by Dan Gutman
“You’re out!” the ump said.
“What do you mean I’m out?” I complained. “The ball hit me!”
“That’s why you’re out,” said the second baseman.
“Did you do that on purpose?” I asked him.
“Sure I did,” he said.
“Why didn’t you throw the ball to the first baseman?”
“Why should I?” he asked. “It was easier to soak you.”
“Soak me?”
I tried to rub the spot on my back where the ball had hit me, but I couldn’t reach it. There would be a big bruise there the next day, I could tell. I looked over to where my mother was sitting and watching. She just shrugged.
Monkeywrench could tell I was upset, and he told the others that seeing as how I didn’t know the rules of the game very well, he was going to give me another turn at bat.
This time I was determined not to let the pitcher or the second baseman or anybody else hit me with the ball. I gripped the bat tightly and took a cut at the first pitch, even though it was out of my strike zone. I hit it pretty well, a clean single to right field. The ball bounced once on the grass, and the outfielder threw it in. I pulled up to first base and threw a thumbs-up sign to my mother.
“You’re out!” the umpire yelled.
“What do you mean, I’m out!” I hollered. “That was a single!”
“The fielder caught the ball on the first bounce,” the umpire said. “So you’re out.”
“What?!”
Now I was really mad. These people were a bunch of morons! They had no idea how to play baseball. Catching the ball on a bounce was an out? You get hit by a pitch and you don’t get to go to first, but the fielders can hit you with the ball to put you out? I was stomping around, yelling and complaining.
Monkeywrench came over to me and told me to calm down. “Perhaps you would be better as a hurler,” he suggested. “I know you got a good arm on you.”
“Well, okay,” I said, trying to control myself.
He handed me the ball. I was just about to take a warm-up pitch when suddenly everybody on the field stood up straight and saluted.
“Atten-tion!”
A guy in a blue uniform came out of the woods, and I could tell right away it was Abner Doubleday. He wasn’t on his horse anymore.
I figured that Doubleday was going to break up the game and tell the players to go back to their posts, or something like that. But he didn’t. He just mumbled, “At ease,” and sat down heavily on a tree stump near home plate.
“I have been relieved of my command,” he said gloomily.
“Why, sir?” Monkeywrench asked. Some of the players gathered around Doubleday.
“The Confederates broke through my line for a brief time today,” he said, resting his head in his hands. “My men were forced to retreat. General Meade believes my men acted with cowardice. I am to report to Washington to explain my actions.”
He looked so sad, sitting there on the tree stump. I thought he was about to cry or something. I wished there was something I could do to make him feel better.
“Say, General!” called out one of the players. “Perhaps you would like to take a turn as striker?”
“No thank you,” Doubleday said. “I do not much cotton to the physical exertions.”
“Might perk up your spirits, sir,” said Monkeywrench.
“Never played the game,” he said.
“Never too late to start, sir,” one player said.
“There’s always a first time for everything, sir,” added another.
“Well, I suppose there would be no harm,” Doubleday said, getting up from the stump.
I shot a look over at Mom. I was going to be pitching to Abner Doubleday! Even if he didn’t invent baseball, this was going to be cool.
“High or low, sir?” asked the ump.
“High, if you please.”
I wrapped my fingers around the ball. I didn’t want to make Doubleday look bad, especially when he was so depressed. I decided to go easy on him and let him hit the ball. I tossed it in underhand, the way you would with a little kid.
But Doubleday didn’t even look like he knew how to hold the bat. It was the worst stance I had ever seen. He took a totally pathetic check swing at my first pitch and missed it.
“Strike one!” called the ump.
“There you go, lad,” one of the players yelled to me.
“Good swing, sir,” I lied. “You’re a natural at this game. Next time follow through.”
I threw the next pitch even softer. This time, Doubleday took a big, wild swing at it. He spun all the way around and fell on his butt. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare.
“Strike two!”
“Keep your eye on the ball, sir,” I suggested. “Don’t try to kill it. Nice and easy.”
I lobbed the next one in right over the plate, as soft as I possibly could. Any six-year-old could have hit it.
But Abner Doubleday couldn’t.
“Strike three!” the ump yelled. “You’re out, sir!”
“Hip, hip, huzzah!” some of the fielders yelled. “Hip, hip, huzzah!”
“What do you mean, I’m out?” Doubleday shouted. “I just got here!”
“Three strikes and you’re out, sir,” the umpire said. “That’s the rule of the game.”
“Well, it’s a stupid game!” Doubleday hollered, throwing his bat on the ground.
We all watched as he stormed off into the woods and disappeared. It reminded me of that scene in the movie Field of Dreams when the players walked into the cornfield.
When Doubleday was out of earshot, all the players started chuckling. I had to admit, it was pretty funny. My grandmother could hit better than that.
“What a muffin!” one of the players hooted.
I was starting to enjoy myself out there. Even if some of the rules were different, it was still baseball. The outfielders were called “scouts,” and they called the shortstop “short scout.” It wasn’t called a run when you crossed home plate; it was an “ace.” I was having fun learning the different rules and terms of the game.
