Ted & Me (13 page)

“Booooooooooo!”

“
Juden schwein!
” somebody hollered.

“It is they who represent a small minority of the American people,” Lindbergh went on, “but they control much of the machinery of influence and propaganda.”

“Down with Franklin D. Rosenfeld!” somebody yelled.

“The New Deal is the Jew Deal!”

Most of the people just stared at Lindbergh in awe. He seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the crowd. After just about every sentence, there was wild applause.

“War is not inevitable for this country,” Lindbergh continued. “Whether or not America enters this war
is within our control. This tragedy is preventable if only we can build a Western Wall of race and arms to hold back the infiltration of inferior blood.”

Another roar went up.

“Inferior blood”? I turned around and saw some people giving Nazi salutes. I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Even the true haters in my century would
never
insult a minority group or say things like “inferior blood” in public. They would never get away with it.

I looked around to find Ted to see if he felt the same way as Lindbergh. But most of the people were taller than me, and I couldn't find Ted in the crowd. For all I knew, he ran off with that girl Bonnie.

Lindbergh went on for a while saying more hateful things about President Roosevelt, England, and Jewish people. When he finished, the crowd gave him a huge ovation.

As he walked off the stage into a throng of adoring fans, I realized something. If I couldn't find Ted again, my mission would be
over
. I would never get to Washington. Even if I
could
get to Washington without him, I wouldn't be able to get anywhere near the White House.

And it wasn't like I could just call Ted on his cell phone.

Lindbergh had whipped the crowd up into a frenzy. People were crowding around him, trying to shake his hand or simply touch him. Ted
had
to be in that crush of people, I figured. If I could get near
Lindbergh, I could find Ted.

Everybody was pushing and shoving. I tried to make my way toward the stage. What happened over the next couple of minutes was a blur to me.

“Jews control all the money,” a guy right next to me shouted. “What's happening to them in Europe is their own fault!”

“You heard what Lindy said,” hollered some other guy. “The Jews are leading us into the war to get back the power in countries that banished them!”

Man! Some of these people were full-fledged Nazis!

“What are you talking about?” I said to the guy next to me. “That's ridiculous. If you want to keep America out of the war, stop the attack on Pearl Harbor. It's coming on December 7th.”

“Hey, watch where you're stepping, kid!” a boy shouted at me.

“Sorry,” I said, “I need to get to Lindbergh.”

“Grab him!” yelled somebody else. “He's trying to get to Lindy!”

“He's trying to kidnap Lindy's
other
kids!” a voice yelled.

A giant, burly security guy grabbed my arm roughly.

“You don't look like you're from around here,” he told me. “You kinda look like a Jew.”

“I'm not Jewish,” I explained. “And what if I was? Who cares what I am?”

“He said it!” somebody yelled. “He's a Jew! A dirty Jew!”

“I am not,” I sputtered. “I didn't say that. What I said was—”

That's when somebody punched me in the face.

It wasn't the security guy. It was some other guy. I didn't even see the guy who did it. His fist came out of nowhere.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. I put my hand to the side of my head. There was blood on it. That's when they started kicking me.

“He's a Jew!”

“Kill the Jew!”

I tried to get up and run away, but they wouldn't let me. One of them had his boot pressed against my head while the others were kicking me in the sides.

I curled myself into a ball to protect myself.
This can't be happening,
I thought.
Not in America. Somebody will stop them.
But nobody did.

Maybe they'll have mercy on me. Maybe Ted will come. Maybe the cops will come.
But the only people who came were more Nazis, and their boots.

“Work that Jew over, Johnny!” one of them yelled.

“How do you like it, Jew boy?”

Ted wasn't going to rescue me. I had to get out of there before they killed me. There was only one way. I managed to reach into my pocket for my pack of baseball cards. While the Nazis were still kicking me, I ripped the pack open and took out one of the cards.

“Kill the Jew! Kill the Jew!” they chanted.

I tried to block it out and focus on where I wanted
to go. Home. Louisville. The twenty-first century. Anywhere but here. Fast!

It didn't take too long for the tingling sensation to come. I felt it in my fingertips first, as always, and then it swept up my arm and across my body. While they pummeled me with kicks and punches, I felt myself getting lighter. It was happening. I was fading away.

“Hey! My foot went right through—”

And that was the last thing I heard before I disappeared.

W
HEN
I
CAME FLYING INTO THE LIVING ROOM
,
MY MOM WAS
wearing a leotard, jumping around in front of the TV screen. We got the Nintendo as a Christmas present for
me
, but Mom has pretty much taken it over to do aerobics. She didn't see me coming, and proceeded to kick me in the head.

“Owwww!”

“Joey, are you okay?” she said, rushing to my side when I hit the floor. “You're a mess! Is that blood on your face? Oh, I'm so sorry!”

My ribs were already sore from the beating I got from those Nazis. And now my own mother had kicked me in the head. This was not my day.

