Jim & Me (2 page)

I RODE MY BIKE HOME AFTER THE GAME
.
SOMETIMES
Mom picks me up, but she wasn't sure if she could get to the field on time. Mom's a nurse at Louisville Hospital and she works late a lot. As I rolled my bike in the garage, she was just pulling into the driveway.

“How was the game, Joey?” Mom asked.

“I hit a grand salami to win it in extra innings,” I lied.

“For real?”

“Actually, we lost,” I admitted. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Mom told me to wash up for dinner. I asked her if we could go out to eat, knowing full well she'd say no. We don't have a lot of money, especially since my mom and dad split up. Anything other than fast food is a “special occasion.”

I was washing my hands when the doorbell rang.
Mom shot me a look that said I should go answer it. She was afraid it was my dad, and she never wants to talk to him if she can avoid it. Dad and I get together about once a week, but he usually calls first and I ride my bike over to his apartment.

I went to see who it was while Mom scurried upstairs to hide.

Well, when I opened the door, the last person in the world I'd expect to see was standing there—Bobby Fuller.

Now, let me tell you a little about this kid. Bobby Fuller is a bad guy. It's as simple as that. He's a psycho, a liar, and a kleptomaniac. (That's somebody who steals.) In fourth grade he shot some kid in the leg with a BB gun. In fifth grade he was suspended for cursing out a teacher. I heard that one of his uncles killed himself a few years ago. Bobby probably has some mental problem and takes medication for it. I sure hope so anyway.

Bobby is a big guy, a little bigger than me. He's in my grade at school, and he used to play baseball in my league too. Ever since our T-ball days, he has hated me. I never knew why. When he was pitching, he'd throw the ball at my head. When he was playing the infield, he'd try to trip me as I was running the bases. When he was playing the outfield, he would shout insults to try to distract me. The guy is just
bad
, and I try to steer clear of him. I was so relieved when I heard that Bobby Fuller gave up baseball and switched to football.

Bobby wasn't in any of my classes this year, and I hadn't seen him in a while. I had no idea why he would be standing at my front door. He must be raising money for his football team, I figured. Probably selling candy bars or something.

I stepped out onto the porch because I really didn't want Bobby in my house. He would probably steal something or make a rude remark to my mom. I didn't even feel comfortable with Bobby Fuller knowing where I lived.

“What's up?” I said cautiously. I didn't want to be a jerk or anything and slam the door in his face. But then again, I didn't want to act overly friendly either.

“Nothin',” Bobby muttered.

So why are you standing here?
I thought. He looked uncomfortable, like he had something to say but didn't know how to start. I tried to meet Bobby's eyes, but he kept looking away. I wished Mom would interrupt and call me in for dinner or something.

“How come you gave up baseball?” I asked, for lack of anything better to say.

“Baseball is for wimps,” he replied. “In football, they let you hit guys.”

I thought about telling him that football is for muscle-bound morons who don't have the brains to think, but I decided against it. You don't disturb a beehive unless you want to get stung.

“Why not play hockey?” I suggested. “
They
let you hit guys too.”

“I can't skate,” Bobby said. “Listen, Stoshack, I need to talk to you.”

Aha!
The real reason why he came over.

“About what?”

“I know your little secret,” Bobby said in a low voice.

I rolled my eyes. Here we go. I knew this day would come. It was only a matter of time before Bobby would try to blackmail me.

There are only a small number of people who know my secret. Bobby happens to be one of them. And now you are too.

My secret is that I can travel through time.

Oh, I know. You've seen it all before. You probably saw
Back to the Future
or read
The Time Machine
by H. G. Wells. People are always traveling through time in stories. But I can
really
do it—with baseball cards.

It all started when I was little. I would pick up one of my dad's old baseball cards and feel this strange tingling sensation in my fingertips. It was like they were vibrating or something.

