Jackie & Me Page 7

  Everybody was transfixed. Even the Phillies stopped heckling for the moment.

  “Too chicken to throw a pitch, Schoolboy?” one of the Dodgers hollered.

  Rowe looked exasperated. Finally, he made a hurried pitch. Jackie took off to steal second. He took short strides and didn’t seem to be running all that fast, but he got down to second base quickly. It didn’t matter. Rowe’s pitch bounced in the dirt and skipped past the catcher.

  Jackie saw the wild pitch. Instead of sliding and settling for the easy stolen base, he rounded second and scampered halfway to third.

  The ball, however, bounced off the back wall and right to the Phillie catcher. He scooped it up and whipped it to third. Jackie knew he couldn’t make it there. He stopped dead in his tracks. He had gone too far, and he knew it. He was hung up in a rundown.

  “We got you now, colored boy!”

  The Phillie pitcher, second baseman, and first baseman ran to the second-base side. The catcher and shortstop ran to third base. The whole Phillies team was lined up with one goal in mind—to get Jackie. Even the outfielders ran in to help out.

  Everybody knows what the fielders are supposed to do in a rundown—chase the runner back to the base and tag him there, using the fewest number of throws possible. A ball flies faster than a runner runs, so it should be a simple matter to tag him out.

  The Phillies chased Jackie back toward second, but as soon as they threw the ball there, he reversed direction and headed for third. They threw to third, and he reversed direction again.

  As the Phillies chased him, Jackie dashed back and forth as if he had an on/off switch to change directions. After five throws, the Phillies were bumping into each other.

  Finally, one of the Phillies dropped the ball. Jackie slid face first into third base, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Brooklyn fans went crazy.

  In the Phillie dugout, Ben Chapman whacked a bat against the wall. Not only had Jackie humiliated his entire team, but now he represented the winning run at third with nobody out.

  The Phillies went back to their positions, their heads down. Schoolboy Rowe was trying to keep calm, but you could tell he was fuming. He had pitched a great game, a shutout, and now he was in danger of becoming the losing pitcher.

  “I’m gonna steal home now!” Jackie taunted. “Don’t think I won’t try!”

  “I’m gonna steal home now!” Jackie yelled. “Don’t think I won’t try!”

  He would have, too, I had no doubt. But Hermanski lined the next pitch to left for a single. Jackie slid home just ahead of the tag. Dodgers 1, Phillies 0.

  When the Dodgers took the field in the top of the ninth inning, the Phillie bench started in on Jackie again.

  “Better not touch his towels, Pee Wee. You might catch a disease.”

  At that comment, Pee Wee Reese left his position at shortstop. I thought he was going to march right into the Phillie dugout and start throwing punches around. But he didn’t. He walked over to first base, where Jackie was standing. Casually, as if he were hanging out with a buddy, he put his arm around Jackie’s shoulder and chatted with him.

  A gasp escaped from the crowd. It didn’t seem like a big deal to me, but everyone else in the ballpark was astonished. I guess they had never seen a white man treat a black man as a friend, as an equal.

  That’s the way the game ended. Dodgers 1, Phillies 0.

  12

  EARLY EXIT

  AS THE DODGERS PILED INTO THE CLUBHOUSE AFTER THE game against the Phillies, something seemed different. They were looser, more relaxed. They looked like a team, I guess. A few of the players even stopped by Jackie’s locker to rehash the game with him.

  By the time Ant and I finished our post-game chores, the players were all gone. I figured I’d get my suitcase, bring it back to Jackie’s place, and prepare for my trip back to Louisville. But before I could get the suitcase out of Jackie’s locker, Ant came up to me. He was holding his copy of Amazing Stories.

  “I was readin’ dis article,” Ant said, showing it to me. “It says in da future it’ll be possible to push a button and travel to any moment in hist’ry. You could actually travel tru time. Whaddaya think about dat?”

  He was staring at me. Was he on to me? Or was he just making conversation? I wasn’t sure.

