by Dan Gutman
“Thanks, Flip!” I said, slipping the card into my back pocket. “Someday I’m gonna do you a favor.”
“Fuhgetuhboutit,” Flip said before I reached the door. “Oh, one more thing, Stosh.”
“Yes?”
“Have a nice trip!” And then Flip burst out laughing again.
6
Another Mission
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
That was all my mom said when I gently brought up the idea of traveling back in time to see the 1919 World Series between the Chicago White Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. I had just come back from Flip’s Fan Club, and it had seemed like Mom was in a good mood. I guess I misjudged her.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Joey,” she said seriously, “you’ve been lucky so far. You went on a few of these adventures and nothing went wrong. But eventually something’s going to happen to you. What if you got hit by a car and broke your leg? Some doctor in 1919 might want to amputate it or something. Or what if you got into trouble? They probably put kids in jail back then. And, besides, you’re still getting over the flu. I’m doing this for your own good, Joey.”
“That’s not fair!” I complained. My nose felt like it was running, but I didn’t want her to see me wipe it. “I didn’t get hurt the first three times I went to the past. And I won’t get hurt if I go back again.”
“The more you do it, the better the chance that something is going to go wrong.”
“Actually, that’s not true, Mom. If you toss a pair of dice ten times without throwing a two, that doesn’t mean that you’re more likely to throw a two on your next toss.” (We had been studying probability in math, and I knew all about this stuff.)
“Joey, the answer is no.”
We didn’t talk much over dinner. We were both a little angry, I suppose. I was trying to think of a way to change Mom’s mind when she stopped picking at her food and looked up at me.
“It was the Cincinnati Reds who were in the 1919 World Series, right?”
“Yes,” I replied. “The Reds and the Chicago White Sox.”
“If I let you go on this trip, would you be going to Cincinnati?”
“Well, yeah. The first game of the World Series was played in Cincinnati, so I would have to go there.”
Mom went back to picking at her food for a moment. I tried to figure out why she asked me about Cincinnati.
“I had family that used to live in Cincinnati,” she said softly. “It’s only about a hundred miles from Louisville. My grandmother grew up there. Her name was Gladys.”
“So?” I got up to scrape my plate into the trash.
“Well, I was just thinking that my grandmother was born in 1907. So in 1919 she was twelve years old.”
“Your point?” I put my plate in the sink.
“Well, if you went to Cincinnati in 1919, you would be able to meet my grandmother, who was your great-grandmother.”
“What?” I whined. “You want me to go visit relatives? I don’t even like visiting relatives now, Mom! Why would I want to travel more than eighty years through time to visit my great-grandmother?”
Mom went into the living room and came back carrying an old photo album. She opened it very carefully, but little pieces of paper flaked off when she opened the faded pages. Mom had made a family tree with oval pictures of her relatives. There were dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins going back over a hundred years. Only two ovals had no photos to go with them:
“Look at this,” Mom said, pointing to the empty ovals. “My grandmother Gladys and her brother Wilbur. They were twins. I never met Wilbur. He died when he was a boy. I only met my grandmother a few times at the end of her life. She was wonderful.”
“How come there are no pictures of them?”
“I guess her parents didn’t take many family photos after Wilbur died.” My mother sighed.
Suddenly my mom got this look in her eye. A little misty-eyed, but she also had the kind of look you get when you have what you think is a brilliant idea.
“Joey,” she asked, “could you take a camera back in time with you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I never tried. I guess so.”
“While you’re in Cincinnati for the World Series, would you take a picture of Grandma Gladys and her brother Wilbur for me?”
I looked at my mother. A few minutes ago, she was refusing to give me permission to travel through time because it was so dangerous. Now she was asking me to go. Moms can be funny that way.
“I thought you were afraid I would get hurt.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Mom assured me. “You didn’t get hurt the other times you went to the past, right? What could go wrong?”
I could have told her no. I had more important things to do than to go back in time and track down distant relatives so I could take snapshots of them. I had to prevent the Black Sox Scandal from happening. I had to save Shoeless Joe Jackson from a lifetime of disgrace.
But if this was what it would take for Mom to give me permission to go back in time again, I was willing.
“I’ll leave tonight.”
7
Slipping Away
OUR HOUSE DOESN’T HAVE AN ATTIC, BUT WE DO HAVE A little storage room on the second floor where we stash stuff that would get moldy or mildewed if we kept it down in the damp basement. Mom was rooting around up there for a while before she found a box labeled KOZINSKY.
“I almost donated this stuff to charity so many times.” She beamed as she brought the box downstairs to my room. “I’m glad I saved it.”
She opened the box and pulled out some old clothes. Men’s clothes—gray wool pants, black shoes, white shirt, suspenders, a gray hat with a small brim.
“Don’t tell me,” I guessed. “Wilbur Kozinsky’s clothes.”
“That’s right,” she said happily. “My grandmother’s brother. That would make him your great-great uncle. Nobody in the family wanted these clothes, so I took them. I’ll bet they would fit you.”
“Didn’t you say he died when he was a kid?” I asked, wrinkling up my nose. “Maybe he died wearing this costume.”
