Willie & Me

by Dan Gutman

  “Joe Stoshack!” Jackie said, noticing who I was for the first time. “I haven’t seen you in years, Stosh!”

  Jackie gave me a hug and told me it was good to see me again. Once again, I did the math in my head. I had visited him in 1947. To him, it was four years ago.

  “Kid, you’re pretty popular around here,” Branca told me.

  “We better go,” Jackie said. “The game is gonna start any minute.”

  “Wait!” Flip said, grabbing Jackie’s sleeve. “Stosh and I have to tell you guys something. Tell ’em, Stosh.”

  I wish Flip had done the talking, but he was in a lot of pain and clearly wanted me to do it. So I did. I told Jackie and Ralph exactly what was going to happen in the ninth inning. The score would be 4–2. Ralph would be brought in to face Bobby Thomson. He would slam Ralph’s second pitch into the left field stands to win the game and the pennant.

  They listened to me carefully, their eyes getting wider with every word I said.

  “That’s crazy,” Ralph said. “Are you sure?”

  “The kid knows,” Flip said. “He’s from the future.”

  “Durocher is stealing your signs,” I told Ralph. “He’s got a telescope in his office in center field.”

  “Why, that dirty rat!” Branca said. “I should go over there and—”

  “Fuhgetaboutit,” Flip said. “All you gotta do is ignore the catcher’s signs and throw a different pitch to Thomson. That’ll throw him off stride.”

  “It sounds crazy,” Jackie said.

  “I know,” said Flip. “But it’s gonna work.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Trust us, Ralph,” Flip assured him.

  Ralph and Jackie said good-bye and ran back out on the field. Flip lay back on the training table, still grimacing in pain but also breathing a sigh of relief.

  “We did it, Stosh,” he told me. “If Ralph does what we told him to do, everything’s gonna be different when you get back home to Louisville. The record books will say that we won the pennant. There’ll be no Shot Heard Round the World.”

  I heard the national anthem playing out on the field.

  “The ambulance will be here soon,” I told Flip. “Is it okay with you if I go watch the game?”

  “Sure, Stosh,” he said. “You go have fun. Get yourself a bag of peanuts or somethin’.”

  “. . . for the land of the free . . . and the home . . . of the . . . brave.”

  The crowd let out a cheer and I heard the umpire shout, “Play ball!”

  I was about to open the door when somebody pounded on it from the other side.

  “Who’s in there?” a gruff voice shouted.

  I backed away from the door, almost falling down. The Giants! They must have found out that I escaped from the supply room and they were looking for me. I signaled to Flip to let him know I wasn’t supposed to be there.

  “Me!” Flip shouted. “Flip Valentini.”

  “Is there a kid in there?” the voice shouted. “About thirteen years old? I heard somebody.”

  “No!” Flip shouted back. “Just me.”

  “Open the door!” the voice shouted. “This is the police!”

  “I gotta get outta here!” I whispered in Flip’s ear. “Is there another door?”

  “No! Why are the cops chasing you?”

  “No time to explain,” I whispered. “I’m going to go home. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  “Nah,” Flip replied. “My broken leg is gonna heal. But I don’t wanna get home and find I’m dead. You get outta here.”

  “Open the door or I’ll bust it down!” the voice on the other side shouted.

  “I’ll be right there!” Flip hollered. “I hurt my leg. I gotta hop.”

  Flip motioned for me to hurry up. I pulled the pack of new cards out of my pocket and ripped the wrapper off. I took one of the cards at random. It didn’t matter who was on it. The card would take me back to the present day.

  “Good luck, Flip,” I told him as I pulled up a folding chair and sat down.

  “You too,” Flip replied. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  There wasn’t a lot of confidence in his voice. I knew Flip was suffering going through his life again in the past. But I also knew he was going to suffer in the future. There was nothing I could do about it.

  “I’ll give you ten seconds,” the voice shouted. “Then I come in there.”