  “That’s nuts,” I replied nervously. “Nobody can travel through time.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ant asked. “How can you be so sure?”

  “It’s just crazy, that’s all.”

  “If it’s so crazy,” Ant said, reaching into his pocket, “where did this come from?”

  He pulled out a baseball card and shoved it toward my face. It was my Ken Griffey Jr. card! The card I had brought along so I could go back home!

  “You went through my stuff!” I shouted, trying to grab the Griffey card out of his hand. He snatched it back.

  “You came from da future, didn’t ya?” he whispered, a mixture of accusation and astonishment in his voice. “Dat’s why you wear dem funny sneakers! Dat’s why you had to think for a minute when I asked you da president’s name. I’ve been watching you, and I finally figured you out. Dare’s no such player as Ken Griffey Jr. Dare’s no such team as the Seattle Mariners!”

  “Give that back!” I yelled. At that point, I didn’t care what he knew. I only wanted my card back.

  He probably would have given it back if I had played it cool. But I couldn’t. The Griffey card was my ticket home. I knew that if I didn’t get it back from him, I would be stuck in 1947 forever.

  “Come and get it, black boy!” he taunted me, waving the card as he backed around the training table. I ran around the table, but he ran around the other side to keep the table between us.

  I wanted to punch him so badly. But Jackie had warned me not to start any “incidents,” and I had promised him there wouldn’t be any.

  “I’m gonna rip it!” Ant squealed. “I’m gonna tear it into little pieces!”

  I couldn’t help myself. I dove across the training table before he could dart left or right. He held the card out of my reach. I grabbed his belt and socked him in the face. It felt good.

  Ant stepped backward, feeling his jaw. “Ooh, Mr. Robinson wouldn’t like dat,” he teased. “He’s gonna be very mad when he finds out you hit a white boy. They might kick him outta baseball. Maybe they won’t let colored boys back in the game no more. You folks just can’t control your temper, can you?”

  I tried to calm myself. I needed my card back, but I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt Jackie’s chances. Ant wouldn’t let up.

  “You’re pretty uppity, ain’t you?” he said. “You know what they do to uppity Negroes? They take a rope and swing it over a tree. They put a noose at the end and stick your head in the noose. And then they pull the rope. Get it?”

  I didn’t say anything. I wanted to tear his head off.

  “I’m gonna do you a favor,” Ant said. “I’m not gonna tell anybody what just happened here. But you gotta do me a little favor, too.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Tell me who’s gonna win the pennant this year.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. I wouldn’t tell him even if I did know.

  “You’re from the future, ain’tcha? You oughta know who’s gonna win the pennant. If I knew for sure who was gonna win the pennant, I could have my old man bet all the money he’s got on it.”

  “I told you,” I said in my most sincere voice, “I’m not from the future. I don’t know who’s gonna win the pennant.”

  “Then I’m just gonna have to rip your bubblegum card in half.”

  “Wait!” I shouted. He had me over a barrel. “Okay, you win. You’re right. I came from the future. But I honestly don’t know who’s going to win the pennant. I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you all the future Presidents of the United States and your old man can place bets on Election Day.”

  Ant thought it over. “Okay, it’s a deal,” he said, grabbing a pencil and paper. “Let’s hea
r ’em.”

  “Eisenhower…” I said.

  “The general in the war?”

  “Yeah. Then President Kennedy…Johnson…Nixon…Ford.”

  “Wait a minute!” Ant interrupted. “Henry Ford is dead!”

  “Not Henry Ford,” I explained. “Gerald Ford.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Some other guy,” I replied. “Then there was Carter…Reagan…”

  “Reagan!” Ant asked. “Ronald Reagan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait a minute!” Ant said. “Dat guy’s an actor! I saw him in dat football movie Knute Rockne: All American. He ain’t even a good actor. You tellin’ me he’s gonna be President of the United States!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuhgetaboutit,” Ant said. “You’re a liar. The deal’s off.”

  There was no point in trying to talk him into it. I snatched the Griffey card out of his fingers just as he was about to put it away.

