me off at Dunn Field on her way to work. I was still buttoning up my jersey when I jumped out of the car.

“Stosh!” Flip Valentini shouted when he saw me. “Where
were
you? We needed you!”

“I'm sorry!” I said, but Flip and the guys on my team didn't look like they were ready to accept my apology. One glance at the scoreboard told me why. We were batting in the bottom of the last inning, and we were down by a run to the Exterminators. They no longer had Kyle the Mutant, but they were still good. There were two outs. The bases were empty. It was almost a hopeless situation.

“We really needed to
beat
these bums!” Flip
snapped when I got to the bench. “You let the team down, Stosh.”

Phillip Rollison was walking up to the plate. He was batting fourth, which would have been my spot in the lineup.

“Can I pinch-hit?” I asked Flip. I really wanted to help the team, and I wanted to make up for being so late.

“Fuhgetaboutit,” he barked. “That wouldn't be fair to the guys who showed up on time. You wanna help? Go coach third.”

Phillip bounced to short on the first pitch, and it looked like that would end the game. But the shortstop bobbled the ball and Phillip was safe at first base. We had the tying run on with two outs.

Owen Jones grabbed his bat and we all knew what he had to do—advance Phillip to second so he would be in position to score on a single. The third baseman took a few steps toward home plate in case Owen was bunting, although that wasn't likely with two outs.

But that's exactly what he did. Owen squared around and dropped the ball down about three feet in front of the plate. Phillip took off for second base.

The Exterminators' catcher threw off his mask and pounced on the ball. He whipped it to first. You could tell he hurried his throw, and it was high. The first baseman jumped and reached for the ball, but it was over his head and into rightfield. Everybody started screaming.

“Keep going!” I shouted to Phillip as he rounded second. “Go!”

The rightfielder picked up the ball and threw it to second. That was a mistake. He should have thrown it home. Phillip had just about reached third.

I had a quick decision to make. Should I wave Phillip around third to try and score the tying run? Or should I tell him to hold up and hope the next batter could drive him in? Who was up next? I didn't know, and there was no time to turn my head away to find out. How fast was Phillip? What kind of an arm did the second baseman have? So many little decisions. All I had was a millisecond to decide what to do.

Sometimes you just have to gamble.

“GO!” I shouted to Phillip, windmilling my arm around.

Phillip rounded third and dug for the plate.

“Home it!” the Exterminators yelled, and the second baseman relayed the ball to the catcher, who was ready for the inevitable collision.

The ball bounced a few feet in front of the plate. When the catcher went to scoop up the short hop, Phillip came barreling in and knocked him over. Arms and legs, caps and gloves were flying. The ball skittered to the backstop. Phillip touched the plate with his hand.

“Safe!” yelled the ump.

Everybody on our bench and the parents in the
bleachers were going crazy. We had tied the game! Just as important, Owen had advanced all the way to third in the confusion. He had bunted for a triple. Good hustle!

The winning run was only 90 feet from home. I was afraid Flip was going to have a heart attack from all the excitement.

The pitcher was furious, stomping around the mound and glaring at his catcher. If he hadn't chucked the ball into the outfield, the game would have been over. The Exterminators' coach jogged out to the mound and whispered a few words to calm down his pitcher.

Carlos Montano was up next. He looked nervous. I knew he didn't like pressure situations, and the game was on the line. Nobody likes to make the last out in a game. You always feel like it's your fault. I should know.

Coaching third, I leaned over to whisper to Owen.

“Two outs,” I reminded him. “Run on anything. A grounder. A hit. A fly ball. A wild pitch.
Anything
. Got it?”

“Run on anything,” Owen repeated.

The Exterminators' pitcher looked in for the sign. That was when I got a brainstorm.

“Hey, pitcher!” I yelled.

The pitcher looked over at me.

“Lemme see that ball for a sec, will ya?” I asked.

“What for?”

“Just lemme see it,” I said, holding my hands out to catch it.

He flipped me the ball underhanded. I stepped aside to let it roll past me.

“Go! Go! Go!” I shouted to Owen.

Owen took off and crossed home plate standing up, with the winning run.

Well, let me tell you, there has never been such a ruckus on a Little League field. The Exterminators' coach shot out of his dugout like it was filled with cockroaches. The pitcher was throwing a tantrum. Screaming parents came running off the bleachers, waving their arms around. I half expected the cops to show up and start dragging people off to jail.

“That's illegal!” the coach screamed at the umpire. “They can't do that!”

