by Dan Gutman
Finally we came to a window. It was about four feet off the ground and Bobby was able to push it open. He had me give him a boost so he could get his body inside.
“Isn’t this breaking and entering?” I asked.
“We didn’t break anything,” Bobby assured me. “We’re just entering. And I don’t see any sign that says you can’t.”
Once he was inside, he pulled me through the window too. It was an office, with one of those roll-top desks and an old-time typewriter on it.
“Come on,” Bobby said, “Let’s look around.”
He opened the door and led me into a dark tunnel as if he knew where he was going. The tunnel twisted around and it looked like it was heading nowhere until Bobby pushed open a door. Sunlight flooded the hallway, and after we walked through the door we were standing in—the outfield!
I couldn’t believe it. We were standing in the outfield of the legendary Polo Grounds! It was one of the most famous ballparks in history. The Giants played there for decades. The Yankees played there when Yankee Stadium was under construction. The Mets played there while they were waiting for Shea Stadium to be finished.
I couldn’t resist running across the grass and diving for an imaginary fly ball. What a catch! Bobby ran over to second base and slid into it, kicking up a spray of dirt. We ran around like we were crazy. This place was the coolest. And we had the whole field to ourselves.
The Polo Grounds had a really strange shape.
The Polo Grounds was like no other ballpark I’d ever seen. The leftfield and rightfield lines weren’t marked, but they were really short, less than 300 feet. Centerfield went on forever. You had to hit a ball real hard to get it over the fence in straightaway center.
The outfield walls were plastered with ads for Bromo-Seltzer, Lifebuoy soap, Chesterfield cigarettes, and Coca-Cola. They had one of those old scoreboards with holes in it where the numbers would be put up. And there were no lights towering over the field. The first night game wouldn’t be played until the 1930s.
I couldn’t get over the fact that I was in the same place where Bobby Thomson would hit “the shot heard ’round the world” to win the 1951 pennant. I was in the place where Willie Mays would make his famous over-the-shoulder catch in the 1954 World Series.
In the twenty-first century, the Polo Grounds doesn’t even exist anymore. The ballpark was demolished a long time ago, after the Giants moved to San Francisco. But here I was, standing in its high grass like I owned the place.
“Hey!” a voice suddenly thundered. “How’d you kids get in here?”
That’s when somebody grabbed me roughly by the shoulder.
11
It Ain’t Cheatin’ If Ya Don’t Get Caught
“DID YOU GUTTERSNIPES HOP THE FENCE?”
I turned around to face the man who had grabbed me. He was a huge guy with a big handle-bar mustache. On his shirt was embroidered the name MURPHY.
“Uhhhh,” I mumbled helplessly.
“We’re here to see Jim Thorpe,” Bobby said.
“Well, he ain’t here,” Murphy growled. “The players don’t show up till one o’clock. While you’re waitin’, you two can help me with the groundskeeping.”
“Groundskeeping?” Bobby said. “Forget it. I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like rotting in juvenile jail?” Murphy asked, as he tightened his grip on our shoulders. “Trespassing is against the law, y’know.”
“What do we have to do?” Bobby asked glumly.
Murphy didn’t waste any time before putting us to work. First, he showed us how to slope the dirt to one side on the foul lines from home plate to first and third. I couldn’t figure out why he would bother sloping them, until he told us that the Giants were really good bunters. Every day he sloped the foul lines so their bunts would be more likely to roll into fair territory instead of going foul. It never would have occurred to me that anyone would even think of doing that. I thought groundskeepers just kept the grass green and the dirt smooth. I thought the idea was to level the playing field, not tilt it.
After we finished that job, Murphy gave each of us a bar of soap. I figured he wanted us to wash the dirt off our hands, but he told us to chop the soap up into little pieces with a knife. Then we had to mix the soap in with the dirt around the pitcher’s mound. It didn’t make any sense to me. But Murphy told us that when opposing pitchers picked up the dirt and rubbed it on their hands, the soap would make their fingers slippery and they’d have trouble throwing the ball over the plate.