  “Give it back!” Ant shouted furiously, advancing on me. “I’m gonna tell everybody you attacked me, blackie! They’ll have you arrested. They’ll string you up. Where are your parents? They’re gonna throw you in an orphanage!”

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” I yelled, backing away from him, “but names will never hurt me.”

  “Fine,” Ant said, “then I’ll use sticks and stones.”

  He grabbed a bat from the rack and swung it at my head. I backed away, but felt the air as the bat whistled in front of my nose. This kid was crazy.

  The clubhouse door was behind me. Ant brought the bat back to take another swing at my head. I reached for the knob and pulled the door open, ducking my head behind it. The bat crashed into the door. I slammed it shut behind me.

  There was no way to get to Jackie’s locker to get my suitcase. I’d have to come back for it later. I was going to have to make a run for it.

  I ran down the corridor until I saw the first door marked EXIT. It was locked. By that time, Ant was out of the clubhouse and running after me with the bat. I made a dash for the next EXIT sign. Luckily it was open, and it led out of Ebbets Field into the streets of Brooklyn.

  “I’m gonna get you!” Ant shouted.

  Not if I could help it. I ran up Bedford Avenue. Some kids had strung a volleyball net across the street and I nearly took my head off running into it. Four or five boys were playing punchball in the street, and I ran right past their game.

  “Colored boy stole my watch!” Ant shouted.

  Stole his watch? I wasn’t even carrying a watch. It didn’t matter. The kids dropped their balls and took off after me.

  They were pretty fast, but I was running for my life. The fastest one was a couple of paces behind me when I passed the Carroll Street sign.

  “Hey! Kid! Stop!”

  It was a policeman. I wasn’t about to stop now. The cop took off after me on foot, blowing a whistle. People on the street stopped what they were doing to stare at me.

  “No colored boy runs that fast that didn’t steal somethin’!” somebody yelled.

  Up ahead I saw a trolley clanking around the intersection of Bedford and Eastern Parkway. The motorman couldn’t hear the commotion. He was working two levers to turn the corner with a grunt and a squeal. A shower of sparks shot off the wheels against the rails, and more sparks flew off the top of the trolley, where a wire drew electricity from some unseen power source.

  I leapt on the tolley, climbed over the seats that weren’t occupied by passengers, and jumped off the other side into the street.

  So that’s why them call them Dodgers, I thought. The streets of Brooklyn were so clogged with trolleys that you had to be a dodger to survive.

  I turned around as I ran down Eastern Parkway. The cop was still fumbling to get past the trolley. I saw a sign that said BROOKLYN BOTANICAL GARDEN and ducked inside.

  My chest was heaving, my heart pounding. I heard a siren, and it sounded like it was heading in my direction. For all I knew, the entire Brooklyn police department was after me.

  There weren’t a lot of choices. I found a shady tree next to some colorful flowers and lay down on the grass beneath it. I clutched my Ken Griffey Jr. card to my chest. All I wanted to do was go home.

  In a few seconds the tingling sensation was on my fingertips. That was the last thing I remembered before losing consciousness.

  13

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, THE FIRST THING I SAW WAS Ken Griffey Jr.

  Not the real Ken Griffey Jr. The poster of him on the wall of my room. I was safe at home, in Louisville. It felt great to be home, especially considering that I almost got killed when I was in 1947.

  The clock said it was 6:32. I bolted out of bed and ran to the mirror.

  I was a white kid again. I had almost forgotten what I looked like. I touched my face just to make sure it was me.

  I tiptoed into Mom’s room. She was still asleep. Her eyes fluttered open when I stepped on a squeaky floorboard.

  “I did it, Mom!” I whispered excitedly. “I went back. I wanted you to know I’m okay.”

  “Did you meet Jackie Robinson?” she asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “Were the good old days as good as people say?”

  “Better, Mom!”

  There was no way I was going to tell Mom everything. If she knew that Ant nearly brained me with a bat, that kids chased me through the streets, or that the cops were after me, she would never let me travel through time again.