  It didn’t take long. I began to feel the tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers. It was like the purring of a cat, almost. Buzzy. It was a pleasant feeling.

  “Ten! Nine! Eight!” the voice shouted.

  I thought about what I had accomplished. I had busted up Leo Durocher’s little cheating system and told the Dodgers about it. The Giants could still possibly win the game and the pennant, but they would have to win it fair and square. I had done the right thing. And I had even met the great Willie Mays. The Branca card had been destroyed, but all in all it was a good day. The tingling sensation was getting stronger. I could feel it all over my hand, and it gradually crept up my wrist, arm, and shoulder. I thought about what it would be like to go home.

  “Seven! Six! Five! Four!”

  The feeling swept across my body. Everything was vibrating now. I had reached the point of no return. It wouldn’t be long.

  “Three! Two! One! Okay, I’m breakin’ down the door!”

  That was the last thing I heard, except for a whooshing noise. Then I was gone.

  “WATCH OUT!” MY MOTHER SCREAMED AS I CAME SAILING across the living room.

  My foot hit the little step at the edge of the doorway and I tripped. I dodged the wing chair and swerved around the bookcase, but fell on the coffee table, landed on the wood floor with a thud, and almost rolled into the fireplace.

  “Ooof!”

  “Were you in the past, Joey?” my mom asked as she rushed to my side to check for bumps and bruises. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Can’t talk now, Mom,” I said hurriedly as I got up to brush the ashes off my pants. “It’s a long story! I’ll be right back to tell you all about it.”

  With that, I rushed upstairs to my bedroom and turned on my computer. It’s an old machine, but I use it only for writing school papers and looking stuff up online. It took forever to boot up, but finally I was able to get on Google.

  I typed “Shot Heard Round the World.” That ought to do it.

  There were millions of results. That didn’t surprise me, or bother me. You type just about anything into Google and you get millions of results.

  The first one that came up was the Wikipedia entry about the gunshot in Concord, Massachusetts, that supposedly touched off the Revolutionary War in 1775. Then there was this poem about it by Ralph Waldo Emerson. . . .

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

  Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

  Here once the embattled farmers stood,

  And fired the shot heard round the world.

  The next entry was about the 1914 assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria. That was the spark that started World War I, and it was also called “The Shot Heard Round the World.” I had never heard of that one.

  I scrolled down. Apparently, whenever something really amazing happens, somebody calls it “The Shot Heard Round the World.” When Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot his friend on a hunting trip, it was called “The Shot Heard Round the World.” There were golf shots heard round the world. Basketball shots heard round the world. Hockey shots heard round the world.

  But nothing about baseball. I kept scrolling down the list. There was nothing about Bobby Thomson. Nothing about Ralph Branca.

  A smile crept across my face. It was like it had never happened! The history books were wiped clean!

  “It never happened!” I heard myself shouting gleefully.

  “What never happened?” my mom called from downstairs. “Is everything okay, Joey?�
��

  I couldn’t believe it! It never happened!

  I wasn’t going to start crowing about my success until I was sure. Maybe I had made a mistake.

  I clicked away from Google and checked to see the final standings for the National League in 1951. . . .

  Brooklyn Dodgers: 98–59

  New York Giants: 97–60

  St. Louis Cardinals: 81–73

  Boston Braves: 76–78

  That was the proof! The Dodgers won the pennant! History had been changed, and it was all because of me.

  “I did it!” I shouted.

  “Did what?” my mother called from downstairs. “Come down and tell us what’s going on, Joey.”

  For once in my life, I had done exactly what I set out to do. I had traveled back in time and changed the historical record, just as I had intended.

  I pulled The Baseball Encyclopedia off my bookshelf and flipped to the section where it says who won the pennant every year. It said the same thing that I read online. The Dodgers won the 1951 pennant.

