Jim & Me (4 page)

“
WATCH OUT
!”
BOBBY SCREAMED
.

I opened my eyes just in time to see a ball flying right at my head. But it wasn't a baseball. It was about the size of a beach ball. It was black, and it was hanging from a long rope.

Bobby gave me a shove and knocked me over. The ball missed my ear by an inch or two and slammed into a concrete wall behind us. The wall toppled over with a crash, sending pieces of concrete and dust everywhere. I shielded my eyes in case anything else was going to come flying in my direction.

“Are you okay?” I asked Bobby.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Where
are
we?”

I looked around, but all I could see were rocks and dirt and rubble everywhere. Oh, no. We must have landed in the middle of another war. But which one?

Then I saw a sign off to my right:

 

FUTURE SITE OF LOS ANGELES COUNTY HOSPITAL

Scheduled for completion January 1, 1932

 

It wasn't a war. We had landed in the middle of a construction site. The ball that had come flying at me was a wrecking ball. They were knocking something down and building a hospital.

Bobby Fuller, of all people, had saved my life.

“You screwed up, Stoshack!” he yelled, brushing the dust off his pants.

“Don't blame
me
!” I yelled right back. “This was
your
stupid idea.”

I had to figure this thing out. Jim Thorpe had been in the 1912 Olympics. We were probably in 1931, so it was probably long after his athletic career was over. He had to be retired by now. We messed up somehow. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I looked at Bobby's Jim Thorpe card, which was still in my hand. I wished I had examined the card more closely
before
using it. It didn't look like the style of the cards that were printed at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now, I realized, the card
wasn't
an original from Jim Thorpe's playing days. It was one of those reprints they issue years later. I have some of them in my collection. This one must have been printed in 1931.

“I know what happened,” I told Bobby.

“What?”

“I can't just use
any
old baseball card,” I told him. “I have to use one from the year I'm trying to
get
to. I always travel back to the year on the card. This card is a reprint from 1931.”

“
Now
you tell me!” Bobby shouted. “How was I supposed to know that? Do you think I'm a mind reader?”

“Oh, shut up!” I said. Man, was he annoying.

“You shut up!” Bobby replied. “Let's get out of here before we get killed.”

Fine with me. I had better things to do with my time than hang around construction sites in 1931 with Bobby Fuller. I pulled out the new pack of baseball cards I'd stashed in my jeans pocket so we could go home.

I was about to rip open the wrapper when I realized something. Even though the reprint card had taken us to the wrong year, it was still a Jim Thorpe card. So that meant that Jim Thorpe had to be somewhere nearby. Bobby could still meet him. That was all he said he wanted to do in the first place.

“Wait a minute,” I said suddenly.

“What's your lame idea now, Stoshack?”

Shoving the cards back in my pocket, I explained the situation to Bobby as I looked around. There were some men in the distance digging with shovels and pouring cement. I saw one guy with his back to us digging a hole in the ground. He was about 50 yards away.

“Maybe that guy can tell us where Jim Thorpe
is,” I told Bobby.

“You're nuts,” he replied. “These guys are just construction workers. Let's go home.”

I walked over to the guy who was shoveling dirt; Bobby followed me. I guess he figured he'd better stick close to me or I might leave him there.

The guy with the shovel was stripped to the waist and his body was shiny with sweat. He looked to be about six feet tall. The muscles in his arms were huge. When he turned to face us, I could see he was a little chubby around the middle. His hair was jet-black, and it flopped over his forehead. He was about forty, I guessed.

“What are you boys doing here?” the guy asked as we approached him. He leaned on his shovel and wiped his face with a rag. “This is a dangerous area.”

“Excuse me, mister,” I said, “but can you tell us where we might find Jim Thorpe?”

“Jim Thorpe?” the guy asked. “What for?”

“My friend here wants to meet him,” I said.

“He's my great-grandfather,” added Bobby.

The guy looked Bobby up and down. “You're barkin' up the wrong tree, son. Jim Thorpe doesn't have a great-grandson. He doesn't even have any grandchildren.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because I'm Jim Thorpe.”

 

I took a closer look at the guy. He had small brown eyes that nearly disappeared when he squinted at
the sun. He had high cheek bones. His skin was a shade darker than mine. But he didn't look like an Indian. At least, he didn't look like the Indians
I'd
seen in movies and on TV. It could have been a suntan, from working outside all day.

