Roberto & Me (4 page)

OKAY, SO ROBERTO CLEMENTE WAS FROM PUERTO RICO, AND
he didn't speak English. Big deal. I really didn't think the language barrier would be that much of a problem. I mean, how hard could it be to say “Don't get on the plane!” in Spanish? If worst came to worst, I could always use sign language. It's not hard to pantomime a plane crashing into the ocean.

Of course, if I was lucky enough that my dad's messed-up baseball card actually worked and I was able to get to Roberto Clemente, it wouldn't hurt to know a little Spanish. I would want to have a conversation with him. Can you imagine if some strange kid walked up to you from out of nowhere and just said, “Don't get on the plane! Don't get on the plane!” You'd think he was crazy.

I went home and spent the rest of the night reading my
Introduction to Spanish
textbook from school.
I memorized all the numbers, greetings, and common phrases. I learned which words were masculine and which were feminine. I learned all the possessive adjectives and pronouns. I was obsessed.

In case of emergency, I practiced saying
Estoy enfermo. Necesito ayuda.
(I am sick. I need help.) I don't think I ever worked so hard preparing for a test at school. Señorita Molina would have been proud.

Just after midnight, there was a soft knock on my door. My mom had come back from working at the hospital, and she wanted to say good night.

“You're studying Spanish?” she asked. “In the middle of the night? On the weekend? Are you feeling okay, Joey?”

“I want to be able to talk with Roberto,” I told her.

“So you're already on a first-name basis with him?” she said with a laugh. “Is tonight the night?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Dad gave me a Clemente card. He gave me the video game system too. Thanks, Mom! It's really cool.”

I opened my backpack and showed her the Nintendo.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You're not going to bring that along, are you?”

“Sure,” I told her. “Why not? I thought I might have a little time, and I could play some games.”

“Joey, what if somebody sees it?” my mother said. “There were no video games back in those days! People won't know what to make of it. Maybe they'll
think it's a bomb or something. They might think you're a terrorist!”

“Mom, will you relax?” I said. “There were no terrorists back in those days either.”

My mother rolled her eyes the way she does.

“All right,” she said. “Let me pack you some lunch to take with you.”

“Mom, I don't want to bring lunch.”

“Joey, you're going to get hungry!”

“I'll get something to eat while I'm
there
!” I insisted.

Mom rolled her eyes again.

“So, you'll take a video game with you, but you won't take lunch?” she said. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“No lunch, Mom!”

My mother sighed, which means I won the argument. She must have been pretty tired, because she usually fights a lot harder than that. There were times when she talked me into taking an
umbrella
back in time with me in case it rained.

“Hey, listen to this,” I said as she kissed my forehead.
“¡No subas el avion, Roberto!”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means, ‘Don't get on the plane, Roberto!'”

“
That's
what you spent the whole night learning?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “I learned a lot of other stuff too. Like
¿Donde esta el correo?
That means ‘Where is the post office?'”

“That should come in handy, in case you need to mail a letter in the past,” my mother joked. “You just be careful, okay? I know how dangerous it can be.”

“I will.”

“You're doing a good thing, Joey. A very good thing. I'm proud of you.”

She kissed me again and closed the door behind her as she left.

It was quiet in my room. I put on a pair of jeans, my old sneakers, and a T-shirt that didn't have any writing on it. I wasn't sure what year I would end up in, but I wanted to blend in. If I showed up 40 years ago wearing a T-shirt that said something like
AMERICAN IDOL
or
BRITNEY SPEARS
on it, people might be suspicious.

Not that I own those T-shirts, mind you.

I went to my desk drawer and took out a fresh pack of baseball cards. These would serve as my ticket back home when I was ready to return to my own time. I carefully slipped the pack into one of the zippered pockets on my backpack.

I took the messed-up Clemente card out of its plastic sleeve. It was time to see whether or not a card in such poor condition would still be able to take me back in time.

I flipped off the light and sat on the bed. My bedroom was totally dark except for a sliver of white under the door. I closed my eyes and concentrated.

 

Nothing happened.

I didn't panic. Usually, nothing ever happens for a few minutes.