  Even paperbound books had been changed! How could that be? It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. It happened. That’s all that counted. And it was because of me.

  What a rush! I felt such a feeling of euphoria, a feeling of power. I ran downstairs to tell my mom and Uncle Wilbur the good news.

  “I did it!” I shouted even before I got to the first floor. “I changed history! I am all-powerful! Bow down before me!”

  “Calm down,” my mother said. “How did you change history, Joey?”

  “I wiped Bobby Thomson’s Shot Heard Round the World right out of the record books!” I boasted. “Now it’s like it never happened.”

  “Bobby who?” Mom asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “See!” I said. “That proves it! You don’t even know about it anymore. But you knew about it yesterday, before I left.”

  “You’re talking crazy, Joey,” my mother said.

  “The boy is loco,” said Uncle Wilbur.

  “You need something to eat,” my mom told me. “Come on, wash your hands. I’m about to put food on the table.”

  I stopped. Wait a minute. A thought had crossed my mind. If Thomson didn’t hit the Shot Heard Round the World, and Branca didn’t throw the pitch that became the Shot Heard Round the World . . .

  “How did the game end?” I asked.

  “Beats me,” said my mother. “I don’t even know what game you’re talking about. Come eat.”

  I looked to Uncle Wilbur. He wasn’t a diehard baseball fanatic, but he followed the game. Surely he would know what happened. He’d been a young man back then.

  “Do you know what happened in the last game of 1951?” I asked him.

  “How should I know?” Uncle Wilbur told me. “That was over sixty years ago. It was just another game.”

  “But you’ve heard of Ralph Branca and Bobby Thomson, haven’t you?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied.

  “What about Willie Mays?” I asked.

  “Willie who?” said my mother.

  “Wait. What?” I asked. “You mean to say you’ve never heard of Willie Mays?”

  “Wasn’t he that guy who used to make infomercials for OxiClean or something?” asked my mom.

  “That was Billy Mays!” I shouted. “Willie Mays is one of the most famous baseball players in history! How could you not know that name? Even people who don’t follow baseball know about Willie Mays.”

  “Never heard of the guy,” said Uncle Wilbur.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Wait a minute, are you putting me on?” I asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. My mother has been known to play pranks on me from time to time, but my uncle does not joke.

  “Are you feeling all right, Joey?” my mother asked. “Maybe you have a temperature.”

  Maybe I did. I felt myself sweating. She put her hand on my forehead.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. Then I dashed back upstairs.

  “What happened to Willie Mays?” I mumbled to myself as I typed his name on my keyboard.

  Willie Robertson. Willie Nelson. Willie Geist. Willie McBrides . . .

  There was no Wikipedia entry for Willie Mays! How could that be?

  I checked the website for the National Baseball Hall of Fame.

  No Willie Mays! He wasn’t in the Hall of Fame anymore!

  Frantically, I looked up Willie Mays in The Baseball Encyclopedia. Ah, there he was. . . .

  What? Willie Mays only played that one season! Just 1951. That was it. Nothing after that. It was like he vanished off the face of the earth.

  Oh no! What happened to Willie Mays?

  Something was horribly wrong. I knew that Mays played all through the fifties, sixties, and even into the seventies, when he was over forty years old.

  What did I do?

  I was frantic now. I searched around online until I found the play-by-play for that final playoff game of 1951 to see what happened. It was all the same into the ninth inning. . . .

  Dark singles. Mueller singles. Dark to third. Irvin fouls out. One out. Lockman doubles. 4–2. Runners on second and third. Thomson up. Branca comes in. Ball one.

  And that’s when history changed.

  Instead of hitting the Shot Heard Round the World on the second pitch, Thomson took it for ball two. Then he took ball three. Then he took ball four.

  It said Thomson walked on four pitches! That loaded the bases and brought Willie Mays to the plate.