“
You're
Jim Thorpe?” I asked in astonishment. “The same Jim Thorpe who won the decathlon in the 1912 Olympics?”

“And the pentathlon.”

“Why are you working
here
?” I asked.

I didn't mean to be rude. There's nothing wrong with being a construction worker. But I was used to famous athletes making beer commercials and signing autographs at card shows after their playing days were over. I just didn't think a superstar like Jim Thorpe would be shoveling dirt.

“Lots of men would give their right arm for this job,” Thorpe said.

That's when it clicked. 1931. It was the Depression! I remembered when I traveled back in time with my dad to see if Babe Ruth really called his famous “called shot” home run. That was in 1932. There were people all over the streets begging for work and begging for food, struggling to survive.

Bobby Fuller took a step forward.

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “you probably won't believe this, but we came from the future. I really
am
your great-grandson—or will be, in the twenty-first century.”

Jim shook Bobby's hand, looking him square in the eye.

“The Aymara tribe of the high Andes sees the future as behind them and the past as ahead of them,” he said. “The past is known, so man sees it in front of him. But man cannot know the future, so he believes it is behind him, where it cannot be seen.”

“That's whacked,” said Bobby.

Jim Thorpe stared at Bobby, a puzzled look on his face.

“Son, what kind of a knot do you tie when you rope a calf?” Jim asked.

“I don't know,” Bobby said.

“How many feet apart do you plant rows of corn?” Jim asked.

“Uh…five?” Bobby guessed.

“Tell me what you know about the Black Hawk War,” Jim said.

“Never heard of it,” Bobby admitted.

Jim sighed, and shook his head sadly.

“You are no relative to me,” he said. “I don't care what century you come from.”

“But—”

“I am a descendant of Black Hawk,” Jim said, “leader of the Sac and Fox Nation. A century ago, he fought a great battle. Five hundred Indians against twelve thousand United States soldiers. The white men captured Black Hawk, took our land, and slaughtered hundreds of our tribe.
Women and children too. I will
never
forget what happened to my people.”

At that moment, a voice called from the other end of the construction site.

“Thorpe!” a man yelled. “Slacking off again? You lazy Indian! Get back to work or go home! There are plenty of able-bodied men waiting to take your place.”

Jim took his shovel and jammed it hard into the dirt. “I wish we could talk more, but…”

“Thorpe!” his boss yelled again.

Bobby and I said good-bye and found a quiet spot off to the side where we could sit down on a couple of cinder blocks. I pulled the new pack out of my pocket again and tore the wrapper off, plucking out one of the cards. I didn't even look to see which player was on the front.

Bobby took my hand without any protest this time. We closed our eyes and I concentrated on going home. Back to Louisville. Back to
my
century.

Soon the tingling sensation started and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was working. The buzzing feeling went up my arms and down my legs. It got stronger and stronger, and then I felt myself disappear.

WE LANDED IN A GRASSY FIELD
.
THAT WAS STRANGE
. Usually when I come home, I come
home
. Like, to my bedroom.

“Where are we?” I asked Bobby Fuller, who had tumbled to the ground next to me.

“Sheppard Park,” Bobby said. “I play football here sometimes.”

The field was perfect for football—flat and rectangular with no bushes or trees in the way. In fact, there were four boys tossing a football around. They looked to be about our age. I didn't know them, but Bobby said a couple of them went to his church.

“Hey Fuller,” one of the guys hollered, “you and your friend wanna play some touch? With you two, we can play three-on-three.”

“We have school tomorrow,” I whispered to Bobby.
“It's getting late.”

The truth is, I didn't want to play. Football is not my game. I was never any good at it. Like I said, my hands are small, and I don't like guys chasing me around, knocking me down. I like to stand in a batter's box and take my three swings.

“Sure!” Bobby yelled to the guys. “Lemme see the ball.”

Man, I
hate
Bobby Fuller. I felt like walking off and leaving, but I didn't want to look like a wimp.

“I'm no good,” I said, following Bobby as he jogged over to join them. “I can't throw a football. Can't catch it either.”

“We'll put you on the line,” Bobby told me.

We divided into two teams of three guys each. I was on a team with Bobby and this skinny black kid named Reggie.

“You guys kick off,” Reggie yelled to the other team, and the three of us dropped back to receive.

“Let me and Reggie handle the ball,” Bobby said. “You block.”

Fine by me. I didn't want to run with the ball anyway.

