by Dan Gutman
My body felt weary. I still couldn’t get my mom’s words out of my mind. When you’re a grown-up, you can make important decisions yourself. I wished I was a grown-up.
“Hey Honus?” I asked as my eyelids fell like the huge curtains in a theater.
“Yeah, Stosh?”
“In 1909, is everything in black and white?”
“Of course not, Stosh,” Honus laughed.
“Well, I’ve seen pictures of those times and everything looks black and white.”
“The past is in color, Stosh! Beautiful color. You should see it.”
I wish I could, I thought. I wish I could.
GROWING UP FAST
10
DAYLIGHT STREAMING IN THE WINDOW SNUCK THROUGH MY eyelids and awakened me. It must have just been another dream, I thought, and now it’s over.
I lay there with my eyes closed thinking about how wonderful it had been. I tried to recall everything Honus had said, because I usually forget my dreams as soon as I wake up in the morning. My body felt different, somehow.
I figured I’d better get up. I rolled over on my side to check the clock on my night table. One o’clock! Mom never lets me sleep so late, even on Saturday. My mind scrambled to figure out what was going on.
Wait a minute! The clock had hands. I have a digital clock. I bolted from the bed and looked around the room.
It wasn’t my room!
There was flowery wallpaper on the walls and a landscape painting in a fancy frame. It wasn’t a kid’s room. The room was filled with antiques. All the furniture was made of wood. There were two beds. The other one looked like it had been slept in, too. My sneakers, clothes, and backpack were on the floor. I must have taken them off during the night.
I opened the night table drawer. Inside was a Bible and some sheets of blank stationery. “Pontchartrain Hotel, Detroit, Michigan,” it said at the top.
There was noise outside the window, so I got up to have a look. A bunch of antique cars were on the street, sputtering, backfiring, and honking their horns.
Across the street was a ballpark. There was a large sign on the front of it—BENNETT PARK. Never heard of it. People were streaming toward the ballpark. They were all wearing hats. The ladies wore enormous ones with flowers on them. It was really weird.
A door opened behind me. I turned around and Honus clomped into the room in his Pirate uniform, spikes and all. He was carrying a shaving brush and a towel. He didn’t seem nearly as big as he did before.
Honus looked startled when he saw me. “Stosh?” he asked, as if he wasn’t sure it was me.
“I guess I can travel through time, huh?” I said.
The voice coming out of my mouth didn’t sound like me. It was lower. I noticed that Honus was looking me over carefully, up and down.
A bunch of antique cars were on the street…honking their horns. Across the street was a ballpark.
“Why are you staring at me like that, Honus?”
“Take a look in the mirror, Stosh.”
There was a full-length mirror on the door. I walked over to it and was rocked back on my heels when I saw the image. The person in the mirror wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy. It was a man. A man who was a bit under six feet tall, with large ears and bowed legs. The face looked pretty much like mine, but the body was that of a grown-up.
I was hairy in places where my skin used to be smooth. My breath tasted bad in my mouth. I smelled.
Suddenly I realized what had happened—I went to sleep with the baseball card wishing I could be a grown-up…and then I became one!
My face felt itchy. I touched it with my hand. I needed a shave. The floor looked farther away than usual, the ceiling closer.
I moved my arms and legs to prove to myself that the image in the mirror was really me and not some guy standing behind a sheet of glass.
Honus came over and stood behind me. We looked like we could be twin brothers.
“Kids sure grow up fast these days, huh Stosh? Y’know, you look like a real ballplayer now.”
I made a muscle with my arm and tensed it. The bicep jumped up, like it does on those guys in the bodybuilding magazines. I started doing poses in the mirror.
“We’d better get movin’ Stosh. I’ll be late for batting practice.”
“What year is this?”
Honus went over to the bureau, picked up a small calendar, and handed it to me. The front sheet had the word “October” at the top in large letters. Underneath, in smaller numbers, it said “1909.”
“So it worked!” I said, marvelling at my new power. “Honus, where are we?”
