Honus & Me

by Dan Gutman

  I only got to see Honus swing once, because Donovan didn’t give him anything good to hit. After ball four, Honus trotted to first base. Fred Clarke advanced to second.

  He looked like he was sitting on a bar stool. He bent his knees slightly, leaning forward as the pitcher went into his windup, then exploded into a chopping, lunging swing…

  The Pirates had the chance to stage a two-out rally, but Dots Miller hit an easy bouncer to short. Honus slid hard into second, but it was too late. He was forced out. Despite two walks and one hit batsman, the Pirates were gone in the first without scoring a run.

  Charles “Babe” Adams came out to the mound to pitch for the Pirates. Adams was a rookie, who won twelve games and lost only three during the season. I read in the paper that he was the star of the Series so far, winning the first game 4–1, and beating the Tigers in Game 5, 8–4. He went the distance in both games.

  Adams was pitching on two day’s rest, but it looked like he still had a jinx over the Tigers. They went down one, two, three in the first inning. Ty Cobb batted third and, to the dismay of the ladies sitting behind me, grounded out.

  As Honus trotted back to the bench, I watched carefully to see if he was going to give me his secret signal. He only winked at me.

  Wild Bill Donovan couldn’t get loose, and he walked three more Pirates in the second inning. With the help of a stolen base, a bunt, and a sacrifice fly, Pittsburgh scratched out two runs. Wild Bill had walked six batters in two innings.

  This was “inside baseball,” which I’ve read about so much in my baseball books. Pitching, defense, running, and brains were used to win ball games, not home runs. Only a fool would swing for the fences in the dead ball era.

  I noticed that the ball wasn’t white anymore. There was dirt all over it and nobody seemed to mind. The spitball was legal, it occurred to me, and both pitchers might be throwing them.

  The Pirates picked up two more runs in the fourth inning. Wild Bill Donovan was out of the game, but the new pitcher, “Wabash George” Mullin, wasn’t much better. He walked the first batter he faced. An intentional walk to Honus and two singles gave Pittsburgh a 4–0 lead.

  Meanwhile, Babe Adams had the Tigers handcuffed. His curveball was mystifying them. They could barely hit a ball out of the infield. Honus scooped up a couple of grounders, looking about as graceful as a snowplow. But he always made the play.

  When Ty Cobb came up to lead off the bottom of the fifth inning, Detroit was on edge. Time was running out and the World Series was slipping away from the Tigers. The crowd was screaming for Cobb to get a rally going.

  He looked like a demon at the plate. He had the weight of all Detroit on his shoulders. But like any great hitter, he was able to channel his aggression into the task at hand. Instead of swinging wildly at any pitch Adams threw, he carefully looked them over. If he didn’t see one he liked, he refused to pull the trigger. Cobb finally walked.

  “Wahoo Sam” Crawford was up. I remembered that his baseball card indicated he was called “Wahoo” because he came from Wahoo, Nebraska.

  Ty Cobb on first base was like a bucking bronco about to be released from its pen. He danced off the base, daring and taunting Babe Adams to try and pick him off. Adams refused to throw over, which seemed to enrage Cobb. He yelled at Adams. Adams told Cobb to shut up, and a few other things I can’t repeat here.

  Cobb turned his attention to Honus at short. “Hey Krauthead!” he shouted loud enough so everyone in the ballpark could hear, “You better look out, ’cause I’m coming down on the next pitch!”

  From his shortstop position, Honus got the message. He looked straight at Cobb, nodding his head. I could see him mouth the words, “I’ll be waiting.”

  Adams went into his windup and Cobb bolted from first. He got a good jump and he was fast. Honus dashed over and straddled the second base bag, waiting for the throw.

  The Pirate’s catcher, George Gibson, handled the pitch cleanly and whipped the ball to second base on a line. The throw was there at about the same instant as Cobb’s flashing spikes. Honus caught the ball, applied a slap-tag on Cobb’s face, and tumbled on top of him.

  Cobb bolted from first. Honus dashed over and straddled the second base bag. The throw was there at about the same instant as Cobb’s flashing spikes.