But the fun was about to end.
Suddenly I heard a high-pitched whistling sound from above. I looked up instinctively, just in time to see something flying over the trees and arching down toward our field.
“Sakes alive!” somebody screamed.
Whatever it was, it landed about twenty yards to the right of me, between third base and home plate. A huge ball of fire shot out of the ground, and the boom of the explosion echoed off the trees. Dirt and grass and stuff went flying everywhere. I dove for the dirt.
“Looks like our fun is over, boys,” one of the players shouted. “Time to start fightin’ again.”
13
When Joey Comes Marching Home
A FEW SECONDS AFTER THE SHELL EXPLODED NEAR THE third-base line, a second one hit the ground near first base, sending up another shower of dirt and mud and grass.
“Run for it!” one of the players yelled. My new friends ran for the cover of the woods.
“Joey, we’ve got to get out of here!” my mother shouted from the little ridge where she was sitting.
“You ain’t kidding!” I screamed.
But by now, shells were falling all around the field. I couldn’t imagine that anyone was aiming for this empty field. Why waste the ammunition? Probably the Confederates were trying to hit Cemetery Ridge, but their artillery overshot the mark.
I was afraid to run in any direction, because if I went left and one of those shells landed to the left of me, I might get hurt in a big way—like dead.
The safest strategy, I decided, was to zigzag across the grass. That’s what I did, cutting back and forth like a football running back. But instead of dodging tacklers, I was dodging bombs.
Finally I reached Mom, and we hugged each other with relief, fear, and, okay, affection even. I pulled the pack of baseball cards out of my pocket and ripped it open as quickly as I could. The she
lls were still exploding in the field in front of us. It was getting dark out now. It looked like a fireworks display, except that we were sitting a bit too close.
“Hurry, Joey!” Mom said.
I pulled out one of the baseball cards. Mom held my hand. I waited for the tingling sensation to buzz my fingertips.
Then I realized I forgot something. I dropped the card on the grass.
“What is it?” Mom asked.
“My baseball!” I said. “I forgot the baseball that Abner Doubleday signed for me!”
We looked out at the field. The baseball was still lying there on the grass, midway between first and second base.
“Forget about the baseball!” Mom said. “It’s not important!”
“It’s important to me!” I said.
Mom tried to hold me back, but there was no stopping me. I ran back out to the field again. It would only take me a few seconds to grab the ball and run back to Mom.
I was about twenty feet from the ball when a shell landed between first and second base. There was a tremendous explosion of sound and fire. I dove for the ground. Dirt and rocks rained down on me. I looked up to see where the baseball was.
In the exact spot where the ball had been a few seconds earlier, there was now a crater in the ground about the size of a Volkswagen. Maybe getting that ball wasn’t so important after all.
“Joey, come back!” hollered Mom.
The baseball was gone. There was no point in searching for it. It probably didn’t exist anymore. My dad would be mad that I hadn’t brought back an authentic Abner Doubleday–signed baseball, but I had done the best I could.
I sat back down on the grass next to Mom, picked up the baseball card again, and held my mom’s hand. I closed my eyes and thought about going home to Louisville.
“Do you feel anything?” Mom asked. “That tingling sensation?”
“Not yet,” I replied.
Shells were still falling in the field in front of us. If one of those guys aiming the cannons moved the barrel just one or two degrees up or down, I realized, Mom and I would be dead.
“Hurry up!” Mom said urgently. “They’re getting closer!”
“It’s hard to concentrate,” I said. “There’s so much noise. I can’t focus.”
And then, suddenly, the shelling stopped. All was quiet. I opened my eyes and looked up in the sky just to make sure. It was dark now, except for a big full moon and more stars than I had ever seen in my life. It was beautiful.
There were no city lights to obscure the view of the stars. The electric light hadn’t been invented yet, I realized. Neither had the automobile. There was no pollution to get in the way of the stars. I had never seen a sky like this one.
I closed my eyes again and thought about how nice it would be to go back home to Louisville. Riding my bike along the banks of the Ohio River to Waterfront Park and looking across the river to Indiana. Going to the Louisville Slugger Museum. Hanging out at Flip’s Fan Club and listening to Flip tell his old baseball stories.
Gradually, the first tingles began to buzz my fingertips.
Out beyond the trees, I could hear music very faintly. There were bugles and fifes and harmonicas playing, but mostly it was just men singing. “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
It was all quite soothing. I started to feel a little drowsy, but the tingles were getting stronger now, and they kept me awake as they traveled up my arms.
In the distance all the music stopped, except for one lone bugler playing “Taps” very slowly. I knew the tune well, because ever since I was a baby my mother used to sing it to me each night after she put me to bed and turned off the light. The real words were…
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
From the lakes,
From the trees,
From the sky…
But my mom always sang…
Day is done.
We had fun.
Then she would say good night and close the door.
The tingling sensation swept across my chest now and was moving down my stomach toward my legs. I’m sure Mom felt it too. There was no turning back.