“It’s not a costume. They’re clothes, Joey!”
“I’ll look like a doofus, Mom!”
“In 1919, you’ll look like the coolest kid in Cincinnati! You want to fit in, don’t you? Come on, put ’em on.”
I made Mom leave the room while I tried on Great-great-uncle Wilbur’s clothes. Just like I thought, I looked like a doofus.
“They’re too big on me,” I protested when I opened the door for Mom to come back in.
“They’re perfect,” Mom said. “People wore their clothes looser back then.”
“I’ll bet the other kids beat him up because his name was Wilbur.”
“Wilbur was probably a cool name back then, Joey. You should be happy his name wasn’t Orville.”
“Oh, man. I don’t want to wear some dead kid’s clothes.”
“Oh stop it. That’s silly. You look very handsome.”
I didn’t tell Mom, but looking at myself in the mirror, I actually thought I looked pretty sharp in Great-great-uncle Wilbur’s clothes. I usually go around in the same old boring jeans and T-shirts and sneakers.
Mom found our camera in a closet in the front hallway. It’s a little Olympus that would fit into my pocket. I had used the camera before. It was pretty simple. Just point and shoot. Mom loaded a roll of film into it for me.
“While you were trying on the clothes, I packed you a little lunch for tomorrow,” she said, holding out a paper bag.
“No lunch!” I shouted. “I’m not bringing a dorky doggie bag with me. I can get food in 1919.”
“Joey, the sanitary conditions were probably terrible in 1919. I’m sure people just threw their garbage everywhere. They had no penicillin—”
“No lunch!” I insisted.
“Okay, but take some money with you. And you have to take your medicine too. Doctor’s orders.”
“Okay, okay,”
I agreed, slipping her twenty-dollar bill and the little container of pills into my pocket.
I pretty much had everything I would need. I grabbed the Heinie Groh card, which would get me to 1919, and a pack of new baseball cards, which would bring me back home when I was ready to return.
Mom and I looked at each other awkwardly. It was always weird saying good-bye, and even weirder to think I would be going eight decades into the past.
“Can I watch?” Mom asked shyly.
“Are you sure you want to? I’m going to just disappear, you know. Vanish before your eyes. Poof! It might be creepy for you to see it happen.”
“You’re right.” She gave me a kiss and a big hug and didn’t let go for a long time. “You be careful now,” she advised before closing my bedroom door. “And remember to hold the camera steady when you shoot Gladys and Wilbur.”
“I will.”
“Have a nice trip.”
I lay down on my bed, patting my pockets to make sure I had the camera, money, and medicine. I pulled the 1919 card out of its plastic sleeve and held it in my fingertips. I thought about 1919.
I didn’t know quite what to expect. World War I would be over, I knew that much. It had ended in 1918. There wouldn’t be any computers or CD players or video games in 1919. I was pretty sure they would have telephones and electric lights and airplanes, though.
It wasn’t long until I began to feel the tingling sensation in my fingers. It didn’t hurt. It was a vibrating feeling. The hair on my arms stood on end.
I closed my eyes and thought about Cincinnati in early October, 1919. That’s where I wanted to go. The baseball card—my ticket—would take me there.
The tingling moved from my fingertips to my hands and then up my arms. It seemed to linger at my shoulders for a moment before washing up over my face and down my chest like a wave. I tried to wiggle my toes, but they wouldn’t wiggle.
And then, like a movie screen fading into white, I felt my body slipping away.
8
Don’t Bet on It
WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, I WAS SITTING ON A TOILET bowl. It obviously wasn’t anybody’s house. The walls were made of cinder blocks, and the bathroom was dirty. Lining the walls were metal shelves filled with cleaning supplies and junk. The bathroom was lit by a single bare lightbulb that was dangling from the ceiling by a wire. The door was closed.
I patted my pockets to make sure the camera, money, and medicine were still with me. They were. I had my baseball cards, too.
There was a newspaper on the floor—The Cincinnati Bugle. The date at the top of the front page was September 30, 1919. Perfect. I was at the right place and the right time. Everything was going exactly as I had planned so far. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw how much the newspaper cost—two cents.
I scanned the front page, and my eye was quickly caught by the main story.
I couldn’t believe everything was going so smoothly. On my previous trips to the past, something always seemed to go wrong. I would end up in a different city than the one I wanted to go to, or I’d find myself lost in a dark alley or something. I never seemed to wind up exactly where I wanted to be. Maybe this time I’d done everything right.
Next to the article about the World Series was another article that caught my eye.
The Great War. That must have been what they called World War I back then. Of course, that made sense. They wouldn’t call it World War I because they didn’t know that there would ever be a World War II.
I had no idea there was any worldwide plague in 1918. Between World War I and the influenza epidemic, as many as twenty-nine million people died in a very short amount of time. I wondered how many people there were in the world in 1918. A big chunk of the earth’s population must have been wiped out by war and disease.
But I had other things on my mind. I had to get to Shoeless Joe Jackson and convince him not to throw the World Series.
There was a clicking noise above my head. I put my ear to the door and heard a familiar sound—the clicking of one billiard ball striking another one. I must be in the bathroom of a pool parlor, I guessed.