“They can’t grip it, y’see,” Murphy said. “Next, the outfield grass.”
“Do you want us to mow it?” I asked.
“Heck, no,” Murphy said, taking three baseballs out of a bag. “We keep the grass high on purpose. I want you to go out there and hide a baseball in leftfield, centerfield, and rightfield.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Stoshack, it’s obvious,” Bobby chimed in. “When the Giants’ outfielders can’t reach a long drive, they can just pick up one of the balls hidden in the high grass and throw the guy out.”
“Now yer usin’ yer noodle!” Murphy said as he threw his arm around Bobby’s shoulder. “This is my kind of boy!”
“But isn’t all this stuff cheating?” I asked.
“It ain’t cheatin’ if ya don’t get caught,” Murphy told me.
We had been working for over an hour and I was tired, but Murphy wasn’t quite done with us yet. He led us to a cart full of empty barrels under the grandstand and instructed us to roll it over near the Giants’ locker room. I wasn’t even going to ask why, but Murphy told us that John McGraw, the Giants’ manager, is superstitious. He thinks a cart full of barrels brings good luck. So Murphy always makes sure to have a cart full of barrels outside the locker room.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mumbled, but Bobby and I did what he said.
Finally, we were finished with Murphy’s chores. He took two dimes out of his pocket and gave one to each of us.
“Good job, boys,” he said. “Just drag those bags of dirty uniforms into the locker room and you can go enjoy the game.”
I pushed open the locker-room door and was surprised to see that there were players in there. Guys were lounging around, reading letters, eating, putting on their uniforms, smoking cigarettes, and talking with each other. One guy was rubbing a rabbit’s foot. Another was spitting tobacco juice into a metal bowl on the floor. I didn’t see anyone who looked like Jim Thorpe. All I could do was stare for a moment.
“Be cool,” I whispered to Bobby. “Act like you belong. Don’t go asking for autographs.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied. “I’m no dork. Where’s Jim Thorpe?”
“He’s gotta be around here someplace.”
Bobby marched in and started picking up towels and garbage off the floor, as if he was the clubhouse attendant. I did the same, being careful not to make eye contact with any of the players. Maybe if we looked busy, they wouldn’t kick us out.
The locker room was old, or maybe it just looked old-fashioned. There were exposed pipes snaking across the ceiling. Everything was made of wood instead of metal or plastic. But for all I knew, this place was state-of-the-art in 1913.
The players’ uniforms, I noticed, were really baggy and completely blank on the back. It wasn’t until the 1920s that ballplayers had numbers. Names on the jerseys came even later.
Fortunately for us, the players’ names were printed on tape above each of the lockers: Fred Merkle. Larry Doyle. Buck Herzog. Red Murray. Josh Devore. Fred Snodgrass. I had heard some of these names before and seen them on old baseball cards.
Most of the Giants were in the same set as the famous Honus Wagner T-206 card.
Finally I found Jim Thorpe’s locker, but it was empty. Maybe he was late. Maybe he was sick.
Off in the far corner, some players were crowded around a big table with a bunch of checkerboards on it. One guy in the middle of the group stood out because he was sti
ll in his street clothes. He was taller than the others, with bright blue eyes and wavy blond hair that was parted perfectly, like he had used a ruler. He didn’t look like a baseball player. He looked like a movie star. This guy I recognized.
“That’s Matty!” I whispered to Bobby.
“Matty who?”
“Christy Mathewson!” I told him.
“A guy named Christy?”
Matty looked more like a movie star than a baseball player.
I told Bobby that Matty was one of the greatest pitchers in baseball history. In four different seasons, he won 30 games or more. Not 20. 30! One year he won 37 games.
The players were setting up checkers on six checkerboards around Matty.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Matty asked.
“This time at least one of us is gonna whup you for sure, Matty,” one of them said.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
It was incredible. Matty was going to play six games of checkers at the same time! That was amazing enough. But then he did something even more amazing. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it over his eyes!