My eyes still closed, I focused my mind on the past. It was hard. Most times I know the specific year I'm traveling to, so I can concentrate on that year. This time, the year on the card had been obliterated. I would just have to go wherever the card took me. Go with the flow.

Clemente was a rookie in 1955. I knew that. He played his last game in 1972. Eighteen years. A lot can happen in that time. I had to be prepared for anything.

That's what I was thinking when the faintest tingling sensation tickled my fingertips.

Aha! The card works!

The feeling was buzzy, like a vibrating string on a guitar. I resisted the urge to drop the card. The tingling grew stronger, and then it started to move. First across my hand and then up my arm. I nodded my head pleasantly. Soon there would be no turning back.

I thought about what Flip had said. Something about quantum physics and wormholes. There was supposed to be a rush of air around the room after my body left it. Papers were supposed to blow around. I wondered if any of that stuff would actually happen. My room was pretty much a mess, anyway. Who would even know if papers blew around?

The tingling sensation was moving across my
chest, and soon I could feel it on the other side of my body. My legs were getting numb. I knew it wouldn't be long. My whole body felt lighter, as if I had suddenly lost fifty pounds. Maybe I did. Maybe that's what happens when you—

There were no more thoughts to be had. I just vanished.

BEFORE I EVEN OPENED MY EYES, MY BRAIN WAS BEING
pounded by an avalanche of sound. It was an awful, eardrum-rattling noise—almost like a jet taking off. Or landing. Or, more likely, crashing. It was a shrieking, screaming sound, but not a human voice. It was more like a distorted air-raid siren or a wounded animal crying to be put out of its misery. People say that the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard is horrible. This was even worse. I covered my ears, but it was no use. It was so loud I could hear it through my skull.

Maybe I'm in the middle of Roberto Clemente's plane crash
, I thought. I was afraid to open my eyes.

And then, in the middle of all the noise, I recognized a tune. I knew that song. It was…it was “The Star-Spangled Banner”!

I opened my eyes.

I was outdoors, and there were people crowded
around me on all sides. There were people everywhere. I mean
everywhere
. They were almost all teenagers, and they were dressed in tie-dyed shirts, sandals, jeans, and headbands. It was hard to tell the girls from the boys, because almost everybody had long hair. It took a moment or two before I realized who they were.

Hippies!

For Halloween one year, I dressed up as a hippie, with my dad's old bell-bottom jeans and a wig. People thought it was a riot. I won the contest that year at school for having the best costume.

I didn't know where I had landed, but I knew when—the sixties.

The guy next to me wasn't wearing a shirt, and he had a big red peace sign painted on his chest. His eyes were closed, and he was dancing. He wasn't dancing with anybody. He was just swaying back and forth to this strange music. He had long, stringy hair; and it looked like he hadn't washed it in a long time.

“What is that noise?” I shouted into his ear.

“That's Hendrix, man,” he said without opening his eyes. “Can you dig it?”

“Jimi Hendrix?” I said. “My mother loves him.”

“Your mom is groovy, man,” the guy said, and then he went back into his own little world.

Somehow, some way, I had landed in the middle of a Jimi Hendrix concert! If only my mother could see
this
! I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look. There was a huge speaker system mounted on giant
scaffolds on either side of the stage. I have been to a few concerts, and they usually have a giant video screen so the people in the back can see what's going on. Not here. I squinted until I could make out the figures on the stage.

There was a guy sitting behind a big bongo drum. There was a regular drummer too, and a bass player. But none of those guys were playing. The only one who was playing was Jimi Hendrix.

Somehow I had landed in the middle of a Jimi Hendrix concert.

I was standing pretty far back, but I could see that he was wearing a red headband and a white shirt with fringe all over it. He must have been left-handed, because he held his white guitar the opposite
way most people do.

He wasn't singing the words to “The Star Spangled Banner.” He was just playing it, with the fringe on his shirt flying all over as he whipped around his guitar and tortured the whammy bar. He never looked at the guitar. Sometimes he would lean his head back and open his mouth wide as he played. All the people around me were jumping up and down, going crazy. Nobody had ever played “The Star-Spangled Banner” like
this
before.

