by Dan Gutman
“Whydya need a ’47 Robinson card so badly?” Flip asked, looking at me a little suspiciously. “And whydya only need it fera few days?”
“I’m a Dodger fan,” I said, tipping my cap, “and it’s kind of a secret.”
Flip looked me over, as if he were trying to decide if he could trust me or not.
“I shouldn’t be doin’ dis,” he finally said, putting the card in a plastic holder. “But I’m a lousy businessman and you love the Bums. Take the card. No charge. Bring it back in a few days and we’ll call it square. Does that sound like a deal to you?”
“Yeah!”
“Now get outta here before I change my mind. And take good care of that card, y’hear?” Flip warned, pointing his stubby finger at me. “If you lose it or damage it, I’m gonna havta charge you for it.”
We shook hands. I put the card in my backpack and pedaled home with my treasure.
4
GOING BACK, BACK, BACK…
MOM WAS NOT ENTIRELY SUPPORTIVE WHEN I TOLD HER OF my plan to go back to 1947 to meet Jackie Robinson.
“N-O,” she spelled. “No more time travel. Out of the question.”
“But, Mom!”
“What if somebody ticks you off and you lose your temper in the past?” she asked. “You could get into a lot of trouble.”
“I won’t lose my temper,” I promised.
“What if you get hurt? The doctors in 1947 didn’t know what we know today. They didn’t have our medicines, CAT scans…”
“I’m not gonna get hurt!” I assured her.
“What about school?”
“I won’t miss any school. Last time I went back in time, it was the next morning here when I came back. And I’m gonna do a report on it, Mom! For history class. It’s gonna be educational.”
Mom’s a sucker for anything educational. I could ride my bike off a cliff, and if I could convince her that I did it so I would learn about the physics of falling objects, she would probably say it was all right. But this time she wouldn’t bite.
“Joey, I said no.”
“You can’t stop me, y’know,” I announced angrily. “I could just go and you would never even know I was gone.”
“Joe, when I wake up in the morning, I expect you to be in your bed. Every day. That’s all I have to say.”
“I will be, Mom. I promise.”
Mom gave me one of those hugs where she won’t let go for a long time.
“I know I can’t stop you if you really want to do this,” she said, looking me in the eye. “If you go against my wishes, just do me one favor—be careful. And please bring along a coat.”
“Baseball season begins in April, Mom. It’s springtime.”
“What about global warming?” she pointed out. “They say the earth is a lot warmer than it used to be. There’s a hole in the ozone layer now.”
I rolled my eyes and she caught me.
“I just worry about you, Joey,” Mom said, mussing up my hair. “You’ve never been to New York City. It’s dangerous. What if you run into Al Capone or some other criminal?”
“I’m just going to meet Jackie Robinson, Mom. Then I’ll come right home. Besides, people always say how much safer New York City used to be a long time ago. Isn’t that why the past is called the good old days?”
A few nights later, after dinner, the doorbell rang. Mom motioned for me to get it, so I knew it had to be my dad. My parents have been divorced for a couple of years now. They’re on speaking terms, but Mom prefers not to speak with Dad if she doesn’t have to. Dad lives in Louisville too, and we get together once a week or so.
Mom scurried off to the kitchen. I let Dad inside. He was carrying a suitcase. I noticed that my initials—J.S.—were embroidered on it.
“Hey buddy,” he said, overly enthusiastic. “Mom told me you got the itch to travel through time again!”
“Yeah, I think I’m ready to try another trip, Dad.”
“In that case, I brought you something.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a baseball card, and handed it to me. I recognized the face of Babe Ruth right away. I flipped the card over and looked at the back. It was from the 1930s, and probably worth a hundred bucks or more.
Dad’s a machinist at a Louisville factory. He doesn’t make a lot of money, not enough to be throwing around presents like this one.
“Wow!” I exclaimed.
“I want you to have it,” he said. “You can use it, you know.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Dad grew up in New York and he’s always been a huge Yankees fan. His favorite player of all time was Babe Ruth.