“I'm fine, Mom,” I moaned. “It's not important. Did Ted make it to Washington? Did he get to meet with the president?”

“What? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Did I stop the attack on Pearl Harbor?” I asked urgently. “Are we going to get that briefcase full of money from the FBI?”

“Uh, I don't know. I didn't hear anything about it on the news.”

Of course she didn't. The news is about things that
happen
, not about things that
don't
happen.

I ran upstairs two steps at a time to check the internet. My fingers fumbled on the keyboard because I was in such a hurry. But all I had to do was type “Pea” on Google to find more than eleven
million
websites telling me that Pearl Harbor still happened. All those soldiers still died. World War II went on, just the way it always had. Nothing had changed.

I went over to baseball-reference.com to see if Ted took my advice about not enlisting in the marines. Again, in seconds, I had my answer. It said that Ted didn't play
any
baseball in 1943, 1944, or 1945, when World War II was going on. It said he only played a few games in 1952 and 1953, during the Korean War.

So Ted never made it to Washington to meet with the president. And he must have decided to enlist in the military even though he could have hit a lot more home runs if he played baseball during those years.

Once again I had failed. And I wasn't going to get that money that Agent Pluto had in his briefcase.

Why did this always happen? When I went back to 1932, I didn't see Babe Ruth call his shot. When I went back to 1919, I wasn't able to stop the Black Sox Scandal. I never found out how fast Satchel Paige
could throw a fastball. And I wasn't able to save the lives of Ray Chapman or Roberto Clemente.

I was a failure. Only this time I had failed my
country
.

I trudged back downstairs and plopped on the couch. My mom got a wet rag and held it against the side of my head to stop the bleeding.

“Next time, honey,” she said. “Next time you'll save the world.”

“I don't know if there's gonna be a next time,” I told her.

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” she said, hopping up off the couch to get something. “A letter came in the mail while you were gone. Do you know anything about this?”

She handed me an envelope that was addressed simply
JOE STOSHACK, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
. It was a miracle that it got delivered to our house with that address. The letterhead said
STATE STREET BANK
&
TRUST COMPANY
in Boston. I took out the sheet of paper….

“It's probably one of those scams,” my mother said. “I'll throw it away for you.”

“No!” I said, gripping the letter tightly as I read it a second time. “It's not a scam. Ted did this!”

“Ted?” my mother said. “Ted Williams?”

“He must have gone to this bank in Boston and opened a savings account in my name,” I told her. “See the date? It's the day after Pearl Harbor! The account earned interest for over seventy years!”

“Why would he give you a thousand dollars?” my mother asked. “Didn't you say Coach Valentini told you that Ted Williams was a jerk?”

“He
was
a jerk!” I told her. “But he was nice sometimes too! He taught me how to fly fish, and how to hit. He gave money to a homeless person. He visited a kid in the hospital and held his hand all night. I told him we couldn't afford college, so he must have opened this account in my name. He knew it would grow over the years and be worth a lot of money by the time I was ready for college!”

“A hundred grand!” my mom shouted.

Mom and I started jumping up and down, yelling and screaming our heads off. I was so happy that I
forgot all about my sore ribs and the cut on my face. And we were making so much noise that we almost didn't hear the doorbell ring.

I peeked through the blinds. It was Mr. Pluto, that FBI guy.

Mom and I calmed down fast. She hid the letter, and I went to open the door.

“Mrs. Stoshack,” Agent Pluto said politely, “Joseph, good to see you.”

I knew he came over to find out what went wrong with my mission. I figured I might as well get it over with quickly.

“I…blew it,” I told him as soon as he stepped inside. “I'm sorry. I never made it to Washington.”

“Obviously,” he replied. “It's okay, Joseph. I knew the mission wasn't going to be easy. You can tell me all the details in the car.”

“In the car?” I asked, apprehensively. “Where are you taking me?”

I figured he was going to take me to FBI headquarters and brainwash me, or whatever it was that the FBI did to people who failed on their secret missions.

“Relax,” he said. “I told you I was a big baseball fan. Well, I bumped into your coach, Mr. Valentini. Did you forget you have a game today? You're late! Get dressed. Get your stuff!”

 

With all the excitement over playing in the Little League World Series, I had forgotten that we still
had a few games left in our schedule against local teams. I threw my uniform on and was still tying my cleats while Agent Pluto drove Mom and me to Dunn Field.

As we skidded to a stop on the gravel behind the backstop, I checked the scoreboard. Bad news. The game was almost over. It was the last inning, and we were losing, 6–4.

“Stosh is here!” shouted Cubby Abrams, our catcher.

“It's about time,” said Kyle the Mutant.

I ran over to Flip in the dugout.

“Where the heck were ya?” he asked frantically. “I need ya to pinch-hit. We got nobody left. I used up our bench.”

I checked the bases. We had runners on second and third. Two outs.

“Nothing like a little pressure,” I said.