“Detroit,” he said with a laugh. He tossed me some of his clothes. “Put these on. Your stuff don’t fit no more. Put on this jacket, too. It’s a cold day.”
I put on the clothes, and was careful to put the card back in my backpack.
“Where are we going, Honus?”
“To the game, of course,” he replied.
“Why’d you put on your uniform in the hotel?” I asked as I grabbed my backpack and followed Honus down several flights of stairs. “Why not dress in the locker room?”
“No hot water. Besides, the kranks like to see us on their way to the game. Gets ’em riled up, you know?”
“Kranks?” I asked.
“Fanatics,” Honus said as he pushed open the door facing the street. “Fans. Don’t let the Tiger kranks bother you.”
“Detroit Tiger kranks?”
“Yup. They’re harmless.”
“But Detroit’s not in the National League,” I said, confused. “The Pirates don’t play the Tigers.”
“In the World Series we do.”
“This is the World Series?!” I said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Told you I had a big game today.” Honus threw an arm around my shoulder and hustled me past the cars whizzing down Trumbull Avenue toward the ballpark.
I was glad Honus told me to put on a jacket, because it was raw and windy outside. Terrible baseball weather.
But in front of Bennett Park it was like a county fair. The smell of roasted peanuts hung in the air. Red, white, and blue bunting hung around the ballpark. Band music blared in the distance. Cars coughed and trolleys clanked down the street. Newsboys hawked papers for a penny.
There was a sign on the front gate—BOTTLE THROWING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
“Hey Honus, good luck today!” somebody shouted as we walked past the ticket window. A hand-lettered sign over the booth indicated that box seats were selling for $1.25 and bleacher seats 75¢.
“Cobb’s gonna run all over you, Dutchman!” a guy hooted at Honus.
“Mr. Wagner,” asked a lady with a small boy. “Can you sign this for my son?” Honus stopped and took the lady’s fountain pen. I noticed the boy was wearing a badge that read, “YOU MIGHT TY COBB, BUT YOU CAN’T TIE WAGNER.” Honus used her son’s head as a table to sign the lady’s scorecard…
“Are you a ballplayer, too?” she asked, holding the pen out for me.
“No, I’m—”
“He’s my brother,” Honus said, throwing me a wink.
“Butts!” yelled a guy waiting in line. “Butts Wagner!”
“Hey Butts, how ya’ doin’?”
“Haven’t seen you in years, Butts! How’s the knee?”
People gathered around us, clapping me on the back. Honus laughed as I greeted everyone as his brother and told them my knee was much better. The lady was still holding the scorecard and pen out for me, so I took them and wrote…
Honus whistled to get the attention of a guard, and whispered something in his ear. The guard handed him something and escorted us past the gate. Hans led me to a quiet tunnel under the ballpark.
“I’ve got a ducat for you, Stosh,” Honus said, handing me a ticket. “Enjoy the game.”
“Good luck, Honus.”
“Thanks. Stosh, I got an idea this morning. I want you to watch me when I come off the field after each inning. If I look toward you
and do this”—he patted his right shoulder with his left hand “—then you come down and meet me here right away. Got that?”
I patted my right shoulder with my left hand to make sure I had the sign.
“Okay, but why?” I was bewildered.
“It’s a surprise,” Honus said. “Oh, one more thing. Here’s two bits. Get yourself some frankfurters or something. You’ll get hungry.” He flipped me a quarter.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised.
“Forget it,” he replied. “You fed me, now I’ll feed you.”
“Honus, this is a dream come true for me.”
“Not yet it ain’t.”
With that, he hurried through a door marked VISITOR’S ENTRANCE.
THE GREAT COBB
11
THE SEAT WAS A GOOD ONE, RIGHT NEAR FIRST BASE AND A couple of rows off the field. It was made of wood. The floor was made of wood, too. Come to think of it, I noticed, everything was made of wood.
