by David Teague
“Sheila Flaherty was her best friend when they were little,” said Oscar. “Miss Ellington still wrote her every week. Sometimes I took the letter to the post office for her, and brought Mrs. Flaherty’s answer back.” Oscar noticed a picture that’d been folded inside the letter, an old black-and-white photo of a baseball team. He read the words inked onto the bottom of the picture. The Mt. Etna Mountaineers, 1935. He said, “Pinky Whitney told me about this team. That twelve-year-old girl played for them, the one I was telling you about. The one who struck out Babe Ruth.”
He handed the photo to Lourdes.
She turned it over. “Look,” she said. “Their names and ages are on the back. Norman Pliner. Age nineteen. Huggsy Strathmore, twenty-one. Dinky Hanrahan, eighteen.”
Oscar realized he recognized the names. They were a few of Miss Ellington’s old pen pals, although most of them were gone now.
“Sheila Flaherty, seventeen,” continued Lourdes. “Eleanor Ethel Smiley, twelve.”
“What?” cried Oscar. “Eleanor Ethel Smiley? Let me see that.” Oscar looked at the curling photo. There in the front row sat a girl who looked about his age, smiling uncertainly at him in grainy black and white, displaying a gap in her teeth. “Eleanor Ethel Smiley was the name of the girl who struck out Babe Ruth? That explains the initials on Miss Ellington’s mitt. Eleanor Ethel Smiley is Eleanor Ethel Ellington. Before she grew up and got married and changed her last name.”
At that moment, Oscar spotted something out of place on the messy kitchen table. As he picked it up, it crumbled between his fingers.
“An old hamburger bun?” said Lourdes quizzically.
“Miss Ellington would never leave stale bread lying around her kitchen to attract ants!” said Oscar. “This proves it.”
“Proves what?” asked Lourdes.
“Miss Ellington is the one who took the watch from my bread box!” said Oscar. “I hid it in a hamburger bun. She must’ve sneaked in after you knocked on my door yesterday and stolen it back before Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt could find it.”
“So your friend Miss Ellington is the one who struck out Babe Ruth when she was twelve,” said Lourdes thoughtfully. “And she’s also the one who took the watch you’ve been looking for. And now she’s gone.”
“That about sums it up,” sighed Oscar.
“Why would she do all that?”
“I have no idea.” Oscar stared at the kitchen table, lost in thought.
“Look!” Lourdes exclaimed. She’d sifted through the jumble of mail on the table to find a yellowed old envelope “‘Oscar Indigo,’” Lourdes read. “It’s addressed to you! Open it!”
Oscar grabbed the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a faded pair of admission tickets. “‘Mt. Etna Mountaineers versus Boston Braves,’” he read. “‘Mt. Etna Diamond, April 11, 1935.’”
“Maybe they’re stubs she kept as souvenirs, and she wanted you to have them,” said Lourdes.
“They’re not just stubs. They’re tickets. They’ve never been used,” said Oscar, examining them closely.
“But why would Miss Smiley leave two old tickets in an envelope addressed to you?” said Lourdes.
“Because she wants me to come to a game,” said Oscar, “at Mt. Etna Diamond. In 1935. And to bring along a friend.”
Once they made it to Mt. Etna Diamond, they stood in the dark, wondering what to do next. Oscar read aloud the historical plaque bolted to the gates. He’d never paid attention to it before. CONSTRUCTED 1934 FOR THE CITIZENS OF MT. ETNA. HOME OF THE MT. ETNA MOUNTAINEERS.
As he spoke, ghostly sounds rustled to life around them. The ayoooga of old-fashioned automobile horns. The chatter of invisible people passing. The creak of the iron gates swinging open. Which they actually did, the real ones, right in front of Oscar and Lourdes. An unseen kid sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” From inside the park came the cries of a hawker selling popcorn and peanuts.
The ground vibrated beneath their feet. With a sizzle and a buzz, the night around them began to disappear in fits and starts. Soon, their surroundings had disintegrated completely, and Oscar and Lourdes began drifting through utter nothing. Oscar took a deep breath to steady himself.
“Oscar? What’s happening?” cried Lourdes fearfully, reaching for his hand.
