Honus & Me

by Dan Gutman

  “What are you going to do with the money?” I asked.

  “There’s a home for boys in Pittsburgh,” he said. “When I have some extra cash, I usually give it to them.”

  “You’re going to give away your winner’s share?” I couldn’t believe it. “You could probably buy a house with that money.”

  “I got a roof over my head,” he said. “The boys need it more than me. I know what it’s like to be poor.”

  “But Honus, why? How can you be so unselfish?”

  “Hey, I’m as selfish as the next guy,” Honus snapped. “You think I don’t get anything out of this?”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  “I’ll tell you.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “It feels so good when I do somethin’ nice for somebody, it oughta be against the law.”

  He thought about that for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, that reminds me…”

  He bent down and rooted around at the bottom of his locker again. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

  “These might come in handy when you get back,” he said. In his hand was a bunch of cards—brand-new Honus Wagner T-206 cards.

  My eyes bugged out.

  “They gave ’em to me down at the factory when I told ’em to stop printin’ ’em,” he said.

  I counted the cards in his hand. There were 12. In my head I quickly did the calculation—twelve cards, $500,000 each. I was staring at close to six million dollars.

  “Hey!” Honus shouted to his teammates, who were still celebrating, “These’ll be worth millions one day! Eat your hearts out, you bums!”

  There were snorts and guffaws all around as towels and underwear came flying at Honus from all directions.

  “Lemme see those!” Fred Clarke snatched the cards out of Honus’s hand and guffawed as he looked them over. “This guy Wagner is over the hill!” Clarke announced to everyone as he gripped the stack of cards with two hands.

  “Freddie, no!” Honus yelled.

  It was too late. Clarke ripped the stack in half and tossed the pieces up in the air.

  Everybody laughed except for me and Honus. I sat down on his stool, put my head in my hands, and started to cry.

  “Stosh! I’m sorry!” Honus got down on his knees before me. “I didn’t know he was gonna tear ’em up.”

  “I can handle being poor and I think I could handle being rich,” I said without raising my head, “but going from poor to rich and then back to poor again is too much for me to take, Honus.”

  Honus opened my backpack and rooted around until he found my original Honus Wagner card. “At least you still have this one,” he said, trying to soothe me. “Better put it in your wallet where it will be safe.”

  I may have lost six million dollars, I figured, but a half a million is nothing to sneeze at. I wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “Honus, I think I better go back now.”

  “School and stuff, huh?”

  “Yeah. As much as I do enjoy your company, of course.”

  “Stosh, before you go, I was wonderin’…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, since you’re from the future and all, I was wondering if you could tell me what’s in my future. Like, how long will I stay in the game?”

  “I did my homework on you,” I said, “You retired after the 1916 season. Rheumatism in your legs. But the Pirates were so awful the next year that everybody begged you to come back. So you did.”

  “I’ll be forty-three in 1917.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll hit .265.”

  “Ugh,” Honus said, spitting. “I must have called it quits for good after that.”

  “Yeah. But then they asked you to manage the team. You didn’t want to, but you did anyway. They hired you on first of July and you quit on the fourth. You won just one game as a manager.”

  “I’d never be able to be tough enough on the guys,” Honus said. “You wouldn’t know what I did after baseball, would you?”

  “You started a chicken farm.”

  “Always liked chickens,” he chuckled.

  “But you kept coming back to baseball,” I continued. “You managed and played for a semi-pro team until you were fifty-three. Then you came back to coach the Pirates in 1933 and you did it until—”

  I stopped abruptly.

  “Until what?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to tell him anymore.

  “Until I died, right?” Honus said solemnly.

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you all this, Honus.”

  “Tell me, Stosh.”

  “In 1955. You were eighty-one.”

  He stood there silently staring off into space. Finally, he looked at me again. “Will I get another chance to play in the World Series?” he asked quietly.

  I was about to answer, but Honus quickly put his hand to my mouth.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Everybody needs somethin’ to shoot for.”

  “I’ll never forget you, Honus.”

  “Send my love to Mandy Young, will you, Stosh? Tell her I’m sorry I never made it back to Louisville.”

  “I will, Honus.”

  “And come visit again sometime.”

  “I’ve already got my ticket,” I said, holding up my Honus Wagner baseball card.

  I left the clubhouse and made my way outside. There were still a lot of melancholy Tiger fans milling around Bennett Park. The team had taken a tremendous licking in Game 7 and lost its third straight World Series.

  I tried to hide the grin that was plastered all over my face. Not only had I played in the majors, but I got the key hit to ice the World Series! Plus, I still had my priceless baseball card. All was good in the world.

  Suddenly, as often happens at times like this, something terrible occurred to me.

  How was I going to get back home?

  I had traveled to 1909 because I had a 1909 baseball card. I would need a new card to get back to my own time, and I hadn’t thought to bring one with me.

  I was stuck in 1909 with nothing but the clothes on my back and a baseball card that wouldn’t be worth anything for eighty years.

  There was nothing to do but go back to the hotel. Honus had mentioned he had the room for another night, and that I could use it if I wanted to take a shower or something. I dodged a few buggies on Trumbull Street across from Bennett Park and trudged into the hotel to mull things over.

