Jackie & Me

by Dan Gutman

  So Flip took the advice I had given him in 1947! In one small way, I had changed the future. It boggled my mind.

  Before leaving, I asked Flip if I could keep the Robinson card for a few more days. He said it would be fine.

  I also went to the library to copy a few articles about Jackie Robinson. I might need them, I figured, to convince him I was who I claimed to be.

  Finally, I bought a pair of cheap Keds. I didn’t want Ant—or anybody else—to know I was from the future.

  Ready for my return journey, I made myself comfortable on my bed. The Griffey card was safe in my wallet, the Robinson card in my hands.

  “Back to 1947,” I said to myself as I waited for the tingles to come. “But this time, let me stay a white kid.”

  I thought back to that last game at Ebbets Field. It was great when Pee Wee Reese broke the ice with Jackie by throwing an arm around his shoulder. I wondered if the rest of the Dodgers ever came to accept him as one of them. That was my last thought before the tingles came, and I drifted off to sleep.

  14

  PROOF

  THINGS JUST NEVER SEEM TO TURN OUT THE WAY YOU expect.

  I thought I was going to wake up in Manhattan, like I did last time. Instead, I found myself standing in front of a house on a residential street. Kids were playing stoopball next door. It looked like Brooklyn. A sign on the corner read MCDONOUGH STREET.

  It was chilly. I was glad I listened to Mom and brought a coat, but wished I’d brought my winter coat. A car was parked at the curb, so I looked in the rearview mirror. Yeah, I was still a white kid.

  A rolled-up copy of the New York Times was on the stoop. I picked it up to check the date—October 4, 1947.

  October? Six months of 1947 had passed by! Baseball season was over!

  Then I noticed the lead article on the front page:

  It was the middle of the World Series! A “Subway Series”! The Dodgers were playing the Yankees, who led three games to two.

  Farther down the page it talked about the tremendous season Jackie had. After he broke out of his slump, he went on a twenty-one-game hitting streak and finished the season at .297. He led the Dodgers in homers. He led the whole league in stolen bases, stealing twice as many as any other player.

  I walked up the steps of the house and rang the buzzer. There must be a reason I landed here, I figured. Maybe the people who live here can tell me where Jackie Robinson is.

  But it was Jackie Robinson who answered the door.

  “What can I do for you, son?”

  “Jackie, it’s me, Joe Stoshack,” I said. “Remember me?”

  “Joe Stoshack?” Jackie looked puzzled. “Stosh is a Negro boy.”

  “I know, but it’s really me,” I explained. “I can prove it to you. You used to live in the McAlpin Hotel in Manhattan.”

  “Lots of people know that,” Jackie said. “We moved. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  I searched my mind to think of something only Jackie and I knew.

  “Remember when I told you I came from the future?” I asked. “And I bet you that you would win the Rookie of the Year Award? And you took the bet because there was no Rookie of the Year award?”

  “Yes…”

  “They started a Rookie of the Year Award, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you won it, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So doesn’t that prove I’m Joe Stoshack?”

  Jackie stared at me like he was trying to look inside my head. He still wasn’t entirely convinced, I could tell.

  “I slept on your couch,” I said desperately. “You like to have a late night snack of bread dunked in milk with sugar.”

  Jackie looked at me with amazement. “Did you really come from the future?” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Where have you been?” he asked. “You disappeared that day. How did you…” He touched the skin on my face, as if he wanted to see if I was wearing a mask.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “Did you happen to find a suitcase in your locker back in April?”

  “Yeah, the initials J.S. were on it, so I figured it was yours. It’s upstairs. I brought it home in case you showed up again.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. My million-dollar baseball cards were safe. Jackie led me inside his new apartment. It was a nicer place, with a lot more room. Fan mail was scattered all over.

  “Rae!” Jackie hollered. “Guess who’s here!”

  Mrs. Robinson came out carrying Jackie Jr. on her hip. He was a lot bigger than I remembered him.

  “Da da!” Jackie Jr. gurgled.

