Jim & Me (11 page)

“To figure out how to break 'em,” McGraw replied.

The Pirates' leadoff batter slapped down at the ball and hit a high hopper wide of the first base bag. Fred Merkle grabbed it and arrived at first the same time as the batter. They collided, falling on top of each other. The ump called the batter safe. Runner on first, nobody out.

“Fadeaway, Matty!” some of the fans chanted when play resumed. “Fadeaway!”

“What's a fadeaway?” Bobby whispered to me.

“That's what they used to call a screwball,” I told him.

I knew the fadeaway was Matty's signature pitch. Instead of twisting his wrist
out
as he released the ball, he twisted it
in
. It made a reverse curve that broke toward a right-handed batter. It's very hard to throw, because our wrists don't twist in naturally.

The next Pirate squared around to bunt, and dropped one down on the right side of the infield. Matty rushed in and whipped the ball to second for the force out. The runner flung his body at the base, taking out the shortstop before he could even think about throwing to first for a double play. One out. Still a runner at first.

This, I knew, is the way baseball
used
to be played back in the Dead Ball days. It was very hard to hit a ball out of the park, so teams would choke up, bunt, slap at the ball, steal bases, hit and run, or rely on their wits to score runs. And if all else failed, they'd cheat. It was called “inside baseball.”

Personally, I liked it better than the modern game. I always thought watching a home run go over the wall was boring. I'd rather see a guy hit a triple and watch runners tearing around the bases while the defense scramble to relay the ball in and throw them out.
That's
exciting.

“Did the Giants win their division last year?” Bobby asked me.

“There are no divisions,” I told him. “There's just an American League and a National League.”

“So they don't have playoffs?”

“No playoffs.”

“No wild card?”

“No,” I told him. “You finish in first place, or you go home.”

“Wow,” Bobby said. “No wonder they play so hard.”

The next batter fouled Matty's first pitch into the third base stands. I assumed the umpire would throw Matty a new ball, but he didn't. Instead, some big guy ran into the stands and grabbed the ball away from the fan who caught it. What a jerk!

But the guy who stole the ball didn't keep it or run away with it. He threw it back to Matty. That's when I remembered that in 1913, fans weren't allowed to keep foul balls that went into the stands. The guy was only doing his job.

They had been using the same baseball for the whole game. No wonder it wasn't white anymore. It was brown and scuffed up, covered with spit, dirt,
and who knows what else. And these guys were expected to hit it and throw it accurately.

The Pirates scored a run in the eighth inning to go ahead 4-3, and that was still the score when the Giants came up to bat in the bottom of the ninth.

Buck Herzog led off for the Giants, slapping a single past the second baseman. The next guy, Red Murray, bunted, but the Pirates' catcher pounced on the ball and whipped it to second. There was a collision there, and Lord Byron called Herzog out.

Well, John McGraw went nuts. He ran out of the dugout and stuck his face right into Lord Byron's.

“Get some glasses, you fobbing, swag-bellied hedge pig!” he shouted. “My man was safe, you loggerheaded, toad-spotted maggot pie!”

“You got 60 seconds to state your case,” sang Lord Byron, as he pulled one of those old-time watches out of his pocket. “Then it's time to shut your face.”

McGraw didn't use his 60 seconds. He snatched Lord Byron's watch, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it.

The fans went crazy. Some people started throwing vegetables onto the field. I guess they brought them to the ballpark just so they could throw them. Strange.

“McGraw, I'd say you're out of luck,” sang Lord Byron. “That'll cost a hundred bucks!”

“It was worth it!” McGraw said as he stomped back to the dugout.

Matty was due up next, but with the Giants
down by a run in the bottom of the ninth, McGraw was looking toward the bench for a pinch hitter. Jim grabbed a bat and slid forward, trying to catch the manager's eye.

“Chief Tokahoma!” barked McGraw. “Grab a bat!”

Jim slammed his bat back into the rack while Charley Grant jumped off the bench.

“Pinch hitting for the Giants,” announced the megaphone man, “from the Cherokee nation, Chief…Tokahoma!”

Charley headed for home plate. But before he got ten feet out of the dugout, the Pirates' manager was out on the field, shouting at the umpire.

“That man is no Cherokee!” he yelled. “He's a Negro!”

A gasp came out of the crowd.

Lord Byron went over to Charley and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Son,” the ump said, “what's your name?”

“Charley Grant, sir.”

“Now tell me the truth,” Lord Byron said. “Are you an Indian?”

“No, sir,” Charley admitted.

“I'm sorry,” said Lord Byron, “but you're not allowed here. Nothin' personal, mind you.”

Charley lowered his head and walked back to the Giants' dugout.

“I told you to say you were Chief Tokahoma!” shouted John McGraw. “You do as I tell you!”

Charley didn't sit down when he got to the
bench. He just dropped his bat, opened the door behind the dugout, and left. He didn't say a word, and nobody said a word to him.

It was awfully quiet in the Polo Grounds. Bobby and I knew something that nobody else in the ballpark knew. It would be more than 30 years until professional baseball would let a black man—Jackie Robinson—on the field.