“We must be journeying through the universe,” said Oscar. “After all those other things visited us from their times and places, we’re the ones traveling now. I think we’ll be OK. I think we’ll be there soon.”
“But where is there?” wondered Lourdes. “We’re in the middle of pitch-black zilch!”
“If we can just find a place to turn in these admission tickets, I think we’ll see,” replied Oscar.
And even as he spoke, around them, another time began to take form.
The ballpark began to reappear, newer, younger, glossier, until they were on solid ground again in front of it. It looked the way it must’ve looked in Miss Ellington’s glory days.
Oscar saw a man in an usher’s uniform outside the gate and knew what to do. He handed over the tickets. The usher tore them in two and gave the stubs to Oscar. “What are you waiting for?” he exclaimed. “Step inside!”
The stadium was almost unrecognizable. Fans wore old-fashioned suits and ties and dresses and hats. Oscar’s and Lourdes’s shorts and T-shirts were nothing like the clothes of the people around them, but nobody seemed to notice.
Oscar and Lourdes took in the splendor as they found their seats. Section D, seats 4 and 5.
On the field, the Mt. Etna Mountaineers warmed up. The Boston Braves were nowhere to be seen. Oscar saw Sheila and Norman and Huggsy—everyone he recognized from Miss Ellington’s photo.
Then he heard a girl’s voice cry from the direction of the field. “Heavens to Betsy! You’re here!”
“Miss Ellington?” Oscar rushed to the edge of the field. There was Miss Ellington, looking just like herself, only seventy-three years younger.
“Yes. Except that today I’m E. E. Smiley,” she replied, turning around to display the name on the back of her uniform. “And for this occasion, I’m twelve years old again.”
“I’m Lourdes,” said Lourdes. She held her hand out.
“Pleased to meet you, Lourdes,” said Miss Ellington, or to be precise, E. E. Smiley. “I’ve heard all about you. A girl after my own heart.”
Lourdes beamed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you struck out Babe Ruth! That’s incredible! And only twelve years old!” Oscar couldn’t contain himself.
“It’s a little complicated, Oscar,” responded E. E. Smiley.
“Well, I’m glad I know now. And thanks for the tickets,” said Oscar. “Are we really in 1935?”
“Yes,” said E. E. Smiley, “and no.”
“What do you mean?” asked Oscar. The old-timey hawker was selling popcorn a few rows over.
“This is a do-over,” said E. E. Smiley. “A second chance. A little favor the universe is doing me for keeping an eye on the cosmic tomato bush all these years.”
“Wait. That bush in your backyard is the cosmic tomato bush?” asked Oscar.
“It’s more of a scale model,” replied E. E. Smiley. “A virtual version, I guess you could say. So I can help keep track of how things are going on the major branches. After I’m gone, by the way, the job falls to you.”
“I see,” said Oscar. “All right. I think I’m up to it. By the way, if this is a do-over, what’s it a do-over of?”
“Of the game when I struck out Babe Ruth,” said E. E. Smiley.
“Why would you want a do-over? To relive the memory?” asked Oscar.
“No, I need to prove something to myself,” replied E. E. Smiley. “I need to prove I haven’t been living a lie. To show I really did strike out the Bambino all those years ago.”
“But you definitely did!” declared Oscar.
“I might have. Or my strikeout might have been as legit as that home run of yours, Oscar.”
Oscar was a
bout to protest when Miss Ellington cut him off. “Don’t—I know all about your homer, Oscar. And the watch! I’ve seen the pterodactyls around town. My last name is Smiley. Hector was my grandfather! And he was here in the audience that day. The day I supposedly struck out the Babe.”
“So?” asked Oscar.
“He had his watch with him. He could have stopped time and made sure I struck out the Babe.”
“He couldn’t have had the watch,” said Oscar. “He sent it to the Veeder-Klamm Museum for safekeeping. President Roosevelt told him to.” But even as Oscar said this, he remembered the newspaper article the watch was wrapped in. It was about the very game Miss Ellington was worried about. Which meant that—
“He had the watch in his pocket while I pitched,” said E. E. Smiley, as if reading Oscar’s mind. “He didn’t get rid of it until after my game.”
“What difference does that make?” asked Lourdes.