I didn't think much about it, until one day I found an old card while I was cleaning out the attic for this lady named Amanda Young. I held the card in my hand and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, I was back in 1909. Baseball cards sort of act like a plane ticket for me, and they take me to the year on the card.

Scientists say time travel is impossible. But what
do they know? I've
done
it. For me, time is like a video. You can rewind it or fast-forward it. I swear I'm not making this stuff up. I'm not some crackpot who hallucinates that I've been abducted by aliens.

But if word got around that I could travel through time, people might think I was a little strange. So I haven't exactly advertised the fact that I have this “special” power. A few people know: You. My parents. My coach, Flip. My Uncle Wilbur. My cousin Samantha. That's how Bobby Fuller found out. Samantha can't keep her big mouth shut, and she happens to be in the same class as Bobby's little sister.

But you know what? I don't care anymore. I'm tired of keeping my secret. So I can travel through time. Big deal. It's not like I'm a criminal or anything. I'm just a little different from other kids. It's sort of like having red hair or being left-handed. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Go ahead. Tell anybody you want,” I told Bobby. “Knock yourself out.”

Maybe that would make him go away. If I didn't keep it a secret, then he couldn't use it against me. I turned around to go back inside the house.

But Bobby didn't go away. He grabbed my sleeve and looked me in the eye.

“Stoshack,” he said. “I didn't come over here to blackmail you.”

“Then why
did
you come over?” I asked.

“I need you to take me back in time.”

I just stared at him.

“Are you crazy?” I finally said.

No way was I going to take that lunatic back in time with me. I almost got killed a few times doing it myself. With Bobby Fuller along for the ride, there was no telling what might happen, what could go wrong.

“Stoshack,” Bobby said, “I need to meet Jim Thorpe.”

 

JIM THORPE?

Who's Jim Thorpe? I searched my memory for the name. Jim Thorpe wasn't a baseball player, that I knew of anyway. And I know a lot about baseball history. I have a collection of baseball books, and I've read them all. I know the name of just about every player in
The Baseball Encyclopedia
.

But that name
was
familiar. Jim Thorpe may have been a pro football player, it seemed to me. And I thought he had something to do with the Olympics a long time ago. One of the kids in my class did a report on him a while back. I didn't remember any details.

“Who's Jim Thorpe?” I finally asked.

“Only the greatest athlete of the twentieth century,” Bobby told me.

“And he played
baseball
?”

“Sure, he played baseball!” Bobby insisted.

“How do
you
know?” I asked.

Bobby is probably the dumbest kid in our whole
school. I heard he flunked
gym
last year, and I have no idea what you have to do to flunk gym.

“I read a book about him,” Bobby said.

Bobby Fuller read a book? Now,
that
was a shocker.

“So why do you want to meet him so badly?” I asked.

“Jim Thorpe was my great-grandfather.”

I SAT DOWN ON THE STEPS
,
AND BOBBY SAT DOWN NEXT
to me. Bobby Fuller was related to Jim Thorpe? Who knew? He never mentioned it before. It wasn't one of those things that everybody talked about at school.

Before Bobby could tell me anything else, the screen door opened and my mom came out.

“Robert Fuller!” she said, looking just as surprised as I had when Bobby showed up at the door. Mom recognized Bobby right away because of all the times I played baseball against him. She knew the horrible things he did and said to me over the years too.

“Hello, Mrs. Stoshack,” Bobby said pleasantly, shaking her hand. Like a lot of bad guys, he knew how to act like a little angel when he was around grown-ups. That way, the grown-ups didn't know what a jerk he was.

I figured my mom would probably slap Bobby across the face or call the police. But when all is said and done, she's still a mom.

“Would you like some cookies?” she asked.

Why is it that we never have any cookies in the house when
I
want some, but they always magically appear whenever company comes over? And how come
I'm
not allowed to eat cookies before dinner, but it's okay when company comes over before dinner?

Anyway, I wasn't going to complain. Mom went inside and came out with a huge plate full of chocolate-chip cookies. Bobby and I each took two.