“Or I’ll believe it when I don’t see it,” Matty added.
Oh man, this guy must be one great checkers player. He was playing six guys at the same time, and he was playing them blindfolded.
This I had to see. Bobby, however, wasn’t as impressed.
“I’m gonna go look for Jim,” he said.
Yeah, sure. I remembered the syringe and bottles in Bobby’s backpack. He was probably going to find a private place where he could inject himself. I let him go.
It was fascinating to watch Matty play checkers. He must have imagined each board in his head, then made a move, went on to the next board for another move, and so on. Somehow, he was able to keep all six games straight.
I could have watched all day, but suddenly there was a commotion at the other end of the locker room. I stood on a bench to see what was going on. Two guys were stripped to the waist, wrestling on the floor.
One of them was a big, fat guy. He had to be at least 250 pounds. It should have been no contest, but the smaller guy was quicker and more agile. Nobody broke up the fight. Instead, the players gathered around to watch. So did I.
“Tesreau! Tesreau! Tesreau!” chanted some of the guys.
The other guys chanted, “Thorpe! Thorpe! Thorpe! Thorpe!”
So that was Jim Thorpe! It was hard to get a good look at him, because he was moving like a tornado around the fat guy they called Tesreau—grabbing, pulling, grunting, and trying to get into a position where he would have the advantage.
“Take him down, Jimmy!” somebody yelled.
“Sit on him, Jeff!” yelled somebody else.
Where was Bobby? I wondered. He would want to see this.
Soon Tesreau was breathing heavily and Jim began to get the upper hand. He moved behind the bigger man, crossing one leg over Tesreau’s leg. Then he yanked one of Tesreau’s arms over his own head and twisted the other one behind his back.
“I call this the Armbreaker,” Jim grunted.
“No! Don’t!” moaned Tesreau. “That’s my pitching arm!”
“KNOCK IT OFF!” a voice bellowed from behind a door at the other end of the locker room. It said MANAGER’S OFFICE on it.
The door swung open and slammed against the wall with a crash. Suddenly, everybody stopped what they were doing, like they were playing a game of freeze tag.
Total silence.
12
The Little Napoleon
BOBBY FULLER CAME BACK JUST IN TIME TO SEE THE GUY storm out of his office. It had to be John McGraw, the manager of the Giants. I remembered my dad asking if I could bring home something signed by McGraw. But this sure wasn’t the time to ask for an autograph.
“What the hell is going on in here?” McGraw hollered.
John McGraw was a short guy, on the heavy side. “The Little Napoleon,” they used to call him. He had small, intense eyes. But he sure had a big mouth. McGraw didn’t look that old, but his hair was white. He looked like one of those guys who gets old before his time.
At the sound of McGraw’s high-pitched voice, Jim Thorpe and the guy he was wrestling let go of each other.
Sometimes they called McGraw “The Little Napoleon.” Sometimes they called him “Muggsy.”
“That’ll cost you a hundred bucks, Thorpe!” McGraw said as he stormed across the locker room. “How many times do I have to tell you? No boozing! No smoking! No card playing! And no wrestling!”
“It’s not his fault, Mr. McGraw,” said Tesreau. “I challenged him, sir.”
“Nobody asked you! And you should be ashamed of yourself, letting a man half your size beat you.”
The players slunk off to their lockers. Finally I could get a good look at Jim Thorpe. He was much younger, but I still recognized him from when I saw him in 1931. His chest was even more muscular now. He could have been one of those ripped bodybuilders you see on muscle magazine covers.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off McGraw. I don’t know if he was always so mean or if he just happened to be in a bad mood. But he looked like he hated everybody. There was fire in his eyes.
Jim didn’t look like the Indians I’d seen in movies and on TV.
I was sure McGraw was going to kick me and Bobby out of the locker room. We had no business being in there. I tried to make myself look small, fade into the woodwork. But I didn’t have to bother. McGraw seemed intent on giving his players a hard time. They cowered in fear as he stalked around the locker room, looking them over like a general inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of one guy and ripped a cigarette out of his mouth.