“It always made me wonder,” said E. E. Smiley. “It made me wonder if he brought it to stop time. In case I needed assistance striking out Babe Ruth. He was a wonderful grandfather. Sometimes maybe too wonderful. He would’ve done anything to help me.”
“I know your grandfather didn’t help you with this!” declared Oscar. “You did it yourself.”
“How can you be sure?” asked E. E. Smiley.
“Because he must’ve known how risky it would be to use the watch, no matter how much he wanted you to succeed,” said Oscar.
“But how could a twelve-year-old strike out Babe Ruth without help?” asked E. E. Smiley.
“By throwing the perfect pitch!” replied Oscar.
“Well, I never believed I had the stuff to accomplish that,” said E. E. Smiley. “Especially after what Babe Ruth said when it was all over.”
“What did he say?” asked Lourdes.
“That I was pretty good for a girl,” said E. E. Smiley.
“I know the feeling,” muttered Lourdes.
“I heard it so much, and not just from him, that I’d started to believe maybe I was only pretty good—for a girl. I doubted myself. I always did doubt myself. That’s why I still halfway believe I only pitched that strikeout because my grandfather pulled a fast one by halting time with his watch. And because I had doubts, I quit. As soon as the inning was over. I quit baseball and I never played again. Can you believe that?”
“You could’ve asked your grandfather if he used the watch,” said Oscar.
“I didn’t want to,” said E. E. Smiley.
“Why not?” asked Lourdes.
“Well, like I said. Down deep, I never really believed I got that pitch past Mr. Ruth without help,” said Miss Ellington. “And I felt like living in doubt was better than knowing for sure.”
“Why did you take the watch from the museum again after so many years?” asked Oscar.
“As I got older, and my friends began leaving me behind, I started to wonder if I’d really lived the life I was meant to. I always wondered if I could’ve played in the major leagues. Even if I was a girl, and even if they’d never have let me, I wanted to know if I could’ve. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” Lourdes declared emphatically.
“And if you struck out Babe Ruth, you definitely could’ve,” added Oscar.
“But you see, I wasn’t sure if I’d struck out Babe Ruth,” said Miss Ellington.
“So why take the watch? Was there some way to use it to find out after all that time what had really happened?” asked Oscar.
“No. I took the watch to smash it, so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it to find out,” said E. E. Smiley. “Unfortunately, those men came before I could find the crab hammer to do the deed. I didn’t know what they wanted, but I knew it couldn’t be good. So I gave you the watch to get it out of there. I didn’t know you’d use it before I could get it back.”
“Well, I did,” said Oscar ruefully. “I’m so very sorry.”
“No use crying over spilled milk, Oscar. Because here we are. Back where it all began. Settling the question for good,” said E. E. Smiley. “Did I really strike out Babe Ruth?”
“Why did you invite Oscar and me?” asked Lourdes.
“To make sure my grandfather doesn’t use his watch when I throw Babe Ruth the third strike,” said E. E. Smiley. “Your seats are next to his. Watch to be sure he doesn’t stop time, and run to the plate, and slip the ball past the Babe, or pull some other kind of trick the way that—”
“I did,” supplied Oscar.
“Yes,” agreed E. E. Smiley. “The way you did. I know he might be tempted. Did I mention I’m his favorite grandchild? And he always wants me to be happy. His judgment could be clouded. He might try to help me.”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” said Lourdes.
Oscar said, “I’m just excited I get to see you play! And after your last game, you can come to our last game. See us win fair and square and fix the universe!”
Miss Ellington looked sad and didn’t say anything.
“What is it?” Oscar asked. Her face had changed. “You are coming back, aren’t you?” asked Oscar, fearing the answer.
“Oscar,” E. E. Smiley sighed. “I’m not returning after this game. I’m going to stay with my teammates. I’m sorry. I have to keep moving forward. I miss my friends, my old friends. And it’s time for me to leave the universe I lived in with you. I know you’ll understand.”
Oscar nodded. He thought he understood. He thought of the Wildcats, how they’d turned into his friends over the years, supporting each other through it all. He thought of Miss Ellington’s letters, her friends steadily slipping away from her. “But I’ll miss you,” said Oscar. “In our universe.”
“You’re one of the best friends I ever had,” said E. E. Smiley.
