Ray & Me (3 page)

W
OW
.
I
KNEW THE
Y
ANKEE LINEUP IN THE
1920
S WAS
called “Murderers' Row.” But I never knew that one of the Yanks actually
killed
somebody.

Flip lowered his voice to a whisper, like he was telling me a secret.

“Stosh, there've been more than 33
million
pitches thrown in major-league history,” Flip said. “I figured it out on a calculator. But only
one
of 'em ever killed a guy.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“He played for the Cleveland Indians,” Flip told me. “His name was Ray Chapman. Chappie, they called him.”

“I never heard of him either.”

“Hardly anybody remembers him,” Flip said. “It was August 16, 1920. The Yankees were playing Cleveland—”

The door suddenly opened and Doctor Wright came in. He was carrying a clipboard. Flip stopped in the middle of his sentence.

“It's okay,” the doctor said. “I know all about Joseph's…gift.”

“How do
you
know?” I asked.

I didn't like the idea of every Tom, Dick, and Harry knowing I could travel through time with baseball cards. People might think I was some kind of freak.

“Your mother told me,” said Dr. Wright.

“What?!”

“Now, don't be mad at her, Joseph,” he said. “As your doctor, it's important for me to know any abnormalities having to do with your brain functioning.”

Dr. Wright told me that he didn't believe my mother at first. The idea of somebody traveling through time sounded crazy. And using a baseball card as a time machine? That's just nuts. Science fiction stuff.

“Your mother is pretty convincing,” Dr. Wright said.

Then he turned to Flip and handed him the clipboard, looking a little embarrassed. I thought it had some important medical information on it, but the paper was blank.

“Mr. Valentini,” Dr. Wright continued, “I heard you were visiting Joseph, and I wanted to meet you. I'm sure you hate this, but my son is ten years old
and he'll be furious with me if I didn't ask you for your autograph.”

“Fuhgetaboutit,” Flip said as he took the pen and scrawled his name on the paper. “You a baseball fan, Doc?”

“Oh, a
big
fan!”

“Then pull up a chair,” Flip told Dr. Wright. “You ever hear of a fella named Ray Chapman?”

“That guy on the Indians who died?” asked the doctor. “Sure. As a brain surgeon, I take special interest in cases like that.”

Dr. Wright said he was supposed to be visiting other patients, but he could spare a few minutes. He brought a chair over to the side of my bed. I dug into the Chunky Monkey while Flip told the story.

“It was a real tight pennant race between the Yankees, the Indians, and the White Sox in 1920,” Flip told us. “Cleveland was in first place, but just barely. It was August, so the season was almost over. The Yankees and the Indians were playing at the Polo Grounds in New York.”

The Polo Grounds. I knew it like I know my name. I met the legendary Jim Thorpe at the Polo Grounds in 1913. But that's a story for another day.

“Wait a minute,” Dr. Wright interrupted. “Why would the Yankees be playing at the Polo Grounds? That was where the New York Giants played, and they were in the National League. Why didn't the Yankees play at Yankee Stadium?”

“Yankee Stadium didn't open until 1923,” Flip said.

“Aha. Go on.”

“Mays was a submarine sinker baller,” Flip said. “He threw underhand and
hard
. I saw him pitch when I was a little kid. They used to call him Sub.”

“Was he wild?” I asked. “Is that why he hit Chapman?”

“Nah,” Flip said. “Just the opposite. Mays had great control. Hardly ever walked anybody. But he hit a lot of guys. He had a reputation as a beanballer. A headhunter.”

“Was he trying to hit Chapman on purpose?” asked Dr. Wright.

“I don't think so,” Flip told us. “The Indians had a three-run lead. Chapman led off the fifth inning. The third pitch from Mays was way inside. Chapman didn't try to get out of the way. He never moved. Bang, right in the left temple.”

I touched my left temple. It was exactly where the ball hit me.

“No batting helmet?” I asked.

“Not in 1920,” Flip said.

“That would do it,” said Dr. Wright. “A fastball could very easily fracture a man's skull. Do you know if they performed an operation on Chapman?”

“I dunno,” Flip said. “But he didn't make it through the night. He died at the hospital.”

“What they knew about head trauma was very
limited in 1920,” Dr. Wright told us. “If something like that happened today, the patient almost certainly would live.”

Flip nodded. “Ray Chapman died, and Mays—well, part of him died too. For the rest of his life, nobody cared about his pitching. People only knew him for one thing—throwing the pitch that killed a guy. It kept him out of the Hall of Fame, if you ask me.”

“Was Ray Chapman any good?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah!” Flip said. “Chappie coulda been a Hall of Famer himself. “Flashy shortstop. He could turn the double play. Not a lot of power, but he hit over .300 three times. And fast? He just exploded out of the batter's box. Stole 52 bases one year. In 1918, he led the American League in runs scored and walks. Great bunter too. He led the league in sacrifices three times.”