Finally, after what seemed like a half hour, he finished the song and went right into “Purple Haze” without pausing. I knew that song, because my mom is always playing it at home.

I looked around. The sun was low in the sky. It must have been early morning. I couldn't figure out why there would be a concert so early in the day.

“Excuse me,” I asked an African-American guy beside me. “This probably sounds like a silly question, but…what year is it?”

“You don't even know what year it is?” he replied. “That is
soooo
groovy! It's 1969. This is Woodstock, man!”

Woodstock!?

I had heard about Woodstock. My mother told me about it. It was a big outdoor music festival in New York that had performers like Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, and my mom's favorite band, Creedence Clearwater Revival.

How did I end up at Woodstock? I asked myself.
The baseball card was supposed to take me to Roberto Clemente. Something must have blown me off course. Or maybe because the card was damaged, it didn't work as well as a card in mint condition would have.

Or maybe…could Roberto Clemente be at Woodstock? There were thousands of people spread all across this field. How would I be able to find Clemente even if he was here?

It's never easy. I wish just
once
I could travel through time and land right next to the player instead of having to go find him. Just once.

I'm not a huge music lover, to tell you the truth. I listen to the radio and watch VH1 with my mom sometimes. But most of the groups my friends like seem to be lame interchangeable boy bands and teenybopper girls who pretty much all sound the same. I didn't so much like the sound that Jimi Hendrix was making; but I had to admit, it was
different
.

That didn't mean I had to stand there listening to it. If Roberto Clemente was here, I would have to go find him.

“Excuse me,” I yelled into the ear of a girl with frizzy blond hair, “do you know if Roberto Clemente is here?”

“What band is he in?” she replied. “Santana?”

She was useless. I asked somebody else, a guy wearing a cowboy hat and holding a flute in his hand.

“You mean Roberto Clemente the baseball player?” he said. “Man, I don't know. Just groove on
the music, brother. Hendrix is a genius.”

Huh! That's what my mother said too. Hendrix is a genius. I remembered she'd said what a tragedy it was that he died so young of a drug overdose in 1970. If this was 1969, Jimi Hendrix would be dead within a year.

That's when it hit me. There would be plenty of time to talk to Roberto Clemente. He won't die until 1972. While I was here in 1969, I could save Jimi Hendrix's life too!

Wait a minute. Who was I kidding? There were thousands of people between me and the stage. There would be no way for me to get anywhere near Jimi Hendrix. And even if I could, what would I say to him: “Just say no to drugs, Jimi”? If he was addicted, he wasn't about to stop taking drugs just because some strange kid told him they would kill him. He would laugh at me. What a dumb idea.

Hendrix finished the song he was playing and got a standing ovation. He must have been the final act of the Woodstock Festival, because as soon as he was done, all the hippies started gathering up their stuff. People began making their way out from the stage area. Suddenly, there was a narrow open path between me and the stage.

Hendrix was still up there, unplugging his guitar and chatting with his drummer. I thought for a second or two and made a snap decision. I had to give it a try. If I could pull it off, my mother would be so happy.

“Jimi!” I shouted as I pushed my way forward. “Mr. Hendrix! I need to tell you something!”

The hippies looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn't care. When you're trying to save somebody's life, you can't worry about what people think. I was about 30 yards from the stage when somebody started shouting.

“Hey! That kid is trying to get at Jimi!”

“No!” I yelled. “I'm just trying to save his life!”

“The kid is crazy!” someone else shouted.

A bunch of hippies started chasing me as I got closer to the stage.

“Jimi!” I yelled. “You're gonna die!”

“That kid must be high on something!” somebody hollered. “He's gonna kill Jimi! Stop him!”

For a moment—when I was about ten yards from the stage—I saw Jimi look at me. Then, the next thing I knew, a bunch of hippies grabbed me and threw me to the ground in front of the stage.

“Hey, knock it off!” I yelled as they started kicking and punching me. “I thought you people were all about peace and love!”

That's when somebody picked up a big peace sign and hit me over the head with it.