  “I give up,” Mrs. Robinson said. “Who are you?”

  “Joe Stoshack, ma’am.”

  “Very funny,” she replied.

  I had anticipated the Robinsons wouldn’t believe I was the same Joe Stoshack, or that I had come from the future. That’s why I photocopied a few articles while I was back home in Louisville. I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it to them.

  As he read it, Jackie’s eyes got all watery and I thought he was going to cry. Rachel simply stared at me, like she thought she might be in the middle of a dream or something.

  “I have so many questions I want to ask you,” Jackie said once he’d regained his composure.

  “You probably want to know if the Dodgers are going to win the World Series, right?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied immediately. “I’ll know that in a couple of days. I want to know what America is going to be like for my people in the future. Will conditions be better? Worse? The same? Is everything I went through this season going to make a difference?”

  “You made a difference,” I said. “A big difference.”

  “Prejudice will be gone?” he asked hopefully.

  “Things will be better,” I answered honestly. “Much better. In my time, there are lots of Negro ballplayers. Most people don’t even think about what color an athlete’s skin is. Negroes manage baseball teams. There are Negro mayors and governors and police chiefs.”

  Jackie’s eyes danced with hope.

  “But there are still a lot of problems,” I continued. “Racism. Riots. A lot of white people still hate Negroes. And a lot of Negroes still hate whites. Bad stuff happens. Nobody seems to know the solution to the problem, but a lot of people of both races are searching for it.”

  Jackie looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and determination.

  15

  GAME 6

  ON THE RIDE TO YANKEE STADIUM, JACKIE FILLED ME IN. The Yankees won the first two games of the World Series, and the Dodgers took the next two. In Game 5 the Yankees squeaked out a 2-1 victory. So if the Dodgers lost today, the Series would be over. If they won, it would be all tied up at three games each, and Game 7 would be played tomorrow.

  I had seen “The House That Ruth Built” on TV, of course. My dad always watched whenever the Yankees were on. But as Jackie and I walked inside Yankee Stadium for the first time and I stood at home plate, I felt shivers. The Stadium looked beautiful, all dressed up in red, white, and blue bunting. Jackie went to put on his uniform.

  You could feel the history in Yankee Stadium. This was where Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig made their famous farewell speeches, I marveled. This was where Ruth hit his sixtieth home run in 1927, and where Roger Maris would hit his sixty-first to top the record in 1961. Above the upper deck, ten World Championship pennants flapped in the wind.

  I had seen “The House That Ruth Built” on TV, of course. But as Jackie and I walked into Yankee Stadium for the first time, I felt shivers.

  The monuments out in center field looked like they were a mile away. Death Valley, it was called. The outfield seemed to be twice as deep as the one at Ebbets Field. I was standing there drinking it all in when somebody tapped me on the shoulder.

  “You the new batboy?”

  I turned around. It was Ant.

  “Yeah,” I said confidently. “I’m the new batboy.”

 
“At least you ain’t colored,” he said. “At the beginning of the season some black boy walked in here and told me he was the new batboy. I hired him and he ran out on me.”

  Ant peered at me for a moment.

  “Hey, ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “In the streets.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Joe,” I said simply.

  Ant told me to haul out the bats, balls, gloves, sunglasses, pine tar, resin bag, chewing tobacco, and all the other stuff the players needed. I knew the routine.

  When the Dodgers filed into the visitor’s clubhouse, I almost didn’t recognize the team. Even though they were behind three games to two, they were loose, chatting, laughing, and snapping towels at one another. There were card games going on—poker, bridge, hearts. Jackie was right in the middle of everything, one of the guys.

  “Hey Hughie,” Jackie asked Hugh Casey, the big, apple-cheeked relief pitcher, “how’d you strike out DiMaggio the other day?”

  “Fooled ’im with my knuckler, Jack,” Casey replied.

  “I didn’t know you had a knuckler.”

  “Neither did DiMaggio!” Casey chortled, and both men doubled over laughing.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. The two of them were sharing a joke. Like two white guys would. Like two black guys would. But not like a white guy and a black guy ever would. At least not in 1947.