When Dad was a kid, he told me, he and his friends would wait outside Yankee Stadium after games for the players to leave the clubhouse. Then they would ambush the players for autographs before they were able to get to their cars. Dad built up his autograph collection over the years and now he’s got just about all the Yankee greats, except for Ruth. Babe Ruth died before my dad was even born, and his autograph is very expensive.
Ever since we discovered I could travel through time using baseball cards, Dad had been hinting around that I should pay a visit to Babe Ruth and get his autograph. That’s why he got me the Ruth card.
“Did I ever tell you the story of Ruth’s called shot?” Dad asked.
Only a million times. In the fifth inning of game three of the 1932 World Series, the Babe hit a monstrous home run over the center-field fence at Wrigley Field in Chicago. According to baseball legend, just before the pitch Ruth pointed toward center field and said he was going to sock the ball there.
Some people say Ruth called his shot. Others say he never even pointed at the fence at all. There’s a film that was taken of that at-bat, but it’s too fuzzy to tell exactly what’s going on. Dad wanted me to go back to 1932 and find out if Babe Ruth really called his shot or not.
“It’s the biggest mystery in all of sports, Joe,” he said excitedly. “And you’re the only person in the world who can solve it.”
“Dad, I really want to meet Jackie Robinson,” I said. “Maybe I’ll visit Babe Ruth another time.”
Dad sighed. He knew I’m pretty stubborn and he wasn’t going to talk me into it.
“What’s in the suitcase?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s empty.”
“Dad, I already have a suitcase.”
“It’s not for your clothes,” he whispered, like he didn’t want Mom to hear.
I knew my dad pretty well. I had a feeling about what he had in mind.
“Joey, when you go back in time, I want you to buy up as many baseball cards as you can,” he said, taking out his wallet and peeling off a ten-dollar bill. “Fill the suitcase with them. Then bring the cards back with you. Can you imagine how much a suitcase full of mint condition cards from the 1940s will be worth in today’s market? Thousands.”
I looked at him. My aim in going to 1947 wasn’t to make money. I just wanted to meet Jackie Robinson. What he was asking me to do probably wasn’t illegal. But something about it didn’t feel right. And besides, I told him, baseball cards weren’t even printed in 1947.
“If Bond Bread made a set of Robinson cards,” Dad insisted, “I’m sure other companies printed baseball cards too. People had cards from before the war. They’ll probably give them to you for nothing.”
My dad is my dad. I took the ten-dollar bill and stuffed it in my pocket.
I filled a duffel bag with T-shirts and blue jeans, clothes that I hoped wouldn’t attract too much notice in 1947. I also packed my toothbrush, my Game Boy—stuff I would bring with me on any long trip.
I had almost forgotten to pack the most important thing—a baseball card. Just as I needed a 1947 card to get to 1947, I would need a present-day card to get home again. Baseball cards, to me, were sort of like plane tickets. They took me to the past, and then back to the present.
I went through my card collection. It didn’t really matter which current-day
card I chose. Even a card of the worst benchwarmer in the big leagues would get me back home when I needed to return.
No, I decided. When I travel, I want to travel in style. I pulled out my best card. Junior. Ken Griffey Jr. would get me back home when I was ready to leave the past. I slipped the Griffey card in my wallet.
Mom knocked on my door. I thought she was going to try to talk me out of taking my trip one more time. She didn’t. She simply handed me a Styrofoam cooler, undoubtedly packed with enough food to last a year.
“You be careful now, you hear?” she said.
I promised that I would, and she put the cooler at the end of my bed. After I put my duffel bag and dad’s empty suitcase on the bed too, there wasn’t a whole lot of room left for me. I squeezed on somehow and took out the Jackie Robinson card. Mom kissed me on the forehead and shut the door behind her.
I held the card with both hands against my chest and thought of the year 1947. The Brooklyn Dodgers. New York.
It wasn’t long before I felt that tingling sensation in my fingertips, and then all over my body. It was a pleasant feeling, almost like a cat purring in your ear.