I heard footsteps approaching and then a voice, but I kept my eyes closed.
“What are you doing here?” a man asked. “Get your gun! Take shelter! If we’re going to win this war, we’re going to need every man.”
“No, you won’t,” I said.
And with that, we faded away.
14
A Silly Baseball Game
I WAS PLAYING THIRD BASE. THE MAIN STREET Ophthalmologists had runners on first and second, and there was only one out. Last inning. Their biggest guy was coming up to the plate, holding that huge bat he swings around like a toothpick just to intimidate pitchers. If he got an extra base hit and the two base runners scored, that would tie it up and Flip’s Fan Club would have blown a four-run lead. And if he hit one out of the park, well, that would be the ball game.
But I really didn’t care.
Well, I wanted us to win and all, but I just couldn’t keep my mind on the game.
After all, it was just a silly baseball game. The night before, I had been a witness to one of the most important events in American history. I had seen men kill. I had seen men die! I had seen things I would never forget for the rest of my life. A Little League game between Flip’s Fan Club and the Main Street Ophthalmologists just didn’t seem all that important anymore.
“Come on, Johnny!” Flip Valentini called from the dugout. “Strike this guy out!”
I hadn’t made any really stupid errors or anything. But I’d missed the chance to complete a double play in the third inning. That had cost us a run. And in my three chances at bat, I had fouled out, popped out, and struck out. I wasn’t helping the team.
Johnny struck out the big guy. Two outs. Good. One more out and we could go home.
I scanned the bleachers for my mother, but she wasn’t around. Where was she? This was the second game in a row that Mom had missed. I was starting to worry about her. What if something had happened to her?
I never used to worry about my mother. She was always the one who had to worry about me. But when I scooped her up at Gettysburg and carried her across Cemetery Ridge, something changed. It was the first time I had to protect her instead of the other way around. Someday, when I’m a grown-up and Mom is an old lady, I might have to take care of her all the time, the same way she takes care of Uncle Wilbur.
Why was I thinking about that now? I just about slapped myself in the face with my glove. We were in danger of losing this game, and here I was, day-dreaming about such weird stuff.
“Two outs!” the coach of the Ophthalmologists hollered. “Run on anything.”
Johnny went into his windup, and the batter cracked a sharp grounder down the third-base line. Somehow, my instincts took over. I dove for the ball and managed to get in front of it. The ball bounced off my chest and I scrambled to grab it.
Usually, before every pitch, I mentally rehearse exactly what I’ll do if the ball is hit to me. But for the moment, I had forgotten the situation. I had been daydreaming. I didn’t remember where the base runners were. I could always throw the ball to first, but it was a long throw and I didn’t know if I could get the ball there in time to beat the runner.
“Touch third, Stosh!” everybody was screaming. “Touch third!”
Of course! There were runners at first and second. There was a force play at third.
I rolled over and stabbed at the third-base bag with the ball. I got my hand in there just before the runner from second slid in.
“Yer out!” shouted the umpire.
We won the game, but I had nothing to do with it. The other guys carried the team. I was lucky I had stopped that grounder. If it had gotten past me, both runners would have scored. I was lucky the guys told me what to do with the ball too. I was out of it.
“Are you okay, Stosh?” Flip Valentini asked me as he drove
me home after the game.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Why?”
“Your head didn’t seem to be in the game today.”
“It wasn’t,” I admitted.
“I noticed that you jumped a little with every crack of the bat too,” he said. “And when that car backfired back on Whitherspoon Street, you just about jumped through my sunroof.”
I guess he was right. Ever since I’d gotten back from Gettysburg, loud sounds had startled me. There had just been so many explosions! Every time I heard a loud noise, it reminded me of the battle. It was crazy, but I almost felt like there were sharpshooters up in the tall buildings of downtown Louisville pointing their rifles at me.
As we got closer to my house, I remembered that Flip was the reason I went to Gettysburg in the first place.
“Hey, guess who I bumped into yesterday,” I teased Flip.
“I give up.”
“Abner Doubleday.”
“Get outta here!” Flip said, driving off the road and stopping the car. Luckily there was just gravel on the shoulder so he could pull over.
“Yup,” I said, “and I asked him if he invented baseball.”
Flip looked at me expectantly. I must admit, it was fun keeping him in suspense for a few seconds.
“So it worked, huh?” Flip asked. “You were able to do it with a photograph?”
“Yup.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Did Doubleday really invent baseball?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
It would have been cruel to make him wait any longer.
“Nope,” I told him. “He hardly knew anything about baseball. He didn’t even know that three strikes made an out!”
I told Flip how Doubleday had showed up at the baseball game. When he heard that I’d struck out “the inventor of baseball” on three soft underhand pitches, Flip threw back his head and laughed until tears were running down his cheeks. He was really enjoying himself.
Soon we got back on the road and drove to my house. Flip popped the latch on the trunk so I could get my duffel bag out. He made me promise to tell him all about Gettysburg on Thursday.