  Dixie Walker came over to Jackie with a bat. I almost expected him to hit Jackie with it, but instead he held the bat up as if he were about to swing at a pitch.

  “Last night I was layin’ in bed thinkin’,” Dixie told Jackie. “You got a real wide stance. I bet you’d be able to handle the curve better if you didn’t stride so far.”

  “Like this?” Jackie asked, demonstrating his batting stance.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll try it,” Jackie said. “Thanks, Dixie.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Dixie Walker sharing batting tips with Jackie Robinson? I thought I was hallucinating.

  Some black guy walked over to Jackie, and Jackie glanced at me as they spoke. The guy looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him. Jackie motioned me over.

  “Joe, I want to introduce you to somebody,” Jackie said. “He joined the team in August. This is my roomie on road trips—Dan Bankhead.”

  Dan Bankhead! He was the guy I helped in the alley when I first arrived in 1947! He made it to the Dodgers, just as he had hoped. I shook Bankhead’s hand, and didn’t bother mentioning we had met before.

  When the Dodgers filed out on the field for practice, every seat in Yankee Stadium was already filled. I had never seen so many people in one place at one time. Somebody said the attendance was more than seventy thousand.

  The Yankee fans were nothing like the Dodger fans at Ebbets Field. They were more reserved, almost dignified. They clapped their hands respectfully when they saw Jackie, like they were at a tennis match or something. It was like the difference between a fancy restaurant and McDonald’s. The food might be better at the fancy place, but somehow you have a better time at McDonald’s.

  The Dodgers warmed up along the third-base side. There was no need for Jackie to find a partner. He played catch with Pee Wee Reese, Eddie Stanky, Carl Furillo, and Gene Hermanski. Manager Barney Shotton filled out his lineup card in the Dodger dugout.

  Then the Yankees came out of their clubhouse. The Bronx Bombers! Joe DiMaggio! The great DiMaggio was standing there—in flesh and blood—not more than ninety feet from me! Phil Rizzuto! Yogi Berra! Tommy Henrich! These were the guys my dad always told me about.

  The program said the Yankees won nineteen games in a row during the season and cruised to the American League pennant by fourteen games. They led the league in homers, triples, runs, batting average, and slugging average. They were awesome.

  There was a buzz in the stands. I stepped out of the dugout to see what was going on. A large man wearing a long camel’s hair coat and walking with a cane was being helped to a box seat behind the Yankee dugout. He looked like he was about seventy years old.

  “Who’s the old coot?” I asked Ant.

  “Can’t hardly recognize him, can ya? The poor slob is dyin’ from cancer. That’s Babe Ruth.”

  Babe Ruth! The most famous player in the history of baseball! A dead living legend! I rose from the bench as if a magnet pulled me up. I had to meet him.

  “Hey kid,” one of the Dodgers said to me, “we need another pine tar rag in the on-deck circle.”

  “In a minute,” I said.

  I grabbed a pen and hopped the fence to where Ruth was sitting. His wife and a few other people surrounded him, but I walked right up to him anyway.

  “Babe,” I said, thrusting my scorecard and pen at him, “can I have your autograph?”

  “Mr. Ruth is tired, sonny,” his wife said.

  But Ruth silenced her with a wave of his trembling hand, taking my scorecard with the other. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

  “Joe Stoshack,” I said. “But make it out to my dad. His name is Bill.”

  “Did your dad ever see me play?” Ruth asked as he scribbled on the scorecard.

  “No,” I replied, “he was too young.”

  Ruth stopped writing and looked at me, puzzled. I realized right away that what I’d said made no sense to him. Scrambling to recover, I said something even dumber.

  “But maybe I’ll get to see you play one day.”

  “I don’t think so, kid,” Ruth replied with a chuckle. “My playing days are long gone. Long gone.”

  He handed me back my scorecard and turned to face the field. I put it in my pocket and started to walk away, but then I remembered something.