  “It was really educational, Mom.”

  I sugarcoated the adventure for her, describing it as if it had been a field trip to a museum. She loves that stuff.

  Mom got up and fixed me some breakfast. When we were done eating, I called Dad up to tell him I was back. He said he would stop over on the way to work, and ten minutes later the doorbell rang.

  When Dad came in, Mom left us alone. She usually leaves when he comes in because when the two of them are in a room together for longer than a few minutes, they inevitably start arguing about something.

  “Did you get some baseball cards?” Dad asked urgently after he closed the door to my room. “Did you fill the suitcase?”

  “I filled it,” I said nervously. I didn’t want to tell him how much the Bond Bread cards were worth, because he would be that much more upset when he found out I wasn’t able to bring them back with me.

  “Where is it?” Dad asked, looking around, rubbing his hands. “Did you get anything good?”

  “It’s in the Dodger clubhouse. Dad, I—”

  Dad pounded one fist against his other one. I knew he was going to be really mad that I hadn’t brought the suitcase back with me, but there was nothing I could do about it. I told him everything that happened, including the part about the police chasing me. I told him all about Ant, and what he did to me.

  “You let that bully push you around?”

  Dad looked at me with disgust and disappointment. He had always taught me to stand up to bullies. It was one of the things Mom and Dad disagreed about. Mom always advised me to walk away from trouble. Dad always said I should fight back, with my fists if necessary. Usually I fight back, and usually it gets me into trouble.

  “It was dangerous,” I told Dad. “It was a different time. I could have been put in an orphanage. Killed, even. You have no idea what it’s like to be black.”

  “No, I don’t,” Dad admitted. “But Jackie Robinson did. Do you think he let anybody bully him? What would have happened if he had run away when the bigots threw beanballs at his head and spiked him?”

  Dad had a point. No matter what they did to him, Jackie never threw a punch. But he couldn’t be intimidated. He commanded respect.

  Dad left. He was angry about the baseball cards. But it was more than that. I had let him down as a man. As he drove away, I decided that I was going to make a return trip to 1947.

  It’s fair to say that Mom was not overjoyed at the idea.

  “Why go back?” she kept asking. �
��You’ve been there, done that.”

  “I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to,” I explained.

  “What unfinished business?”

  “I left my toothbrush,” I joked. “I need to go back and get it.”

  Sometimes I can loosen Mom up with a joke. This, unfortunately, was not one of those times. She crossed her arms in front of her, the international symbol for disapproval.

  “Oh, come on, Mom. Everything went fine last time.”

  “Where will you eat?”

  “At Jackie’s,” I told her. “His wife is a great cook. She’s a nurse, too, so if anything happens to me I’ll be in good hands.”

  After a lot of skillful arguing on my part, I convinced Mom to let me go back to 1947 once more.

  “Now, don’t go spending the whole season back there,” she warned. “You’ve got school next week.”

  “I’ll be lying in my bed tomorrow morning,” I assured her.

  There were a few things I had to do in preparation for the trip. First, I had to go back to Flip’s Fan Club and ask Flip Valentini if I could hold on to his Jackie Robinson card for a few more days.

  When I walked into the store, it looked different from the way I remembered it. The wall behind the counter had always been covered with posters. Now it was covered with dozens of baseball cards, professionally mounted and framed. I leaned over the counter to get a better look.

  Gil Hodges…Carl Furillo…Pee Wee Reese…Jackie Robinson…Duke Snider…Roy Campanella…Preacher Roe. All Brooklyn Dodgers from the 1940s and 1950s.

  “Where’d you get all these cards, Flip?” I asked. I didn’t tell him that I’d met him as a child fifty years earlier. He would have thought I was insane.

  “Whaddaya mean?” He looked at me strangely. “I always had ’em. I saved ’em from when I was a kid.”

  “I thought your mom threw all your cards away.”

  “Joey, are you feelin’ all right? These cards have been on this wall ever since you started coming into the shop. If my mom had thrown my collection away, I’d a murdered her!”