Jackie Robinson! What was he like? I wondered. What must it have been like for him? What did he have to put up with, being the first African-American to play in the big leagues in the twentieth century? I wished I could see what he experienced.
And then I dropped off to sleep.
5
A SLIGHT CHANGE
WHEN YOU SEE TIME TRAVEL STORIES IN THE MOVIES, THE person who travels through time always seems to wind up exactly where he was planning to go. If he wanted to visit Napoleon, his time machine takes him to Napoleon’s living room. If she wanted to witness the invention of fire, she just happens to “land” at the exact moment some caveperson accidently smacked two rocks together to ignite the first spark.
Uncanny, isn’t it? That’s the movies for you. In the real world, though, things don’t always work out so perfectly.
When I lay down on my bed and prepared for my trip, I was expecting I’d wake up at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, New York. That’s where the Dodgers used to play. Or maybe I would wind up at Jackie Robinson’s house. Or wherever he happened to be at the time.
But when I woke up, I realized immediately that I wasn’t at any of those places. It was totally dark and cold. I was outdoors, at night. The ground was hard. Concrete. Shards of glass were littered around. There were noises of cars honking. I was scared.
“Hello?” I whispered, hesitantly. “Anyone here?”
Somebody groaned. The voice came from about twenty feet away. Carefully, I stood up and felt around me. All the stuff I had brought along seemed to be there. I felt my way toward the voice. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. I could make out the form of a man.
“Are you okay, mister?” I asked.
The guy groaned again. He was lying on his side, clutching his arm. When I got closer, I could tell he was a black man. He was bleeding pretty heavily from his left arm near the hand.
“A broken bottle,” he whispered. “I tried to fight them off….”
My mom told me she has seen people walk into the emergency room after getting attacked. The natural reaction is to use your hands to protect yourself. Unfortunately, that exposes your wrists, the site of a major artery leading away from the heart. If the attacker has a knife or some other sharp object, that artery can be opened pretty easily. If you lose too much blood, it’s all over.
I took off my belt as quickly as I could and wrapped it around the guy’s forearm. Mom told me the important thing to do when an artery is open is to block off the blood flow somewhere between the wound and the heart. I tightened the belt around the guy’s arm and held it there. In a little while the bleeding seemed to have stopped and the guy was able to sit up.
“Thank you, brother,” he said. “I hate to think what mighta happened if you hadn’ta come along.”
“It was nothing,” I said.
“Saving a man’s life? I’d say that’s somethin’.”
“Are you Jackie Robinson?”
“No,” he groaned. “Name is Bankhead. Dan Bankhead.” He stuck out his right hand—his good hand—and I shook it.
“Joe Stoshack,” I said.
He didn’t let go of my hand, so I grabbed on tight and pulled him up to a standing position. He was about six feet tall, and athletically built.
Dan Bankhead? What the heck was I doing in a dark alley with this guy? I wanted to meet Jackie Robinson. Something must have gone terribly wrong. I must have messed up somehow. Maybe I didn’t go back to 1947. I had no idea where I was, or when.
“If you want,” Bankhead said, “I can take you to Jackie Robinson.”
“You know Jackie Robinson?” I asked.
“Follow me, kid.”
Bankhead picked up my duffel bag with his good hand. I grabbed the cooler and my suitcase. I didn’t want anyone to touch the suitcase. People might start asking questions. Nobody walks around with an empty suitcase unless they’re planning to fill it with something.
Bankhead led me out of the alley. As soon as we reached the opening, I was nearly blinded by the light. Flashing signs. Enormous billboards. There must have been ten theaters on the street. ETHEL MERMAN IN ANNIE GET YOUR GUN announced one of them in flashing lights. BRIGADOON. FINIAN’S RAINBOW. On top of one building was a giant billboard of a cup of coffee, and real steam pouring out of it.
I had landed in New York City, I was sure of that.