One of the kids on the other team kicked off. It was high, end-over-end, and deep. Reggie dropped back to catch it. He took a few steps and lateraled the ball to Bobby. The other team was charging downfield toward us. I got into position to block.

“Go left, Stoshack!” Bobby yelled from behind me.

I did what he told me. I got about ten yards before some guy creamed me from the side. They tagged Bobby right there.

“Okay, okay!” Bobby said, clapping his hands. “First down from here. You okay, Stoshack?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I got up slowly. I've been in plenty of collisions playing baseball before, but nothing like this. When you're rounding third and there's a throw coming to the plate, you
know
you're going to crash into the catcher and try to knock the ball loose. You can anticipate it and protect yourself. In football, some guy can come out of nowhere and flatten you.

We huddled up. Bobby and Reggie worked out a play where Reggie was going to run downfield ten yards, then fake left and cut right, where Bobby would hit him with the pass. My job was to hike the ball when Bobby said the word “provolone” and then protect him from the rush.

“Cheddar!” Bobby yelled. “Monterey Jack! Swiss! Provolone!”

I hiked the ball to Bobby. He dropped back.

“One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…” said the guy on the other side of the line.

Reggie ran his pass pattern and Bobby whipped a perfect spiral into his hands. Reggie got tagged right there.

“All right! All right!” Bobby yelled, clapping as he marched upfield. He and Reggie slapped hands.

On the next play, Reggie faked right and went deep.

“He's going long!” one of the guys on the other team yelled desperately.

Bobby threw a long bomb and Reggie caught it right by the tree we had agreed would be the goal line.

Touchdown! Me and Reggie and Bobby high-fived each other.

I had to admit that Bobby could really throw a football. No wonder he gave up baseball.

The guys on the other team were good too. After Reggie kicked off to them, they marched down the field in five or six plays and scored on us to tie it up.

I was getting a little beat up blocking and trying to rush their quarterback, but nothing serious. Hopefully, it wasn't
too
obvious that I didn't know what I was doing.

“Hey, I gotta be home in half an hour,” one of the guys on the other team said after they scored.

“Okay, next touchdown wins it,” Reggie said, and everyone agreed.

We dropped back to receive the kick. Bobby caught it on one bounce near our goal line. He handed it off to Reggie, who made it to midfield before he got tagged.

“Okay, let's fake them out and win this thing right now,” Bobby said to me as we huddled. “After you hike the ball,
you
go out for the pass and Reggie will stay on the line.”

“Yeah!” Reggie said. “That's brilliant! Cross 'em up.”

“Me?” I said. “Wh—what should I do?”

“Just go deep!” Bobby told me. “They'll be so surprised, they won't know what hit 'em. Okay? Hike the ball on ‘mozzarella.'”

I didn't want to do it. But I didn't want to look like a dork, either. We got into position for the play. I wondered what the deal was with Bobby and cheese.

“Muenster!” Bobby called. “American! Mozzarella!”

I hiked the ball to Bobby and took off downfield. Nobody blocked me at the line. The defense was confused because
I
was going out for the pass instead of Reggie. It took them a second or two before they figured out that the guy who normally covered Reggie should cover me instead. By then, I had a ten-yard head start off the line.

As I streaked for the goal line, I turned around to see Bobby chucking the ball long and deep.

It was like slow motion after that. The ball was in a tight spiral, the laces turning clockwise. It was a high, arching pass against the sky. I had the defender beat by about five yards, but he was gaining on me. As the ball was coming down, I reached up with both hands to pull it in.

But somehow, the ball bounced off my hands.

It popped into the air. I tripped and fell, and the guy who was guarding me fell on top of me. I could
see the ball was still a few feet off the ground, but I couldn't get up to grab it.

The guy on top of me could, though. He snatched the ball just before it hit the grass and started running upfield with it. Bobby and Reggie took off after him, but it was no use. The guy was really fast, and he ran the whole length of the sideline for a touchdown. His teammates pounded him on the back.

“You are an
idiot
, Stoshack!” Bobby yelled at me. “I put that ball right in your
hands
! How could you drop it? You are useless, man!”

 

I was filthy, lying in the dirt. There were grass stains on my clothes and bruises all over my body. My jeans were torn at the knee. I was a mess.

Everybody said their good-byes, and Reggie told me the best way to get back to my neighborhood. Bobby just split without a word. I guess he was mad at me for dropping the pass.