“It could be said that he made the
ultimate
sacrifice,” said Dr. Wright.

“You could say that,” Flip said. “Cleveland won the game by that one run.”

“Talk about taking one for the team,” Dr. Wright said sadly.

“Ray Chapman was 29 when he died,” Flip said. “He was in his prime.”

“What a sad story,” Dr. Wright said, shaking his head. “That one pitch ended a man's life and ruined the life of another man. One pitch. One little mistake. If the ball had hit him anywhere but the
temple, I'm sure he would have lived.”

Ray Chapman
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY

“Like I say,” Flip said, “it's a game of inches.”

“How do you know so much about those guys, Flip?” I asked. “You weren't there that day, were you?”

“Nah, I was too little,” said Flip. “I got interested in Carl Mays and Ray Chapman when I moved to Kentucky. It turns out that both of 'em were born right here. They grew up south of Louisville about 150 miles apart. Both of 'em were even born in the same year—1891.”

I bolted up from the bed. An idea had popped into my mind. It was like in the cartoons when a lightbulb appears over somebody's head. I was so excited.

“I could go back in time!” I exclaimed. “I know exactly when and where it happened! I could stop it. It would be so easy. I could save Ray Chapman's life! I could get Mays and Chapman into the Hall of Fame—just like I helped you get into the Hall of Fame, Flip!”

“Whoa!” Dr. Wright said. “Slow down, Joseph. You've been in a coma. You're not going
anywhere
. You need to rest.”

Dr. Wright picked up his clipboard, and Flip grabbed his hat.

“I'm sorry, Doctor,” Flip said. “I never shoulda got him all riled up. I'm such an old fool.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Wright said. “The story was fascinating. Joseph, I'll check up on you later today.”

They closed the door behind them. It was quiet in
my room. I could have turned on the TV or skimmed through a magazine, but I didn't feel like it. I was thinking about Ray Chapman and Carl Mays.

As I picked up the empty ice-cream carton to throw it in the trash, I noticed something. Flip had forgotten to take his Carl Mays baseball card. It was sitting there on the bed.

I touched the card lightly with my fingertips. I could do a little test, I thought. Nothing serious. I could zip back to 1920 for a minute, just to make sure I could still do it.

Dr. Wright had specifically told me to stay in my room and rest. But I don't particularly like being told what I can or can't do. Who does? Flip said it himself: grown-ups aren't always right.

I picked up the card and thought about Carl Mays and Ray Chapman. I could save a man's life. The lives of
two
men, really.

I thought about 1920.
The Polo Grounds. The Yankees. The Indians. The fifth inning.

I waited. And waited. But nothing happened.

I must have been doing something wrong, I figured, because when I pick up a baseball card, I usually feel a buzzy, tingling sensation in my fingertips. It's sort of like the feeling you get when you brush your fingers against a TV screen. And then my whole body starts tingling. And then, after a few seconds, I disappear and reappear in the year on the baseball card.

I tried again, concentrating really hard on the
card.
August 1920. New York City. The Polo Grounds. Carl Mays. Ray Chapman. The fifth inning.

Nothing.

My power was gone!

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL
, I
WAS IN FOR
another shock. As Mom drove up our street, every tree had a ribbon tied around it. So did some of the mailboxes. I asked my mother what was going on, and she said, “It's all for you.”

A lot of people must have read those articles about me in the newspapers. In my room there was a mailbag full of letters telling me how brave I was and get well cards from all over the world. Some guy in Japan said he promised to quit smoking if I got better. People had dropped off cakes in the shape of baseball bats and home plates.

It's kind of weird that you have to almost die before nice stuff like this happens to you. I know if that ball had missed my head by an inch, nobody would have baked me a cake or told me how brave I was.

The welcome home was great. But even though I was in my own bed, I kept having bad dreams about getting hit by a ball. And I was really disturbed that I couldn't travel through time anymore. I had thought the power was part of me, that it was something I'd always have. I figured that as I grew older, maybe I would find a way to use my power not just to meet famous baseball players, but also to help the world in some way. Do some good for humanity.

But now I could forget about that idea. I should have done it while I had the chance.

When I was leaving the hospital, Dr. Wright had told me it didn't surprise him that I'd lost my power. The human brain is a very delicate instrument, he said. Any time it takes a heavy blow, there's a good chance the victim is going to lose some mental ability. He said that some people can't walk after a blow to the head. Some people have to learn how to talk all over again. Football players who get multiple concussions are sometimes handicapped for life.

“If traveling through time with baseball cards is the only brain function you've lost,” Dr. Wright told me, “you're a very lucky young man.”

Well, I didn't feel very lucky. I had to stay home for three weeks; and even though we get about 200 channels, there's nothing good on TV during the day. I was bored out of my mind. The worst part was that even though I couldn't go to school, I still had to keep up with my schoolwork. Every day, one
of my friends dropped off a new package of homework for me.