“Cigarettes line the guideposts on the path to baseball oblivion!” said McGraw.
“Aw, heck, Skip,” the guy said. “I can lick any team in the league.”
“Marquard, you couldn’t lick a stamp!” spat McGraw. “That’ll cost you 50 bucks.”
What a jerk. He walked around, insulting and fining just about everybody in the room except for Matty. Nobody argued with John McGraw. Nobody talked back. They all looked like they were terrified.
“Mr. McGraw?” Jim Thorpe asked quietly.
“What?” the manager said, spinning around to see who would dare speak to him.
“I was just wondering if I could get some playing time today. All I’ve been doing is pinch running and pinch hitting. I really need to get some swings and play every day to—”
“NO!” shouted McGraw.
“Well, why not?”
Everybody turned to look at Jim, as if they couldn’t believe he had the nerve to question the judgment of the great John McGraw.
“I brought you here to put fannies in the seats, Thorpe,” McGraw fumed. “You were the Olympic champion. Everybody was supposed to come out to the Polo Grounds to see the greatest athlete in the world. So how come our attendance is down this year, Thorpe?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Jim said, “nobody comes to see me because you don’t play me.”
Somebody gasped. It was as quiet as a tomb.
“I’m not your babysitter! I’m trying to win the pennant!” McGraw thundered. “Why should I play you? You stink!”
“How would you know if you never play me?” Jim muttered under his breath.
A few more guys gasped.
“What did you say?” barked McGraw, getting right in Jim’s face.
“Nothin’.”
“You are the highest-paid rookie in baseball history, Thorpe!” McGraw yelled. “We’re paying you 6,000 dollars a year! And you can’t hit a curveball! Matty only gets 9,000, and he’s won 300 games for this team. How many did you win?”
Bobby and I glanced at each other. 6,000 dollars a year? 9,000? The average salary in our time is about a million dollars a year.
“Then release me,” Jim argued.
“I’d release you in a heartbeat if you didn’t have a three-year contract,” McGraw snapped back.
/> “Then trade me, or send me down to the minors,” Jim said. “Some other manager will give me a chance.”
“Nobody wants you, Thorpe!” McGraw said bitterly. “You can throw a javelin far and you can jump high. Well, that won’t cut it in baseball. You gotta use your head.”
“I do use my head,” Jim insisted.
“Oh yeah?” McGraw hollered. “Tell me, Thorpe, the count is two and one. There are two outs. Bottom of the sixth. Runners at first and third. We’re down by two runs. What do you do? Do you start the runners with the pitch? Straight steal? Double steal? Swing away? Take a pitch? Pinch hit?”
“Bunt,” Jim said after thinking it over for a moment.
“NO!” McGraw yelled. “Bunt with two outs? What kind of a bonehead are you? Baseball requires intelligence, and you ain’t got it.”
“Just give me a chance!” Jim pleaded, raising his voice a little. “I’ve only played a little semi-pro ball. I never even saw a good curveball until a couple of—”
“Don’t give me your sob story,” McGraw snapped. “When I was twelve, my mother, sister, and two of my brothers dropped dead from diphtheria. My wife, Minnie, bless her soul, died when she was twenty-two. You don’t see me whining, you dumb redskin.”
At that, Jim exploded and went to grab McGraw by the throat. But four of the Giants jumped on him and held him back.
“Go ahead, get angry!” McGraw yelled at him. “That’s exactly what you need, Thorpe! I know how to handle scoundrels like you! I’ve dealt with a hundred of ’em. I can control any man.”
Jim was still steaming, but he had calmed down enough so the other players relaxed their grip on him.
I wasn’t sure if McGraw was a total jerk or a master psychologist. From watching my own team, I know that some kids play better when Flip tells them how good they are, while other kids play better when they get yelled at. Me, I need a little kick in the pants every once in a while to get me motivated. But John McGraw was really going psycho on Jim.