“
MR
.
MCGRAW
,
PUT UP A BATTER
!”
ORDERED LORD BYRON
. “I'm tired of watching you get fatter!”

McGraw looked up and down the bench. He didn't have much of a choice. It's not like he was going to send me or Bobby to the plate.

“Thorpe!” he hollered. “Grab a bat.” Then he turned to Lord Byron and said, “If
this
guy ain't Indian, nobody is.”

Jim picked one of the smaller bats out of the rack. Some of the fans started chanting Indian war whoops as he walked to the plate. Jim wasn't smiling. He looked determined. Finally, he was getting a chance to hit.

“Pinch-hitting for the Giants,” announced the megaphone man, “winner of the Olympic decath
lon…the greatest all-around athlete in the world…JIM THORPE!”

Jim had an odd batting stance.

The fans made more Indian whoops as Jim stepped into the batter's box. He stood toward the front of the box, with his feet close together and his bat held down low. It was an odd stance. He pumped the bat across the plate a few times.

The first pitch to Jim was a big, old, lazy curve. He took a wild swing at it, spinning around in the batter's box. Strike one.

The pitcher smirked and threw the exact same pitch. Again, Jim missed it. I swear, it looked like I could hit those curveballs. Strike two.

The fans were yelling at Jim now. I wondered if he was still feeling the effect of all that whiskey he drank earlier. Or maybe he just couldn't hit a curveball, drunk or sober.

The pitcher tried to waste the next pitch off the outside corner. But Jim reached over and slapped at it, tapping a little dribbler down the third base line. It was like a swinging bunt.

Thorpe took off like a rocket for first base. I never saw a man accelerate so fast in all my life.

It looked like the ball was going to roll foul, but just before it touched the base line it swerved back into fair territory. The third baseman rushed in to barehand the ball, but he had no play. Jim was already at first.

Red Murray, who had been the runner on first, saw the third baseman charge in to field the ball. He knew that nobody was covering third. So he didn't stop at second. He made it all the way to third on Jim's infield hit.

I glanced over at Bobby, and he put up his hand for a high five. I slapped it. If we hadn't sloped the base line before the game, Jim's infield hit would have been a foul ball.

“Now batting for the Giants,” announced the megaphone man, “Fred Snodgrass.”

The crowd was buzzing.
This
was what baseball
was all about, in any century. Bottom of the ninth, with the home team down by a run. Runners at first and third. Only one out. A single would tie the game. With Jim's speed at first base, a double could win it. The momentum had shifted to the Giants. There was the feeling of anticipation in the Polo Grounds. The fans could taste a victory.

Near third base, John McGraw was furiously hopping around, blowing his nose, flashing signs, and touching about a dozen different parts of his body. It looked like he was doing the Macarena out there.

Snodgrass dug in at the plate. If the Giants won, he'd be the hero of the day. Murray edged off third base. Jim took a lead off first. The pitcher stared in for the sign from his catcher. He started his windup.

Then, suddenly, Jim broke for second!

“He's going!” shouted the catcher.

Instead of throwing a pitch, the pitcher wheeled around and fired the ball to second. At shortstop, Honus Wagner ran over to take the throw. He slapped the tag on Jim's foot.

“Yer out!” hollered Lord Byron.

Murray, seeing the pitcher spin toward second, figured he had a shot to steal home, and he took off from third. But Honus was no ordinary shortstop. As soon as he tagged Jim out, he jumped up and fired the ball to the plate. Murray was out by three feet.

“Yer out!” hollered Lord Byron. “I call that a double play! And you boys can call it a day.”

The Pirates had won, and the Giants fans didn't
like it one bit. More vegetables came flying out of the stands. Snodgrass flung his bat away in disgust. He never got the chance to drive in the winning run. And John McGraw, well, he just about
exploded
.

“What are you, Thorpe, stupid?” he yelled. “Who told you to steal second?”

“
You
did!” Thorpe yelled right back at him. “You blew your nose. That's the steal sign.”

“That was the steal sign
last
week, you milk-livered maggot pie!”

“But I thought—” Jim started.

“You thought?” yelled McGraw. “Who told you to think? You're supposed to follow instructions! Thinking is
my
job and I'll take the heat if we lose! Maybe you'd remember the signs if you didn't spend all your time getting drunk!”

A couple of tomatoes hit Jim on the back as he walked slowly, head down, toward the dugout.

“Go back to the Olympics, Thorpe!” some guy yelled.

“Go back to the reservation,” yelled another fan.

“Ah, leave the guy alone,” shouted a lady. “He's a savage. He probably can't even read.”

Without a word, Jim clomped into the dugout and opened the door to the locker room.

“Where are you going?” McGraw yelled after him. “I'm not finished with you!”

“I'm going home,” Jim replied glumly. “I quit.”

“Again?” MrGraw shouted. “Well, go ahead! That's what you are, Thorpe—a quitter! Get out of
my sight! You disgust me!”

This time, Jim Thorpe didn't lash out and attack John McGraw. Nobody needed to hold him back from punching the manager. There was no fight left in him.

MAYBE JIM THORPE
WAS
THE GREATEST ALL-AROUND
athlete in the world. But that didn't mean he was a good baseball player.