Once my dislocated shoulder healed, Mom got me some new video games to help pass the time while she was at work. I spent a lot of that time organizing my baseball card collection too. Flip said I could keep the Carl Mays card as a present. I guess he still felt guilty about making me pitch when I wasn't feeling well.

The story that Flip told me about Carl Mays and Ray Chapman was one of those things I couldn't get out of my mind. While I was stuck at home and fooling around on the computer, I found myself googling Ray Chapman. I wanted to find out more about him. There was plenty of stuff online.

Like Flip said, Ray Chapman was hit on August 16, 1920. The thing I found most interesting was that there were no batting helmets in those days. This was hard to believe. Pitchers were throwing rock-hard baseballs 90 or so miles an hour to batters whose heads were just inches away from the strike zone. And all they wore on their heads was a cloth cap! It was only a matter of time before somebody got killed. How could they not know that? Why didn't they do anything about it?

If Ray Chapman had been wearing a batting helmet, it would have saved his life. The pitch would have glanced off the helmet. Chapman would have jogged to first, maybe with a little ringing in his ears. The game would have continued like it was no big
deal. Everything would have been different. Today, Ray Chapman and Carl Mays would very possibly be in the Baseball Hall of Fame together.

 

 

Sometimes the smallest thing changes everything.

The only problem, of course, is that batting helmets didn't exist back in 1920. I didn't know if this
was because it didn't occur to anybody to invent one or because they didn't have the technology in those days to make one.

I made up my mind. If my power ever came back to me, I would travel to 1920 with a batting helmet for Ray Chapman. This was a matter of life and death.

 

After a week at home, the bandages came off my head, and I started to look normal again. Two weeks later, I had some peach fuzz on my head. You couldn't see the little scar on my skull where Dr. Wright had inserted the pressure monitor. I was feeling stronger every day. I was itching to get back to school.

“I'm fine,” I told my mother when three weeks were almost up.

“You're staying home,” she said. “Doctor's orders.”

We fought about it. There was a lot of yelling and stomping upstairs and slamming doors. But in the end, I did what she told me to do. She's my mom, after all. Once I'm 18, I guess I'll be able to make my own decisions.

In the meantime, I did something I didn't tell my mother about. Every day, after she left for work, I ran through my brain exercises. I would take an old baseball card and hold it in one hand. Then I would concentrate on it. I would focus on the card, on the player, and on the time period.

I figured that when we get a cut in our skin, the cut heals in a few days. If we break our leg, it heals. So my brain could heal too, right? I should be able to get my power back. Then I could go to 1920 and save Ray Chapman's life.

I didn't have a Ray Chapman card. But I realized that I didn't need one. I had the Carl Mays card. At the moment Chapman got hit in the head, I knew where Mays was—exactly 60 feet and 6 inches away, on the pitcher's mound. So if I could get to Mays, I could get to Chapman.

Well, nothing happened. The brain exercises didn't work. It was like a switch had been flipped and my power turned off. It was frustrating. I felt like my little “mental workouts” were a waste of time. I couldn't travel through time anymore, and that was it. I might as well get used to it and get on with my life.

But I kept at it, anyway. As soon as Mom pulled out of the driveway to go to work, I would pull down the shades in my room, take out my Carl Mays card, and sit on my bed. I'd close my eyes and think about where I wanted to go. I'd imagine myself in New York City in 1920. Running around the outfield grass at the Polo Grounds. Catching an imaginary fly ball. Sliding into second base.

And then, one day, just as I was about to give it all up, I felt the slightest tingling sensation in my fingertips.

I dropped the card.

I was so excited! There was so much to do. Quickly, I jumped up and ran around the house gathering the stuff I would need for my trip. There was a batting helmet in the garage. I took out some of the foam from the inside so it would be big enough to fit a grown man's head. Then I found a laundry bag to put the helmet in.

I rummaged around my desk drawer until I found an unopened pack of baseball cards. I would need it to get home again. You see, a baseball card is like a ticket to me. Just like an old card takes me back to the past, a new card brings me back to the present day.

I gathered my stuff next to me on the bed and shut my eyes. This was it. I picked up the card. Nothing happened at first. Nothing
ever
happens at first. It takes a while. But now I was hopeful.

I thought about Ray Chapman. No, no, that wouldn't do me any good. I thought about Carl Mays. It was
his
card. I had to get to him. In 1920. New York City.

After a minute or so, I started to feel a tingling sensation. It was very weak at first, but I could feel it coming on. It was like trying to start a campfire with a match and some twigs. If you do it right and the wind doesn't blow out the match, and you're lucky, it will ignite.

The tingles moved up my fingers and through my wrist. The fire was catching! My whole arm was vibrating, and then the feeling washed across my chest.

I had my power back!

I wanted to open my eyes and see it happen, but I didn't dare. My whole body was buzzing now, and I had reached the point of no return.

The fire was blazing. I felt myself disappear.