“Hey, show up on time and you won't feel the pressure,” Flip replied. “Here's yer bat. Get out there and do somethin' with it.”

“I don't want that bat, Flip,” I told him.

“What?” Flip asked. “This is your bat. I picked it out personally. What's a matter with it?”

“It's too heavy.”

“Whaddaya talkin' about, Stosh?” Flip protested. “It's just the right weight for you.”

“I'm not using that bat, Flip,” I insisted.

“Oh, whatever,” he replied. “Just grab a bat and get up there before we forfeit the game.”

The umpire was looking in our dugout. I picked a lighter bat out of the rack and took a couple of practice swings with it. It felt good. I could swing it fast.

“Okay,” Flip said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Remember what I taught you. Anything close, take a rip at it.”

“I'm not doing that, Flip,” I said.

“Whaddaya mean you're not doing that?”

“I'm not swinging unless the ball is in my happy zone.”

“Yer
what
?” Flip yelled. “Are you bananas? Get up there and hit! Nice level swing.”

“I'm not going to swing level either, Flip.”

“What's gotten into you, Stosh?” Flip asked, looking into my eyes. “This is common sense stuff. Level swing. That's the way I teach everybody to hit.”

“Look,” I told him, “the mound is higher than home plate, and the pitcher releases the ball at least a foot over his head. So the ball is coming
down
at the batter. The best way to make good contact is to swing with an uppercut.”

“Who taught you that bull?” Flip asked.

“The greatest hitter in history,” I said.

The umpire came over. He didn't look happy when he took off his mask.

“Get your batter up here, Flip, or this game is a forfeit!”

“Fuhgetuhboutit,” Flip said to me. “See the ball. Hit the ball. Got a problem with that, Stosh?”

I took a deep breath and walked up to the plate.

“Now batting…,” boomed the public-address announcer, “…Joe…Stoshack.”

It wasn't like the Little League World Series, with millions of fans watching on TV. There were probably a few hundred people sitting in the bleachers on the first-and third-base sides. A couple of dogs ran around chasing Frisbees thrown by their owners. There was a baby crying. In the snack bar, they were selling candy and pizza and stuff.

But still, a game is a game. Winning beats losing any day. I like to win.

“Drive me in, Stosh!” shouted Eric Scott, the runner on second.

“You can do it, man!” shouted Josh Cresswell, who was on third.

The wind was blowing out, I noticed. Good. The ball would carry if I could get it up in the air.

I tried to remember everything Ted had told me when we were in the boat.
Get a good ball to hit. Be quick. Weight balanced. Knees bent and flexible. Keep your head still. Hold the bat almost perpendicular.

I looked up at the pitcher, a lefty. I had never seen him before. Not so good. I decided to lay off the first pitch no matter what so I could see what kind of stuff he had.

He went into his windup and let one go. It was close, but thankfully, the umpire called ball one.

“What was wrong with that, ump?” asked the catcher.

“It was outside,” I told him, “by an inch.”

Behind me, I heard the ump chuckle.

The pitcher delivered the next one a little high, and I resisted the temptation to swing.

“Ball two,” cried the ump. The pitcher threw his hands up in frustration.

“What was wrong with
that
one?” asked the catcher.

“High,” I muttered. “Two inches.”

Two balls, no strikes. My advantage. I stepped out of the batter's box to think things over.

I thought,
What would Ted do?
I could almost hear him talking to me:
Know the count. Use the count. Use your head.

If the pitcher doesn't get a strike now, the count would go to 3-0, and he would be in danger of walking me to load the bases. Not only that, but walking me would put the winning run on base. He didn't want that. This time he wouldn't try to hit a corner. He would lay one over the plate. I was likely to get a good pitch to hit. I knew it, and he knew it too. I was ready to pull the trigger.

But I didn't get the chance. The ball slipped out of his hand and bounced in front of the plate. The catcher made a miraculous stop to hold the runners. He got a nice round of applause from the parents in the bleachers. Or at least the ones who weren't talking or texting.

Now the count was three balls, no strikes. He
had
to throw a strike. It was automatic. Nine times out of ten, the pitcher throws it right down the middle with
a 3–0 count, and the batter takes it, hoping for ball four.

I looked over at Flip to make sure he was giving me the “take” sign: touching the brim of his cap. But he didn't touch his cap. He rubbed his nose: the “hit” sign. He was giving me the go-ahead to swing away.

I pumped the bat across the plate a couple of times. Eric and Josh edged off the bases. The pitcher went into his windup.

And he put it right in my happy zone.

I uppercutted at that !@#$%! with everything I had.

I knew right away that I'd hit it well. You get that good feeling in your hands. No sting. The ball was up in the air, heading for right center. I couldn't run yet. I had to watch it.

The centerfielder drifted back until he was against the fence. He was looking up.

That's when I saw the ball sail over the fence, take one bounce off the asphalt, and land somewhere in the parking lot.