  The ump jerked his thumb up. “Yer ouuuuttt!” he boomed.

  When Cobb got up off the ground, there was blood all over his mouth and chin. The Detroit fans booed lustily. Honus looked at his hand as he got up and returned to his position, like it was just another play.

  The benches didn’t empty. There was no fight. Cobb wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. Before jogging back to the bench, he tossed Honus a look. It wasn’t a look of anger, it was a look of respect.

  After that, the Tigers went down weakly in the fifth. It was still 4–0.

  As Honus trotted in from his shortstop position at the end of the inning, he looked straight at me and patted his right shoulder with his left hand.

  The signal!

  I quickly got out of my seat and made my way to the tunnel behind the Pittsburgh bench.

  “Quick!” Honus said when he saw me. “Take off your clothes and put on mine.” He began stripping off his uniform as if it was on fire.

  “Why?!” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I caught one of Cobb’s spikes while I was tagging him,” Honus explained, showing me a deep gash on his hand. “I’m due up this inning and I can’t hold a bat.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  Honus put his good hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “Stosh,” he said, “I need you to be my—my designated hitter.”

  “You gotta be kidding!”

  “Hurry up!” He began ripping my clothes off and putting them on himself.

  I couldn’t stand there in the tunnel in my underwear. I put his uniform on.

  “You’re out of your mind!” I said as I slipped on the thick felt pads he wore under his socks to absorb the impact of slashing spikes. “You’re crazy, Honus!”

  “It’s a simple game,” he said, helping me on with the uniform shirt. “You catch the ball and throw it where it’s supposed to go. You hit the ball and run like hell. There ain’t much to bein’ a ballplayer, if you’re a ballplayer. And you’re a ballplayer. Now it’s time for you to prove it to yourself.”

  I began to protest, but he grabbed my head with both his massive hands and locked eyes with me. “Didn’t you say your dream was to play in a big-league game? Well, your dream is about to come true.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Stosh! What’s the secret to bein’ a great ballplayer?” he demanded.

  “The secret to being a great ballplayer,” I remembered, “is to trick yourself into thinking you already are one.”

  “Right!” Honus proclaimed. “And you are one. You’re Honus Wagner! Now go make me proud of you.”

  Honus gave me a shove up the ramp toward the bench. “You’re scheduled to bat fourth this inning,” he said, as I put my hand on the doorknob. “So if anybody gets onto base, you’ll get your ups. Now go get ’em! And meet me back here afterwards. I gotta go wash this hand before it gets infected.”

  “Aren’t you going to give me any advice or anything?” I asked. “A batting tip?”

  “Yeah,” Honus said. “If you hit the ball in the middle of the field, two guys chase it. But if you hit it down the lines, only one chases it. So hit it down the lines.”

  “That’s your advice?!”

  “Just slam any that looks good, Stosh.”

  The door opened right into the back of the Pittsburgh bench. I slid onto the bench as casually as possible and pulled the cap down low over my eyes so nobody would notice my face. My heart was racing.

  The inning was already underway. There was one out. Wabash George Mullin was still on the mound for the Tigers. I prayed that he’d retire the Pirates one, two, three, so I wouldn’t have to hit. But Tommy Leach slammed
a double to left.

  If Fred Clarke could somehow hit into a double play, I figured, the inning would be over and my major league career with it.

  But Clarke walked. Now there were runners at first and second.

  “Now batting for Pittsburgh,” the megaphone man boomed, “Honnnnnnnus Wagggggggggner!”

  My heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I could have simply opened that door again and ran out of there. Honus would just have to deal with the situation.

  But something inside made me get off the bench and walk onto the field. This was my dream, I thought to myself. Make the most of it. I pulled the Pittsburgh cap down as far as I could without blocking my vision. I kneeled down to pick up Honus’s red bat and headed for the plate.

  There were a few jeers from the Detroit crowd, but I could barely hear them. I focused on what Honus had told me: “The secret to bein’ a great ballplayer is to trick yourself into thinkin’ you already are one.”