That's one of the interesting things about the game. You can run fast, jump high, have muscles out to here, and
still
be lousy. I knew that Michael Jordan was one of the greatest athletes in the world. After nine seasons of professional basketball, he decided to try and make it as a baseball player. He barely hit .200—and that was in the
minor
leagues. Baseball isn't like other sports. It requires a special set of skills, and very few people have them.

There was nothing Bobby and I could do for Jim. But before going back home, there was one thing I wanted to do for myself. I told Bobby to give me a few minutes. Then I jogged across the infield to the
Pirates' dugout. It didn't take me long to find Honus Wagner, packing his bats and glove into an equipment bag.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wagner,” I said.

Honus turned around. I didn't expect him to recognize me. Kids probably pestered him all the time.

“Do you need an autograph, son?” he asked gently, reaching for a pen.

“No, sir,” I said, “I just wanted to say hello. We met once before, in 1909. Back in Louisville. Remember? I was the kid who—”

“Stosh!” Honus exclaimed. “Sure, I remember you! The kid who travels through time. You back again?”

“I came to see Jim Thorpe,” I told him.

“He's a good man,” Honus said, shaking his head sadly. “It must have been tough on him when they took those medals away. And he can't seem to get a break out here. Playin' for McGraw ain't no picnic, I'm sure.”

“They don't get along very well,” I told him.

“Y'know, Stosh, ever since we met, I've been wondering something,” Honus said. “How much did you get for that card with my picture on it?”

I first met Honus because I had a 1909 Honus Wagner T-206 baseball card, which is the most valuable card in the world. It was in mint condition and probably worth a million dollars. Honus couldn't believe it when I told him. It's a long story, but this jerky card-store owner named Birdie Farrell beat
me up and took the card away. Then it got destroyed. I never got a dime for it.

“Somebody ripped it up,” I said.

“Sorry to hear that,” said Honus. “I wish I had another one for you.”

“It's okay,” I assured Honus. “Hey, ever since we met,
I've
been wondering something too. Whatever happened with you and that girl?”

Again, it's a long story. But when I met Honus the first time, I reunited him with his old girlfriend. In fact,
she
was the one who ripped up the baseball card. I wondered if they got married.

“What girl?” Honus asked.

“You know,” I said, “Amanda Young. You called her Mandy, remember?”

“Oh, yeah!” Honus said. “Things, uh, didn't quite work out with me and Mandy.”

“Sorry to hear that, Honus.”

“Well, the truth is, she took a likin' to another ballplayer.”

“She dumped you!?” I said, astonished. Honus was just about the nicest guy in the world. “That's impossible! What ballplayer could she possibly pick over you?”

“Well, he's a pretty good player,” Honus said with a chuckle. “His name is Ty Cobb.”

“Amanda Young is Ty Cobb's
girlfriend
?!”

I could hardly believe it. Ty Cobb was such a jerk. But Honus didn't seem heartbroken over it. In fact, he and I had a good laugh. It was great to see him
again, but we couldn't talk long because the Pirates had to catch a train to Philadelphia for a series against the Phillies. So I shook his huge hand, wished him well, and said good-bye.

“You tell Thorpe to hang in there,” Honus told me.

“I will.”

“Hey Stosh!” Honus shouted as I walked away. “Tell me something. Who's gonna win the World Series this year?”

“You'll find out in October,” I shouted back.

 

Bobby Fuller was waiting impatiently for me in the Giants' dugout. I wondered if he used the short time alone to take some of the drugs he'd been hiding in his backpack.

“What took ya so long?” he asked.

“I had to talk to an old friend,” I told him. “What do you say? Are you ready to blow this pop stand?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I asked. “There's nothing we can do here for Jim. The Olympics are over. They took away his medals. The scandal already happened. Let's go home.”

“We can't leave now,” Bobby said seriously.

“Why not?”

“I'm afraid Jim might try to kill himself,” Bobby said.

Well
that
stopped me. Jim
did
look really depressed after he got caught trying to steal second and blew the game for the Giants. It was obvious
that he was having a tough time getting along with John McGraw. And he did seem to have a drinking problem. But suicide? I didn't think so. In fact, I
knew
he wouldn't do that.

“Jim
can't
kill himself,” I insisted. “He's not going to die until 1953. I looked it up. It's in the books.”

Bobby thought about that for a moment.

“It doesn't matter if it's in the books,” he said. “How do you know for sure that he wouldn't have killed himself in 1913 if we hadn't come here and stopped him?”

It was a valid point, I had to admit. There was the possibility that Jim made a suicide attempt in 1913 that was never recorded in history because it failed. If Bobby and I didn't save him, he might kill himself for real and we'd get back home to find that all the history books say Jim Thorpe committed suicide in 1913.

I had never seen Bobby Fuller look so serious before.

“Stoshack,” he continued, “alcohol and suicide run in my family. My uncle killed himself a few years ago. If Jim kills himself, he won't get married and have children. And if he doesn't have children, his children won't have children. And if his children don't have children—”

“We'll get back home and you won't exist,” I said. “Because you would never have been born.”

“That's right,” Bobby said.

We had to stop him.