I scoped out the place. Bennett Park was much smaller than the ballparks I’d visited. The outfield fence was plastered with billboards—LA AZORA: THE CIGAR OF CIGARS. 50 TO EVERY PLAYER SCORING A HOME RUN. Everything from soda pop to clothing to dandruff treatments were being advertised.
People were hanging all over the fence, and there were seats in front of the fence. The only thing keeping fans away from the playing field was a rope. There was no warning track. I wondered how they handled home runs. Did outfielders just chase deep fly balls into the crowd?
Or maybe there were no deep fly balls. This was, I realized, still the “dead ball era.” Baseballs didn’t travel very far. I remembered from reading baseball history books that in 1911 a livelier ball with a cork center was introduced.
The place was jammed with fans, and it seemed like all of them were waving a pennant, tooting a horn, or ringing a bell. Some people brought pots and pans to the ballpark, and they were banging on them with big spoons. People were even sitting on rickety bleachers set up on the rooftops of houses across the street from the ballpark.
It was cloudy and cold enough that the umpire was wearing an overcoat. I didn’t mind the weather. I was getting to see the 1909 World Series!
There were no dugouts. Some of the players sat on a long bench, while the rest were warming up, snapping baseballs back and forth smartly. Their gloves were hardly any bigger than their hands, I noticed.
After a few minutes I saw Honus on the Pittsburgh bench. A photographer led him over to one of the Tigers and began shooting pictures of the two men as they compared their batting grips.
The seats next to me weren’t filled yet, so I turned around and asked the two women in the row behind me, “Excuse me, is that Ty Cobb?”
“You must be from out of town, mister,” one of them said. “Of course it’s the great Cobb!”
A photographer led Honus over to one of the Tigers and began shooting pictures of the two men as they compared their batting grips. “Is that Ty Cobb?” I asked two women in the row behind me.
They giggled when I turned back to the field. I listened to their conversation and overheard them commenting on how handsome Ty Cobb was, especially compared with Honus Wagner.
“They call him The Flying Dutchman,” one of them said to the other, “but he looks like he can barely walk!” They convulsed into more giggles.
I turned around again and glared at them. “Wagner’s gonna run all over the Tigers today,” I boasted. Without thinking, I added, “Ty Cobb sucks.”
The two women looked at me as if they had seen a ghost. One of them closed her eyes and started fanning herself, like she was going to faint. They quickly gathered up their coats and hats and stormed out of their seats in a huff. I guess I told them.
There was a newspaper beneath my seat. A headline on the front page read…
WILBUR WRIGHT EXPLAINS HIS AEROPLANE.
FOR THE FIRST TIME AVIATOR COMPARES
VARIOUS TYPES OF FLYING MACHINES,
SHOWS WHEREIN HIS IS SUPERIOR
AND INDICATES REMARKABLE FLIGHTS
POSSIBLE IN THE FUTURE
I was reading the story and chuckling to myself, when I felt a hard tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a policeman was standing there holding a nightstick menacingly. The two women I had been speaking with stood behind him, smirking.
“You bothering these ladies, chum?” he asked.
“Oh, no, officer,” I replied. “Just discussing the merits of the respective teams, sir.”
“What’s your name, buddy?”
I thought for a second.
“Wagner,” I told him. “Butts Wagner.”
“Honus’ big brother?” The cop was suddenly acting nice to me. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Good luck today! Enjoy the game.”
He shot the women a look as he left. I smiled at them pleasantly before turning back to the field. They were whispering to each other so I couldn’t hear, but I thought one of them said, “He’s nearly as ugly as his brother.”
I opened the newspaper again. There was no sports section, but after searching around I finally found an article about the World Series…
DETROIT, Oct. 14.—Detroit kept in the great fight for the world’s baseball championship by defeating Pittsburg, 5 to 4, today in a battle full of thrilling incidents and tonight the teams are tied with three victories each. The seventh and deciding game will be played here Saturday.
I turned back to face the ladies behind me. They looked at me like I was an insect.