  I kicked off Honus’s shoes and lay on the bed. “The future,” I thought to myself. “I gotta get to the future.” I closed my eyes and tried to picture my newest baseball cards in my head. Maybe that would help get me back to the future.

  It wasn’t happening. There was no tingling sensation at all. I just felt like some jerk in a hotel room. It was hopeless. Tears began to well up in my eyes.

  I rolled over on my side. As I was lying there sobbing, I glanced at my sneakers on the floor.

  Wait a minute! The sneakers! I always kept a baseball card in each sneaker to cover the holes!

  I tumbled off the bed and pounced on my sneakers like they were a loose football in the end zone.

  I reached inside the left sneaker. Nothing. No card. I could poke my finger right through the hole in the bottom. Disgusted, I tossed the sneaker aside, grabbed the other one, and reached inside.

  Bingo! Paydirt! I could feel a card. Thank goodness my mom is too poor to buy me new sneakers!

  The player’s name was Craig Grebeck, a backup infielder with the Chicago White Sox. Bats and throws right-handed. 160 pounds. Five feet eight.

  My hero! My favorite player of all time! Craig Grebeck may have been a .220 hitter with 11 home runs in four seasons, but he would be my ticket home.

  The card was pretty beat-up from being inside my sneaker for a few months, but this was one situation where the card’s condition had nothing to do with its value.

  I scampered back up on the bed and lay on my back staring at the card in my hands. Ho
lding my backpack tightly, I closed my eyes.

  As I waited for the tingling sensation to begin, I thought about what had happened to me. Getting the hit in the World Series had been cool and all, but being a man had its disadvantages, too. My face was itchy. My whole body was itchy. My back was sore. And I smelled horrible. All in all, I decided, I’d rather be a boy.

  I wish I was a boy again.

  Hey, what if I wake up in Craig Grebeck’s bedroom, I wondered? That would really rock his world. Oh, who cares? As long as I get back to the future. I’m sure Craig will understand and call my mom so she can take me home to Louisville.

  Take me home to Louisville. Take me home to Louisville.

  The tingling became overwhelming, and I lost consciousness.

  PROS AND CONS

  14

  “JOE! YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE! WILL YOU GET UP already?

  It was comforting to hear Mom’s voice, and sad at the same time. I was back where I belonged.

  I sat up and looked at the clock. It was my digital clock I noticed first. It was 7:23. Then I looked myself over—I was a boy again.

  The Craig Grebeck card was still in my hand. I reached into my backpack for my wallet. The Honus Wagner card was right where I’d left it. Quickly, I got ready for school.

  “Mom,” I said as we chomped cold cereal together. “I haven’t been away for a couple of days or anything like that, have I?”

  “Of course not, silly,” she said. “But when you went to bed last night you seemed so angry I thought you might like to go away for a few days.”

  “You haven’t gone out of town or anything?”

  “Well, my exciting career as an undercover nursing spy did take me to a hospital in Istanbul this week, yes.”

  “I’m serious, Mom.”

  “Of course I haven’t been away,” she said, feeling my forehead the way she always does when she thinks I have a fever. “You know, Joe, I have an apology to make.”

  Whoa! Grown-ups almost never apologize to kids. It’s always us who mess up all the time and have to apologize.

  “What for, Mom?” I asked.

  “I thought it over and decided it was wrong to tell you to return your baseball card to Miss Young. I think you’re old enough to make that decision yourself.”

  I thought about the Honus Wagner card all day at school, and my mind kept going ’round and ’round in the same circles. If I sold the card like Dad wanted me to, I’d have a ton of money and all the things I could buy with that money. But I’d feel kinda guilty. If I gave the card back to Miss Young, I’d have the satisfaction of knowing I did the right thing, but no cash. And if I simply kept the card and didn’t sell it, I would feel guilty and have no money, but I’d be able to go back in time and visit Honus again.

  It was impossible to concentrate on history and science with stuff like that buzzing around my brain.

  During third period, Mrs. Kelly was going over long division for the hundredth time. I decided to do what my mom does when she has to make a tough decision. She takes a sheet of paper and draws a line down the middle. At the top of the left side she writes the word PROS and at the top of the right side she writes the word CONS.

  On the left side of the page, I began jotting down all the positive things that would happen if I sold the Honus Wagner card. On the right side, all the negative things.

  I was deep in thought when I heard Mrs. Kelly call my name. Everybody in class turned and looked at me. I thought about making up an answer, but that hardly ever works. Everybody would just laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kelly,” I said honestly, “I didn’t hear the question.”

  “The question was, ‘Who can tell me what Mr. Stoshack is doing?’”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Joseph, what are you writing there?”

  “Just taking notes, Mrs. Kelly.”

  She came over to my desk and picked up my notebook…

  Mrs. Kelly looked the page over carefully. She was about to say something embarrassing to me, I was sure. But she never had the chance. The bell rang, and everybody jumped out of their seats for fourth period.

  “Mr. Stoshack, can I see you for a minute?” Mrs. Kelly said, giving back the notebook. All the kids went “Ooooooooh!” as they filed out of the room.