  I stepped into the rear of the batter’s box, just like Honus did. I gripped the bat the way he did too, with my hands apart. Mullin looked in for the sign.

  Cobb was playing right field, but that didn’t stop him from making his presence known. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Hey! Elephant ears! You should join the circus, you dumb Dutchman!”

  Somehow, it didn’t bother me. I spat on the ground, just to show ’em I was a big leaguer. Mullin zipped in strike one. I looked it over.

  “Krauthead!” screamed Cobb as Mullin delivered the next pitch. “Next time I slide in, I’m gonna tear your head off!”

  Mullin caught the outside corner with a curveball, and I was in the hole with an 0–2 count. Now I had to protect the plate. Swing at anything close, I told myself. Just make contact. Leach and Clarke took short leads from first and second.

  Mullin looked in for the sign, went into his windup, threw his arms up over his head, and kicked his leg up. I followed the motion and saw the ball in his hand at the point of release.

  He was trying to spot another curve on the outside corner, but he missed and it was coming right over the heart of the plate. I saw it like it was in slow motion—the ball as fat as a cantaloupe. The spin of the stitches. My bat meeting it in a head-on collision. I felt a power in my wrists, arms, and shoulders that was new to me.

  With the crack of the bat, Clarke and Leach were off, scooting around the bases. I pulled the ball good. I knew that. It was a screamer just inside the third-base line.

  He was trying to spot another curve on the outside corner, but he missed and it was coming right over the heart of the plate. I saw it like it was in slow motion—the ball as fat as a cantaloupe.

  Instinct told me to run, and my feet carried me around first base. I saw left fielder Davey Jones giving chase, so I turned on the jets and headed for second. The ball bounced off the corner of the grandstand and skittered across the outfield. Leach and Clarke had already crossed the plate.

  I was rounding second just as Jones finally came up with the ball, and I figured I could beat his throw to third. I did. The throw was off line, and the ball skipped away from the third baseman. Schmidt, the catcher, was backing up third base, but the ball got past him, too.

  Nobody was covering home plate, so instead of sliding into third I decided to keep on going and make a try for home. I jabbed the third-base bag with my right foot and pushed off, shifting into high gear.

  Schmidt tried to run down the ball, but it was hopeless. I crossed the plate standing up.

  Three runs! Pirates 7, Tigers 0. Detroit fans were booing, but again, I didn’t hear them. My chest was heaving.

  I yanked the cap down low over my face after I crossed the plate. I put my hands up for high fives, but nobody high-fived me. Instead, the other Pirates pounded me all over. I made some grateful grunts and found myself an isolated spot at the end of the bench.

  When things calmed down and it seemed like nobody was looking, I opened the door and snuck back into the tunnel beneath the ballpark.

  Honus was waiting for me, with a bandage on his hand. “I knew you could do it!” he shouted, throwing his arms around me in a bone-crushing bear hug. “Now quick, let’s swap clothes again. We’re up 7-0 now, so I can go back in and fake it the rest of the game.

  “You mean I can’t take your place at shortstop?” I said, smiling.

  “Nobody can take my place at short,” Honus said, laughing. “I’ll meet you in the clubhouse after the game. Now it’s time for my dream to come true.”

  THE OTHER HALF

  13

  WITH A SEVEN-RUN LEAD, THE GAME WAS OUT OF REACH for the Tigers. Bennett Park was like a tomb. “Let the bat boy pitch!” somebody hooted.

  I watched the rest of the game from my seat. Adams shut down Detroit over the last three innings and the Pirates won 8-0. The World Championship, for the first time, belonged to Pittsburgh. Ty Cobb went 0 for 4. At the end of the game he kicked a bat halfway to the bench.

  After Adams recorded the final out, I made my way down to the Pirate clubhouse. Madhouse was more like it. The players were screaming their heads off.

  “Hip hip hooray!” they chanted, lifting Babe Adams on their shoulders. Adams had won his third game of the Series, and he looked like a kid who just tasted ice cream for the first time.