“Excuse me,” I said in my sweetest voice, “What day is it today?”
“Saturday,” they muttered through clenched teeth.
Game 7 of the 1909 World Series! And I had a box seat!
From reading the newspaper I learned that neither the Tigers nor the Pirates had won a World Series since the tradition began.
The 1909 pennant, I found out, was the Tigers’ third in a row. They lost the World Series in 1907 and 1908, so Cobb and his teammates wanted desperately to win this one.
The Pirates hadn’t been in the Series since they lost the first one to Boston in 1903. Honus was playing this Series as if his life depended on it, the newspaper article said. In Game 3, he reached first base five times and stole second four times. In Game 5, he was hit by a pitch and then stole second, third, and came home when the throw to third sailed into left field.
Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner had each won the batting championship in their respective leagues during the season, so the World Series was made out to be a duel between baseball’s two best players. “The Antelope versus the Buffalo,” was the way the newspaper described them. Honus, apparently, was the Buffalo.
Pittsburgh had won all the odd-numbered games, 1, 3, and 5. Detroit took the even-numbered ones, 2, 4, and 6. This would be the first time the World Series would be decided in its final game. There was a buzz of excitement building as the stands filled.
“Play Ball!” shouted the umpire. The big clock said three-thirty.
A guy with a huge megaphone announced the starting lineups. He walked in foul territory from the third-base side to the first-base side, shouting loudly enough for everybody in the stands to hear.
The pitcher for the Tigers was “Wild Bill” Donovan, who, according to the megaphone man, had won eight games and lost seven during the season. Bobby Byrne, Pittsburgh’s third baseman, stepped up to the plate to lead off the game.
Donovan’s first pitch was wide for ball one. His second pitch was high and Byrne laid off it. Ball two. Donovan’s third pitch was way inside. Byrne jack-knifed out of the way, but the ball smacked him on the shoulder. The crowd let out a gasp, but Byrne got up and received a polite round of applause as he jogged to first base.
I could tell why Donovan was called “Wild Bill.”
Tommy Leach, the Pirate center fielder, was up next. He squared around to bunt and dropped a slow roller on the grass. Donovan jumped off the mound and pounced on the ball. He thought about throwing to second, but decided against it and
fired the ball accurately to first. Byrne slid into second safely. One out.
Next up was Fred Clarke, who played left field for Pittsburgh and was also the manager of the team. Before he stepped into the batter’s box, Clarke flashed a series of signals to Bobby Byrne, the runner on second. One of them must have been hit-and-run, because on the first pitch Clarke took a swing as Byrne took off for third.
The only problem was Clarke didn’t connect. The catcher, Charley Schmidt, snapped a throw to third that had Byrne beat. George Moriarty, the Detroit third baseman, had the base blocked. Byrne’s only chance was to knock the ball away. He slid in hard, crashing into Moriarty, feet first.
Both players were lying on the ground, but Moriarty held the ball in his hand. Two outs. Moriarty stood up gingerly, limping around the third-base bag. Bobby Byrne was down in the dirt for a long time holding his right ankle. Finally, his teammates came off the bench and carried him off the field.
They play this game rough, I thought. I wondered if Byrne would have slid in so hard and Moriarty would have stood his ground if they were each making two million dollars a season.
As play resumed, Wild Bill Donovan threw several more pitches out of the strike zone. Fred Clarke walked to first.
“Now batting for Pittsburgh,” shouted the megaphone man, “Honnnnnnnus Waggggggner!”
THE DESIGNATED HITTER
12
HONUS PICKED OUT A RED BAT AND STRODE TO THE PLATE, confident but not cocky. I studied his stance carefully. He used a long bat and stood far from the plate. He held his hands four or five inches apart on the bat, with his left hand—the lower hand—about a palm-width above the handle.
He looked like he was sitting on a stool. He bent his knees slightly, leaning forward as the pitcher went into his windup, then exploded into a chopping, lunging swing, stepping into the ball.
