Jim & Me Read online

  “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.

  16

  The Indian in the Batter’s Box

  “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 decathlon…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.

  17

  Meeting with an Old Friend

  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 Louisvi
lle. 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.

  18

  A Bum

  BOBBY AND I RUSHED THROUGH THE TURNSTILE AND OUT the front gate of the Polo Grounds, elbowing our way through the crowds. If Jim killed himself, it wouldn’t be John McGraw’s fault for being mean to him. It would be our fault for not saving him. And if we didn’t save Jim, Bobby was a goner. That would be my fault alone, because I was the one who had brought him to 1913 in the first place.

  I must admit there were times I wished Bobby Fuller would vanish off the face of the earth. But deep down inside, I didn’t want to make that happen. We had our ups and downs, but he had actually been an okay time-traveling companion. I also felt sorry for him because he was addicted to drugs. And he did save my life from that wrecking ball.

  We ran down Eighth Avenue to that bar where Jim had been drinking before the game. He seemed to be a regular there, so we figured he might have gone back. But when we rushed in the door, we didn’t see Jim anywhere.

  “Is Jim Thorpe here?” I asked the bartender breathlessly.

  “I kicked him out ’bout ten minutes ago,” he replied. “Drunk again.”

  The guy looked like he was mad. I don’t get that. It’s a bar. They sell alcohol. What do they expect to happen when people drink it? Isn’t getting customers drunk the whole purpose of a bar?

  “We’ve gotta find him!” Bobby said. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

  “I think Jimmy’s living at the Trinity Hotel till he finds an apartment,” the bartender told us. “It’s ten blocks downtown. If you find him, tell him he owes me for the whiskey. I don’t know what that guy does with all the money the Giants pay him. He’s always broke.”

  I knew what he did with the money. He gave it away to total strangers on the street who needed it more than he did. We thanked the bartender and ran out of there.

  It seemed like we were always late. We had been too late to stop him from entering the Olympics. And if he had any plans to kill himself, we might be too late to stop those too.

  Bobby and I ran eight city blocks—I counted—when we passed a park on our right. The sun was starting to set. There was a big, grassy field, and people were strolling, walking dogs, and reading newspapers on benches. Bobby suddenly slowed down, and then stopped running entirely.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You need a rest?”

  “Look,” Bobby said.

  There were some boys in the park playing football. Touch football, three on three.

  “You want to play football now?” I asked in dis-belief.

  “No, moron,” Bobby said. “Check out the guy sitting under the tree.”

  It was Jim! He was alive!

  Jim was watching the boys play football. We ran over and sat on the grass next to him. He was obviously drunk. I wasn’t sure he could even stand up if he tried.

  “Now this is my game,” he said when he noticed us, slurring his words badly. “I was a two-time All-American in college, y’know.”

  “Jim, let us take you to your hotel,” I said gently.

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p; “I could throw a pass 90 yards,” Jim continued. “When I ran with the ball, guys would try to tackle me and I’d drag ’em halfway across the field. One time I punted and ran 50 yards to catch my own punt. Those are facts.”

  “We believe you,” Bobby said.

  “We had this trick play we called the Dig,” Jim whispered, like he didn’t want anybody to hear. “Two guys would go out for a pass, one short and the other guy about ten yards deeper. The quarterback would throw a pass to the first guy, but he wouldn’t catch it.”

  “He’d drop it on purpose?” Bobby asked.

  “No,” Jim said, “he’d tip it backward over his head. The defense would go to tackle him, leaving the second guy free to catch the ball and score. That’s the Dig.”

  “It’s genius!” Bobby said.

  “Oldest trick in the book,” said Jim.

  When Jim was talking about football, a look of peace and contentment came over his face. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but he seemed more relaxed. He almost looked like a different person.

  “Why don’t you quit baseball?” Bobby asked him. “That’s what I did. I bet you’d be a star in the NFL.”

  “The what?” Jim asked.

  Of course Jim couldn’t join the NFL, I realized. There was no NFL in 1913. There was no NBA or NHL either. There were basically two sports athletes could earn money playing—baseball and boxing.

  The brief peaceful look on Jim’s face vanished when he turned away from watching the football game. His eyes got all squinty and bitter again.

  “Six months ago everybody called me the greatest athlete in the world,” he said. “Now they call me a bum.”

  “You’re not a bum,” I told him.

  “Whenever I mess up, they say my brain isn’t as smart as a white man’s,” Jim said. “And when I do good, they say I’m a savage who was raised with a fighting spirit. But I’m just a man, like any other.”

  Jim may have been drunk, but I didn’t doubt the truth of what he was saying.

  “The white man stereotyped Indians to justify killing us and stealing our land,” Bobby said.