I could tell my mom was dying to know why Bobby was there, but I threw her a look that said we needed privacy. She scurried back into the house, leaving the plate of cookies with us. I knew she'd pump me for details later.

“Jim Thorpe was a Native American,” Bobby said when the door slammed shut. I guess I looked puzzled, so he added, “an Indian.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” I said, not all that convincingly.

“He had seven kids, and one of his daughters was my grandma,” Bobby continued. “She died when I was little, so I don't remember her. But I'm one-eighth Sac and Fox Indian.”

Bobby Fuller was part Indian? He didn't look Indian. I figured he was Irish or German or something.

“That's cool,” I said, and it was. I wish I was related to somebody famous. “How come you don't tell everybody?”

“Tell people I have Indian blood?” Bobby said. “I don't
think
so.”

“What, is there prejudice against Indians?” I asked.

Bobby looked at me like I was an idiot so I didn't press it. I know we've come a long way, but there's still a lot of prejudice in the world. White kids don't often see it because it doesn't affect us directly. So we assume it doesn't exist.

“Stoshack,” Bobby said. “I want to meet my great-grandfather.”

 

Well, I'll be honest with you. I didn't want to do it. Time travel is not an exact science. It's not like I could step inside some time machine, push a few buttons, and
poof
—I would magically appear in Jim Thorpe's living room. There are usually some complications, to put it mildly. I could get
killed
.

One time, I went back to 1919 to try to prevent the Black Sox scandal. I ended up getting kidnapped, tied to a chair, and shot at.

Another time, I went back to 1863 with my mom to see if Abner Doubleday really invented baseball. But we landed in the middle of the Battle of Gettysburg during the Civil War, with a bunch of Confederate soldiers shooting at us.

And that time when Flip and I went back to 1942
to see Satchel Paige, some guy tried to shoot us because his daughter fell in love with Flip.

Come to think of it, I've been shot at a lot.

The point is, if I'm going to use my power to go back in time, I've got to have a really good reason. I won't risk my life just for the fun of it or to meet some famous baseball player.

Besides, why should I do any favors for Bobby Fuller? What did he ever do for me? He's been tormenting me since our T-ball days. It's not
my
job to help arrange his family reunions.

It was obvious that the only reason Bobby was suddenly being nice to me and my mom was because he wanted a favor.

“I know you don't like me, Stoshack,” Bobby said.

He got no argument from me there. Bobby reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. There were some tens and twenties in there. He might have had a hundred dollars or more. I didn't even want to guess what illegal thing he had done to get that much money. But he held it out to me.

“Here.”

“You'll
pay
me to take you back in time to meet Jim Thorpe?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Fuller said, “like you'd pay a cab driver to take you someplace.”

I'm not a cab driver. I didn't take the cash. If I went back in time with Bobby Fuller and got hurt—or even killed—his money wouldn't do me any good.
My life is worth more than a hundred bucks.

But there was another reason I didn't take the cash. Even if I'd wanted to help Bobby, I couldn't.

“I'm sorry,” I told him, “but in order to go back in time to meet Jim Thorpe, I would have to have a Jim Thorpe baseball card. And I don't even know if there WERE any Jim Thorpe baseball cards.”

And with that, Fuller reached into his pocket and handed me this:

I started to feel that tingling sensation in my fingertips.

The card was worn and wrinkled. Probably not worth much in that condition. But as I held it in my hand, I started to feel that faint tingling sensation. It was sort of like the feeling you get when you touch a TV screen. It didn't hurt. It was a pleasant feeling.

“This card has been in my family for years,” Bobby said.

The tingling got stronger, and in a few more seconds my whole hand felt like it was vibrating. Then my wrist. Then my arm. I knew from experience that if I held on any longer, I would reach the point of no return.

I dropped the card.

“Let me think about it,” I told Bobby.

“Think hard, Stoshack,” he said. “This is important.”

He snatched the last cookie off the plate before I could get it, jumped down the steps, and walked away.