“Thanks,” said Oscar. “And you’re the one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
“That puts me in good company,” replied E. E. Smiley, grinning at Lourdes. “And now. Two last things. Please keep an eye on the tomato bush for me. And please keep your eyes open when you swing.”
“I will,” said Oscar. “And I do!”
“No, you don’t,” said E. E. Smiley. “I’ve been telling you for years.”
“Yes, I do,” said Oscar.
“What does it look like when you hit the ball?” asked E. E. Smiley.
“I don’t know,” said Oscar.
“You should. Watch the ball until the bat meets it. Watch it until you see the barrel touch the leather. Watch it until you hear the crack. Watch it, or you won’t beat the Yankees. And that’s the most important thing in your universe! Good-bye, Oscar Indigo.” With that, she ran across the diamond to finish warming up with her team.
By the time the umpire called, “Play ball!” there were five thousand people in the stands. E. E. Smiley stood ready on the mound. The Mt. Etna Mountaineers ranged around the field behind her. Oscar and Lourdes sat patiently watching the action. No sign of E. E. Smiley’s grandfather yet, though.
The Boston Braves, recently arrived from many different points in time and space to play in the do-over, watched her curiously from the dugout.
And finally Babe Ruth emerged, swinging his bat casually, looking a little embarrassed at the prospect of facing a twelve-year-old girl. Lourdes loudly cheered E. E. Smiley on. Oscar had never seen Lourdes smile this much before.
E. E. Smiley didn’t waste any time pitching to Babe. She wound up and threw a wicked sinker. “Steeeerike one!” cried the umpire. She sure hadn’t needed any help with that one.
Oscar was impressed. Lourdes whooped.
“That pitch is called The Drop,” said a man who was settling into the seat beside Oscar and Lourdes. “I happen to know because that’s my granddaughter pitching. Eleanor Ethel. I’m very proud of her. By the way, my name is Hector Smiley.” He put out his hand to shake.
“I’m Oscar Indigo,” said Oscar.
“And I’m Lourdes Mangubat,” said Lourdes.
“Nice to meet you both! Popcor
n?” Hector leaned over to offer some. As Oscar munched, he observed Hector out of the corner of his eye. No sign of the watch yet. But as E. E. Smiley readied for the next pitch, Oscar watched Hector’s fingers inching toward the pocket of his shirt. And Oscar saw the watch’s unmistakable outline in the pocket.
On the field, Babe Ruth smiled, cocked his bat, and set his feet.
Hector Smiley reached into his pocket and slid out the watch.
E. E. Smiley wound up and delivered The Drop again. The Sultan of Swat took a staggering cut at the ball. And missed. Hector Smiley never touched the red button.
Strike two for E. E. Smiley.
The hometown crowd went wild.
Babe Ruth shrugged. And he dimly smiled.
“That’s my girl!” said Hector Smiley.
“Fire it in there!” cried Oscar.
“Bring the heat!” cried Lourdes.
E. E. Smiley sized up the plate like a ten-time all-star.
Next to Oscar, Hector Smiley clutched the watch with his finger on the button. For a moment, Oscar felt the temptation to snatch it away before he used it, but he’d learned his lesson about interfering with the workings of the watch, so he kept still.
On the mound, E. E. Smiley wound up and lobbed what looked like an easy floater. The toss danced through the air, wobbling and bouncing and never flying straight. Babe Ruth’s eyes zeroed in on it. It was a beautiful, crazy pitch. And Oscar could tell it was destined to fool the Babe.
Hector Smiley’s finger tensed over the watch button.
Oscar held his breath. Lourdes, who was also watching Hector Smiley’s finger, twitched.
But as the pitch neared the plate, Hector Smiley let his finger relax. He realized Babe had no hope. Hector Smiley’s granddaughter was as good as everybody had believed. Because Babe Ruth stood frozen by the deceptiveness of her pitch. And the ball sailed straight over home and into the catcher’s mitt.
“Steeeeee-rike three! Yer out!” cried the ump.
Hector Smiley slid the watch into his pocket, unused, and breathed a sigh of relief.
E. E. Smiley had done it all on her own.
Never before had such cheering been heard in Mt. Etna. In all the noise and jubilation, Babe Ruth muttered something to E. E. Smiley, then broke his bat over his knee, threw the pieces on the ground.