Cautiously, I opened the door and was grateful that it didn’t squeak. The room was pretty dark. It looked like a basement. There was a row of wooden shelves next to the bathroom that separated it from the rest of the room. More junk was on the shelves. I could hear voices at the other side of the room.
“Is Jackson in on it?” a gruff man’s voice asked.
“Not yet, A.R.,” another guy replied.
“We gotta get Jackson in.”
They could be talking about Shoeless Joe Jackson, I concluded. I peered through the junk on the shelves, being careful not to make a sound.
Three guys were sitting around a table, about fifteen feet away from me. One of them was over-weight, and he was dressed in a plain dark suit and tie. He had a mustache. The other two guys were thin and wore hats. It looked like the fat guy they called A.R. was their boss. All three puffed on cigars. The room stunk. I knew the smoke wasn’t good for my sinuses, and I hoped it wouldn’t make me sneeze. I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
What grabbed my attention was not the three guys but the table they were sitting around. It was covered, every square inch of it, with money. Stacks of bills, four or five inches thick, were rubber-banded together and piled on top of one another until they were toppling over. I couldn’t tell if they were five-dollar bills or tens or hundreds or what. But even if they were one-dollar bills, it was a tremendous amount of cash. More than I had ever seen in my life, that was for sure.
I didn’t think the three guys were drug dealers. I wasn’t even sure if there were drugs in 1919. They must be crooks, I concluded.
“We got the two best pitchers in,” one of the skinny guys explained. “Lefty Williams is in. Eddie Cicotte is in.” The guy pronounced “Cicotte” like “see cot.”
“Risberg’s in too,” the other skinny guy said. “And Chick Gandil and McMullin—”
“That ain’t good enough, Billy!” A.R. said, raising his voice. “Jackson hit .351 this year. He could get hot, blow the Series wide open, and I lose a bundle. I want Jackson in or the deal’s off.”
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the places for me to land! These were the gamblers who were planning the World Series fix! If they found out I was listening to them…I didn’t want to think about what might happen.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve again and silently slipped my camera out of my pocket. A picture of these guys might be important to have later on. Carefully, I braced the camera against the shelf and found the guy they called A.R. in the viewfinder. I snapped the shutter.
Bzzzzzzzz.
Shoot! I had forgotten that the camera made a buzzing sound as it advanced the film for the next shot.
Carefully, I braced the camera against the shelf and found the guy they called A.R. in the viewfinder. I snapped the shutter.
“What was that?” the skinny guy named Billy asked suddenly.
“What was what?”
“I heard a click and a buzz.”
Quickly, I slipped the camera back into my pocket and held my breath.
“It was nothin’,” the other skinny guy said, “just the pool tables upstairs.”
I exhaled.
“Relax,” A.R. told Billy. “Look, Comiskey only pays Jackson somethin’ like six grand a year. Offer him ten grand and I bet he plays ball with us.”
“You kiddin’?” the other skinny guy said. “Six thousand a year for a star like Joe Jackson? I make more ’n that, and I sure can’t hit .351.”
“A crime, ain’t it?” A.R. chuckled. “Comiskey even makes the players pay him to wash their uniforms. That’s how cheap he is.”
The three of them laughed. My legs were getting tired from staying motionless for so long. I took advantage of the noise they were making to shift my weight from one foot to the other.
The smoke from their cigars was starting to get to me. My eyes were watering. I wiped my n
ose on my sleeve again. I looked around. I had to find a way to get out of there without them noticing me.
“What if Jackson don’t take the ten grand?” Billy asked A.R.
“Offer him twenty grand. If that don’t work…well, you know how to persuade people, don’tcha, Abe?”
The skinny guy named Abe smiled and pumped his right fist into the palm of his left hand twice.
“Jackson’s got a pretty young wife, don’t he?” Billy asked.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want anything to happen to her,” A.R. said, which made Abe and Billy laugh some more.
“Of course, we don’t work that way,” A.R. told them, “unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“And they said nobody could fix da World Series.” Billy chuckled.
“I coulda fixed the war if there was any money in it,” A.R. replied.
Billy and Abe laughed again and got up from the table as if they were going to leave.
“So do we have a deal, Mr. Rothstein?” Abe asked. Now I knew that the R in A.R. stood for “Rothstein.”
“One more thing, boys,” Rothstein said. “I want a signal in the first inning of the first game. I need to see a sign that the fix is on.”
“What kinda sign?”
“Tell Cicotte to hit the first Cincinnati batter with a pitch. When I see that, I’ll know the players are…cooperating.”
“No problem, Mr. Rothstein. I’ll tell Cicotte.”
“So can we have the eighty grand?” Abe asked, eyeing the money on the table. “The players want to get paid before they lose the first game.”
“I don’t care what the players want,” Rothstein replied, picking up one small stack of bills from all the piles on the table. “I need this cash to get down on bets. Here’s ten grand for Cicotte to lose the first game and ten to pay Jackson to make sure he’s in. Tell the rest they’ll get paid twenty grand after each game the Sox lose.”
“They’re gonna be mad, A.R. I promised ’em they’d get paid eighty grand in advance.”