“There's nothing in the rule book that says you can't ask to see the ball,” the ump explained. “Your pitcher threw it away.”

The guys on our team were going nuts. We had finally beaten the Exterminators. Flip gave me a big hug and told me he was sorry he yelled at me. Everybody was clapping me on the back, as if I had driven in the winning run. And I hadn't even set foot on the field.

 

In the middle of all the celebrating, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and was more than a little surprised to see Bobby Fuller standing there.

In the mad rush after returning from 1913, we
hadn't had the chance to talk about our trip at all. After what we'd been through together, I was actually happy to see him.

“Nice move getting that runner home,” he said with a smirk. “Hmmm, I wonder where you got that idea.”

“Oldest trick in the book,” I said.

“Did you hide some baseballs in the outfield grass too?” Bobby asked.

“Very funny.”

“Y'know, there's hope for you, Stoshack,” Bobby told me. “Maybe you're not such a Goody Two-shoes after all. With a little push, you could come over to the dark side with me.”

“Doubtful,” I replied. “Extremely doubtful.”

While I was talking with Bobby, my dad came rolling over. Dad rarely comes to my games. He says it's because the field isn't wheelchair accessible, but I always thought there was more to it than that.

“Smart thinking, son,” he said. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

“Believe it or not,” I told him, “John McGraw taught it to me. In 1913.”

“You did it?!” Dad said, all excited. “You met McGraw? What was he like? Was he the jerk they say he was? Did you get something signed for me?”

Oh, no! In all the excitement, I had completely forgotten to bring back something signed by John McGraw for my dad. I was kicking myself. Dad doesn't have a lot of pleasure in his life, and this
would have given him some.

“Actually he did get something signed for you, Mr. Stoshack,” Bobby said.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a thin book. The title was
Rules of Baseball
. I remembered seeing that. It was the book John McGraw was reading in the Giants' dugout.

“What's this?” Dad asked.

“It's John McGraw's personal rule book,” Bobby told my dad. “See, he wrote a bunch of comments in the margins, and he signed it too.”

“McGraw said he read the rules so he would know how to break them,” I added.

My dad looked like he was holding a chunk of solid gold. I hadn't seen such a big smile on his face in a long time.

“John McGraw's personal rule book!” Dad marveled. “This is priceless! It's like owning Shoeless Joe Jackson's shoes.” My dad thanked me, and said he would see me soon.

By that time, most everybody had cleared the field. Bobby and I were alone on the grass, just like we were when we snuck into the Polo Grounds.

“How'd you get McGraw's rule book?” I asked Bobby.

“How do you think?” he replied. “I'm a pickpocket. Duh!”

“You are evil, man!” I said, but we both had a laugh over it.

There was an awkward pause after that. The field was awfully quiet. Bobby was still hanging around, which was kind of weird. We'd never been friends. I kept expecting him to say he had to go somewhere, but he didn't.

“Listen,” Bobby finally said, “I never had the chance to thank you.”

“Forget it,” I told him. “It was cool for me to meet Jim Thorpe too.”

“No, I mean I wanted to thank you for not leaving me behind back there, in 1913. You could have. I deserved it.”

“I know,” I said. “Don't think I didn't consider it.”

“Part of me wishes you
had
left me there,” Bobby said.

“Leave you in the past?! Why?”

“Y'know how Jim said he lived in the wrong time?” said Bobby. “Well, sometimes I feel the same way. I kinda liked it back in the bad old days.”

“We can go back to visit sometime, if you want,” I told him.

“I just might take you up on that,” he said. Bobby put out his hand, and I shook it.

“There's still hope for you, man,” I told him. “With a little push, you could come over to the light side with me.”

“Doubtful, Stoshack,” he said. “Extremely doubtful.”

 

Well, all in all, things worked out okay. At least I didn't get shot at this time.

I guess Jim was right. There's bad in good and good in bad. I always thought I was a pretty good kid. But I had just cheated to win a ball game. And I had come within seconds of leaving Bobby in 1913—nearly making him vanish from the face of the earth.

Then there's Bobby, who I always thought was the baddest of the bad. I never told him I promised to bring back a souvenir for my dad. He could have kept John McGraw's rule book for himself, maybe sold it for thousands of dollars. But he gave it to my dad for nothing. And he gave Jim his iPod too. There was some good in him after all, just like there was some bad in me.

As I watched Bobby walk away, I realized something. Sometimes you can change history, and sometimes history can change you.