  “Mr. Ruth,” I said. “Can I ask you one question?”

  “Sure, kid.”

  “Did you call your shot in the 1932 World Series?”

  Ruth looked at me. At last I would hear the answer to the biggest mystery in baseball history. A smile crept across his face.

  “That’s for me to know, kid, and you to find out.”

  He leaned his head back and let out a bellowing laugh. I rushed back to the dugout. The Yankees and Dodgers had lined up along the baselines. Nobody moved away from Jackie Robinson this time. Guy Lombardo and his orchestra played the National Anthem. The ump shouted, “Play ball!” and the Yankees took the field.

  In the first inning, the Dodgers jumped all over Allie Reynolds, the Yankee starter. Eddie Stanky led off with a lined single to left. Pee Wee Reese watched two pitches out of the strike zone, then poked a single up the middle. Jackie stepped up to the plate. The Yankee infielders moved in to defend against the bunt. But Jackie wasn’t bunting. He blooped one to left and it dropped in near the foul line.

  The bases were loaded with nobody out. The Dodgers smelled blood. They could break the game wide open from the start.

  Dixie Walker, unfortunately, hit a sharp grounder to short. Phil Rizzuto scooped it up. As he raced to tag second, Jackie came barreling in and knocked him off his feet. Rizzuto got off the throw to complete the double play, but he paid the price. He was on the ground for five minutes before he was able to struggle to his feet.

  Stanky scored on the play. Reese came home on a passed ball and the Dodgers jumped out to a 2-0 lead.

  Brooklyn scored two more runs in the third inning when Reese, Jackie, and Dixie hit back-to-back-to-back doubles. The Dodgers led 4-0, and that sent Allie Reynolds to the showers. It looked like the Bums might run away with the game.

  Lefthander Vic Lombardi, the Dodger starter, didn’t allow a base runner for the first two innings. But the Yankees roared back with five hits in the third. When all was said and done, the Yankees had knocked Vic Lombardi out of the game and tied it at 4-4.

  Ralph Branca came in to pitch for Brooklyn. The Yankees greeted him with three singles in the fourth inning and it was Yanks 5, Dodgers 4.

  Nobody scored in the
fifth. When the Dodgers came to bat in the sixth, there was a sense of urgency on the bench. Time was running out. The Yankees had already brought in their top reliever, lefty Joe Page.

  Jackie came barreling in and knocked him off his feet. Rizzuto got off the throw to complete the double play, but he paid the price.

  Bruce Edwards started things off with a single to right. Carl Furillo followed with a double in the left-field corner. Runners on second and third. Cookie Lavagetto came up to pinch-hit. He hit a long sacrifice fly to right, scoring Edwards.

  Tie game. I heard a few sighs of relief in the Brooklyn dugout.

  Bobby Bragan was called on to pinch-hit, and he doubled to left. That scored Furillo and put the Dodgers up 6-5. On the bench, the Dodgers were yelling and screaming. Even though he was a pitcher, Dan Bankhead was brought in to run for Bragan. On the mound, Joe Page kicked the dirt angrily.

  The top of the order was up for the Dodgers. Eddie Stanky pounded a single to right. Bankhead held up at third. Stanky advanced to second base on the throw home. Now the Dodgers could do some real damage.

  Joe Page was out of the game. Bobo Newsom came in to pitch for the Yankees.

  Pee Wee Reese was up. Newsom delivered and Reese smacked a single to center, his third hit of the day. Bankhead and Stanky crossed the plate. Dodgers 8, Yankees 5.

  It was a great battle, and I was enjoying every minute of it. When the Dodgers made their third out, I plopped on the bench next to Al Gionfriddo. He was a little guy, not much bigger than me. His eyes seemed watery, like he was crying or something.

  “You allergic to something?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “This may be the last game of my career.”

  Gionfriddo told me that he’d hit only .177 all season and had only two home runs in his entire career. He was pretty good with the glove, he said, but that’s not enough to keep a player in the league. He worked as a fireman during the off season and would probably do it year round after the Dodgers released him.