I dragged myself home, where my mom was waiting with hugs and kisses.

“What happened to
you
?” she asked. “Did Jim Thorpe beat you up? Where's Bobby?”

“We were playing a little touch football,” I said.

“Touch?” she said. “I'd hate to see what you'd look like if you played tackle.”

After I took a shower, I looked more presentable. But I felt sort of depressed. Depressed about the football game, and even more depressed because I was still thinking about Jim Thorpe. It wasn't fair.
Here was a guy who was the greatest athlete in the world, and he was digging ditches for a living.

Thorpe reminded me a little of Shoeless Joe Jackson, who played for the Chicago White Sox. He was one of the best hitters ever, but some of his teammates took money from gamblers to lose the World Series on purpose. Jackson was innocent, but he got kicked out of baseball for the rest of his life. That wasn't fair either.

 

I had done my job. I had arranged for Bobby Fuller to meet Jim Thorpe. That could have been the end of it. We accomplished what Bobby said he wanted to accomplish. We had a little adventure and returned home safely.

But something was gnawing at me. So the next day after school, I did what I usually do when I need to talk to somebody. I rode my bike over to Flip's store.

Flip was signing an autograph for some kid when I came in, but as soon as the kid left, Flip waved me over. He could tell that something was wrong.

“What's eatin'
you
?” Flip asked.

I told him what happened when I went back to 1931 and met Jim Thorpe. Flip knew the whole story of Thorpe losing his Olympic medals. Flip knows just about everything about old-time sports.

“When I was a kid,” Flip explained, “the Olympics were for rich folks. It was their exclusive little club for people who didn't have to work to earn
a living. They acted like it was beneath a ‘gentleman' to compete for money. The glory should be enough, y'know? So they banned professional athletes from the Olympics. It kept out the riffraff, regular working people. But they made it seem like it was some big ‘virtue' to be an amateur.”

The more I learned about the situation with Jim Thorpe, the madder I got. Banning professionals from the Olympics was almost like banning African Americans from major-league baseball. As far as I was concerned, all the world records and stats and gold medals didn't mean anything if certain people weren't allowed to compete for them.

“It's just not fair,” I said to Flip.

“Yeah,” Flip agreed, “but it's like I tell ya, Stosh. Life ain't always fair.”

“But maybe I can
fix
it,” I whispered, just in case any customers came in. “I could go back and do something to help him. I just need to get an earlier Jim Thorpe card. Will you help me find one?”

Flip sighed.

“Stosh, fuhgetaboutit,” he said. “You always think you can fix stuff. But what's done is done. It's history. Nobody remembers Jim Thorpe anymore. It wouldn't make a difference to anybody.”

He was probably right. Other than Bobby Fuller, who really cared about Jim Thorpe anyway?

The bell on the door jangled and Flip and I looked up. It was Laverne, Flip's wife.

Flip's
wife
.

I knew what Flip was thinking when Laverne walked in. He knew what I was thinking too.

If it wasn't for me, Flip wouldn't
have
a wife. It's true! When Flip started coaching my Little League team, he wasn't married. But when we went back in time together looking for Satchel Paige, we met this pretty waitress in a restaurant. She fell for Flip big-time. I had to leave the two of them back in 1942. But when I got back from the past, there were Flip and Laverne, an old married couple who were happy and totally in love with each other. And Flip was in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Time travel is the strangest thing.

One time I asked my science teacher about time travel. He told me it was physically impossible. He said traveling through time would defy Newton's laws of physics, or Einstein's theory of relativity, I don't remember which. But it was against
some
law.

“You can't change history,” he told me.

But I knew something that my science teacher didn't know. I can travel through time, and I
can
change history. Maybe I didn't save Shoeless Joe Jackson's career. But I saved the life of my great-uncle Wilbur. And I got Flip a wife. If it wasn't for me, Laverne wouldn't be standing there right now.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked Flip.

“Because you're so beautiful, honey,” Flip said.

“Oh stop it!” she replied, and they started hugging each other.

I knew what I had to do. I had to go back in time
and try to help Jim Thorpe, just like I had helped Flip and Uncle Wilbur. Maybe things would turn out differently. Maybe people
would
remember the name “Jim Thorpe.” I could right a wrong. I could change the world in a small way. I had to at least try.

Flip knew it too.

“Okay,” he said to me. “I'll help you.”