  I went over to Mrs. Kelly’s desk. I was sure she was going to say something about my not paying attention in class.

  “Joe, I don’t know what decision you’re struggling with,” she said, “but it must be a tough one.”

  I nodded my head.

  “Do me one favor,” she said. “Don’t make your decision by simply adding up the totals of those two columns. It would be wonderful if real life was as simple as mathematics, Joe, but unfortunately it isn’t.”

  I thanked her and turned to walk away, but she held up one finger to indicate she had one more thing to say.

  “Do you know what I do when I have to make a really tough decision? I think of the one person in the world whom I respect more than anybody else. Then I try to put myself in that person’s shoes and I ask myself what decision he or she would make. Maybe that will work for you, Joe.”

  As I was riding my bike home from school, I made a mental list of people I admire. Abraham Lincoln…Thomas Edison…Benjamin Franklin…Cal Ripken, Jr….

  Wait a minute! There’s one person I respect and admire more than anyone—Honus Wagner! And I’ve even been in his shoes!

  It took about five seconds to make up my mind. I decided to give the baseball card back to Miss Young.

  GOING…GOING…GONE

  15

  THE FRONT DOOR WAS OPEN A CRACK WHEN I GOT HOME from school. That was odd. Mom hadn’t told me she would be coming home early.

  “Mom?” I called. “Mom, are you home?”

  No answer. The only other person who could possibly be in the house would be my dad. Maybe he came over to get something.

  “Dad? Are you here? Anybody home?”

  The house was silent. Mom must have forgotten to close the front door when she left for work, I figured. I grabbed a snack from the fridge and went upstairs with it before going over to Miss Young’s house to return the card.

  As soon as I got to the top of the stairs I had the feeling that something was wrong. When I went into my room, I shuddered. Every drawer had been opened and dumped on the floor. The closet had been emptied and all my stuff strewn around. The mattress on my bed was upside down, the sheets ripped off. The ends of the rug were turned over. My posters and pennants had even been ripped off the walls.

  My mom’s always telling me my room is a mess, but nothing like this.

  Somebody had broken into the house. My room was the only one that had been disturbed. Nothing seemed to be missing. It was obvious that somebody was looking for the Honus Wagner card. I checked my backpack to make sure I still had it. I took the card out and carefully slipped it into my wallet. Then I put the wallet in my back pocket.

  It occurred to me that whoever had broken into the house might still be there. I tiptoed out the back door to the yard.

  Birdie Farrell was there waiting for me.

  “Where’s the card, Stoshack?” he said, slamming the door closed behind me. Birdie cornered me in the right angle between the house and the garage.

  “I put it in a safe,” I lied. “A safe deposit box at the bank.”

  “I think you’re lying, Stoshack.” I backed myself against the wall. He hovered over me menacingly.

  “You’re certainly an expert in that area, Birdie. Wasn’t it you who tried to convince me the card was worth only ten bucks?”

  “That wasn’t lying,” he said. “That was negotiation.”

  “Sounded like a lie to—”

  “Shut up, Stoshack. You don’t know diddly-squat about baseball cards. The value of a card comes down to two things—supply and demand. I demand it. You supply it.”

  “So now you want the card for nothing, is that it, Birdie?” I looked around to see if the
re was something I could grab and hit him with, but the only thing within reach was a wooden garden rake.

  “That’s right, Stoshack. Give it to me. Because it’s mine.”

  “Get outta here!” I said desperately, “You’re crazy.”

  “I used to own a Honus Wagner T-206, you know, Stoshack. I had it framed on the wall in my store. That was back in the days when baseball cards were just cardboard and they weren’t worth much money. Then one day I came back from lunch and the card was gone. Today it’s worth a half a million bucks. You know who took it, Stoshack?”

  “I have no i—”

  “That’s a lie, Stoshack!” Birdie shouted, pointing his finger close to my chin. “How’d you get my card?”

  “You’re nuts,” I said, slapping his hand away from my face. “It’s not your card. I found this one.”

  “You’re lying again, Stoshack. That’s stolen property, and I’m taking it back.”

  Birdie grabbed my right arm and spun me around, so he could hold me from behind. He put his other hand over my mouth to prevent me from calling for help.

  He had been a professional wrestler and was much bigger and stronger than me. There was no point trying to fight him.

  I figured my best chance would be to get down on the grass and free my mouth so I could scream. I let him pin me so my back pocket with my wallet in it would be against the ground. Birdie straddled me on his knees, holding his left hand over my mouth while he used his right hand to search my backpack.

  “Gimme the Wagner card back, Stoshack,” Birdie said, panting. “Make it easy on yourself. I know you have it on you. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be putting up a fight.”

  He was right about that. Not finding the card in my backpack or front pockets, Birdie expertly flipped me over. I held my hand over my back pocket, but he was too strong and pulled it away. He pulled out my wallet and found the Honus Wagner card almost immediately.

  “Aha!” Birdie said joyfully. He admired the card for a moment. “I knew you were lying, Stoshack.”

  “Drop it!”

  Both of us turned around to see where the voice was coming from.