  Adams shut the Tigers down over the last three innings and the Pirates won the game 8–0. The World Championship, for the first time, belonged to Pittsburgh.

  After Adams tumbled to the floor, they went after Honus.

  “A toast to the man who outhit and outran the mighty Cobb!” manager Fred Clarke shouted above the noise. “Hip hip hooray!” They all chanted and paraded Honus around the clubhouse on their shoulders.

  Honus spotted me as they were letting him down. He came over and threw his arms around me. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he shouted in my ear. “I hope you believe me now. You got the tools to be a good player.”

  Both of our dreams had come true, I realized. Honus won the World Series, and I played in the majors.

  “Honus, what if Cobb hadn’t spiked your hand?”

  “Oh, I woulda found a way to get you in the game, Stosh,” he said. “As soon as I saw you all grown-up, I said to myself I’m gonna get this man in a major league game one way or another.”

  Honus led me over to his locker, a gray, metal-wire thing that was junkier than the one I have at school. “I got somethin’ for you,” he said. “I know they’re in here somewhere.”

  “You’ve given me enough already,” I protested.

  “Oh, you’ll really like this.”

  As Honus rummaged through his bats and gloves and clothes, I looked at the pictures on the door of his locker. There was a photo of an older couple sitting in a formal living room, probably his parents. Below that was a fuzzy photo of a young woman, pretty, with long hair.

  She was standing in a garden. There was a jagged rip on the left side of the photo, and the girl’s hand was extended out to the side with the rip, as if she had been holding hands with somebody.

  Suddenly it hit me. This was the other half of the picture Miss Young had given me when I cleaned out her attic!

  “Honus!” I said urgently, “Honus!”

  Honus pulled his head out of his locker. “Geez, kid, you’re white as a ghost!” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Who’s that girl in the picture?” I asked, pointing at it.

  “My girlfriend,” he said. “Old girlfriend, anyway.”

  “What happened?”

  “We met when I played for Louisville,” he said wistfully. “When I went to Pittsburgh, I promised her I’d come back and marry her. As we were sayin’ our goodbyes, she tore this picture of us in half. She kept the half with me in it and gave me the half with her in it. We said we’d tape the picture together again when I came back to Louisville. But I never did.”

  “Why not, Honus?”

  “Oh, I heard somebody else was courtin’ ’er. Years went by and it
became harder and harder for me to go see ’er. I never saw ’er again.”

  Honus’s eyes looked watery. “I’m thirty-five now and I haven’t found anyone else who I want to spend much time with. Guess I never will.”

  “Honus, was her name Amanda Young?”

  He looked at me, startled. “How did you know?”

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out the picture Miss Young had given me of the Louisville ballplayer. As I held it up for him, his jaw dropped. He sat down heavily on a stool, dazed.

  “Stosh, where’d you get that?”

  “Honus,” I said softly, “Amanda Young lives next door to me.”

  “She’s still alive in your time?”

  “She’s very old,” I explained. “She never married, and she still remembers you. I found your baseball card while I was cleaning out her attic.”

  Honus shook his head, trying to absorb what I told him.

  “Hey!” I brightened. “Why don’t you come back to Louisville with me, and I’ll re-introduce you to her. I’m getting pretty good at this time-travel stuff.”

  Honus didn’t say anything for a moment or two. “No, it’s too late now,” he said finally. “I had my chance with Mandy. Guess I’m just not very good with women. Besides, I belong in this time, Stosh. I’ve gotta defend our World Series title next season, right?”

  There was a hubub at the other end of the locker room. “Winner’s shares!” announced Fred Clarke. “Anybody want their check?” Clarke stood on a bench calling each player’s name and handing out envelopes.

  “Adams…Leach…Byrne…Wagner…”

  While Honus went to get his check, I looked closely at the picture of Amanda Young. She was really beautiful. It was so sad that she and Honus never got together again.

  That gave me an idea. Carefully, I took the photo off the door of the locker and put it in my backpack.

  Honus came over and showed me his check. It was for $1,745.65. “Earned every penny of this,” he said proudly.