In Louisville at night, most everybody’s indoors. Watching TV. Sleeping. Whatever. Here, it was like daytime. There were people all over the place, rushing around as if they had a place to go. The men all wore hats. Old cars filled the street. Big yellow taxis, with checkerboard patterns running down the sides.
“You must be new in town,” commented Bankhead. “Only tourists gawk like that.”
“Where are we?” I asked.
Then I noticed a street sign at the intersection. It said 43RD STREET in one direction and BROADWAY in the other.
“Times Square,” Bankhead replied. “The center of the universe.”
“I thought New York City was supposed to be safe in the good old days.”
“The good old days?” Bankhead chuckled. “Good for white folks, maybe. Ain’t so hot for Negroes who stray outta Harlem.”
“Why did they do this to you?”
“Three guesses,” Bankhead said. “And the first two don’t count.”
He led me across the street and we walked down Broadway in the direction of 42nd Street. There were more theaters, movie theaters. Bob Hope in My Favorite Brunette. Abbott and Costello in Buck Privates Come Home. Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life.
“My dad has that on tape,” I remarked.
Bankhead looked at me strangely. Oops! I’d better be more careful about what I say, I realized. They didn’t have VCRs in 1947. For all I knew, they didn’t even have TV. I wasn’t sure how people would react if they found out I came from the future.
As we walked past 40th Street and 39th Street, there were fewer lights and the neighborhood became noticeably less busy. Bankhead told me he was a baseball player, a pitcher with the Memphis Red Sox in the Negro Leagues. He had been a Marine during World War II. His twenty-seventh birthday would be coming up in two weeks.
“With a little luck, I’m gonna celebrate it by pitching for the Dodgers,” he said proudly.
Fat chance. I knew perfectly well that Jackie Robinson was the only African-American on the Dodgers.
At the corner of 36th Street and Broadway there was a shoe store. The lights weren’t on inside, but as we walked by I saw a black kid in the window. He looked to be about my age.
There was something strange about the kid, I noticed. I stopped and looked at him. He looked straight at me without moving. Maybe he’s robbing the store, I thought. Should I call a policeman?
The kid just kept staring at me. If he was robbing the place, he wouldn’t waste t
ime looking at me. I waved to the kid. He waved back at me, like he knew me.
As I turned my head to the left to tell Bankhead about the black kid in the window, I noticed the kid turned his head at the same time. I turned my head to the other side. So did the black kid.
Wait a minute! That was no window! It was a mirror. I was looking at my reflection!
I quickly brought my hand up to my face. The skin was dark.
I had turned into a black kid!
Frantically, I touched the skin on my arms. It felt like it always did, but the darkness wouldn’t rub off. I looked in the mirror again and touched my hair.
I must have let out a horrified gasp, because Bankhead and a few passersby looked at me curiously.
“Joe, are you okay?” Bankhead asked. “You’re white as a ghost.”
If he only knew!
“Come on, Joe,” Bankhead said, a certain annoyance in his voice now. “I don’t have all night. Do you want to meet Jackie Robinson or not?”
What happened, it occurred to me, wasn’t so crazy. The first time I traveled back through time, I had gone to bed wishing I was a grown-up. When I woke up in 1909, I was one. This time, I went to bed wishing I could experience what Jackie Robinson experienced when he was breaking into the big leagues. The only way that could happen would be if I became an African-American. So when I woke up in 1947, I was black.
Traveling back in time wasn’t quite as simple as I had imagined.
6
THE ROBINSON FAMILY
I WAS STILL TRYING TO GET PAST THE INITIAL SHOCK OF realizing I was a black kid when Dan Bankhead stopped at 34th Street. A huge building took up the entire block there. The sign across the front read MACY’S.
I’d heard of Macy’s. They have that Thanksgiving Day parade every year. It was probably the most famous store in the world. Jackie Robinson lived in Macy’s?
Bankhead led me across Broadway to the other side of the street. He stopped in front of a much smaller building. There was a small sign on it: MCALPIN HOTEL. We walked up the steps and into the lobby.