  Oh man! I told Willie he was going to be in the on-deck circle when the game ended. He must have freaked out when Thomson drew a walk. Willie had told me that he didn’t want to come to the plate with the game on the line. And because I told the Dodgers that the Giants were stealing their signs, that’s exactly what happened.

  A single by Willie would have tied up the game. An extra base hit would have won it. Even if Willie had struck out or popped up, it wouldn’t have been a disaster because there was only one out when he came to the plate. The next batter would have had a shot to win the game.

  Then I read what happened. . . .

  The 21-year-old rookie Willie Howard Mays, playing in the game of his life and clearly under tremendous pressure, hit into a weak double play to end the game, and the season.

  Oh no!

  If Willie didn’t play in the major leagues after 1951, that meant the season-ending double play was his last major league at bat. His final swing.

  But why didn’t he play the next year?

  I did a little more digging online. I found a 1951 article in a newspaper from Westfield, Alabama, where Willie Mays was born in 1931. It said that he came home at the end of the season and decided to take a break from baseball. There were a few other articles in the same newspaper. They said that Willie Mays, “formerly a player on the New York Giants,” had taken a job working “in a laundry.”

  Oh no. Willie must have been devastated about what happened at the end of the 1951 season. He never returned to baseball. He never became a star. He was a nobody.

  And it was my fault.

  It got worse.

  Local man William Howard Mays passed away on Wednesday at his home in Westfield. A laundry worker for nineteen years, Mays played one season for the New York Giants as a young man.

  The obituary was dated 1970. He never even made it to his fortieth birthday.

  I started crying and cursing.

  This was a disaster! Willie Mays had rescued me when I was tied up in the equipment closet, and how had I repaid him? I had ruined his life!

  “Are you okay, Joey?” my mother asked. She had come upstairs and was standing at my bedroom door.

  “I did a terrible thing, Mom. I made a big mistake.”

  She came in and put her arm around me.

  “Oh, whatever it is, I’m sure it couldn’t be that bad,” she told me.

  “It’s bad, Mom!” I insisted. “I ruined Willie Mays’s life.”

  “Shhh
, it’s okay, Joey,” my mother said, stroking my forehead. “Nobody ever heard of that guy.”

  “Nobody ever heard of him because I ruined his life!” I told her. “I gotta fix it. I have to make it right.”

  AS I RAN UPSTAIRS TO MY ROOM, MY MIND WAS RACING again. By telling the Dodgers that the Giants were stealing their signs, I had dramatically altered the lives of at least three players: Ralph Branca, Bobby Thomson, and Willie Mays. I had taken away their fame. I had robbed them of the money they would have earned from that fame. I had turned all three of them into nobodies. And who knew what other problems I might have caused?

  I needed to fix things. But how? If only life had an undo button we could press and erase the latest dumb mistake we made.

  One thing was for sure—I had to go back to 1951 again.

  I grabbed the plaque my dad had given me for my birthday. The Branca card was gone, of course. That jerk Leo Durocher had ripped it up right in front of my face. I grabbed a razor blade and carefully separated the Bobby Thomson card from the wood. Things had to go right this time. This was the only 1951 card I had left.

  I climbed onto my bed and got ready for the trip. Before I had even picked up the card, there was a knock on the door. It was my mom and Uncle Wilbur.

  “Here, I made you a sandwich,” my mother said, handing me a paper bag.

  “I don’t want a sandwich!” I barked at her. “That’s not important! I gotta go save Willie Mays!”

  “What are you wasting your time on that guy for?” Uncle Wilbur asked. “He was a nobody.”

  “Can you close the door, please?”

  “You be careful, Joey,” my mother said, almost pleading.

  “I will. I will,” I said. “Just close the door. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

  They closed the door. I knew my mother was still standing there, listening, but I didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about.

  I took a deep breath. I would need to be careful, I thought before picking up the Bobby Thomson card. This was no time to do something rash. It would just get me into trouble again later. I didn’t want to ruin anybody else’s life.