Jim & Me (8 page)

BOBBY FULLER CAME BACK JUST IN TIME TO SEE THE GUY
storm out of his office. It had to be John McGraw, the manager of the Giants. I remembered my dad asking if I could bring home something signed by McGraw. But this sure wasn't the time to ask for an autograph.

“What the hell is going on in here?” McGraw hollered.

John McGraw was a short guy, on the heavy side. “The Little Napoleon,” they used to call him. He had small, intense eyes. But he sure had a big mouth. McGraw didn't look that old, but his hair was white. He looked like one of those guys who gets old before his time.

At the sound of McGraw's high-pitched voice, Jim Thorpe and the guy he was wrestling let go of each other.

Sometimes they called McGraw “The Little Napoleon.” Sometimes they called him “Muggsy.”

“That'll cost you a hundred bucks, Thorpe!” McGraw said as he stormed across the locker room. “How many times do I have to tell you? No boozing! No smoking! No card playing! And
no
wrestling!”

“It's not his fault, Mr. McGraw,” said Tesreau. “I challenged him, sir.”

“Nobody asked you! And you should be ashamed of yourself, letting a man half your size beat you.”

The players slunk off to their lockers. Finally I could get a good look at Jim Thorpe. He was much younger, but I still recognized him from when I saw him in 1931. His chest was even more muscular now. He could have been one of those ripped bodybuilders you see on muscle magazine covers.

But I couldn't take my eyes off McGraw. I don't know if he was always so mean or if he just happened to be in a bad mood. But he looked like he
hated everybody. There was fire in his eyes.

Jim didn't look like the Indians I'd seen in movies and on TV.

I was sure McGraw was going to kick me and Bobby out of the locker room. We had no business being in there. I tried to make myself look small, fade into the woodwork. But I didn't have to bother. McGraw seemed intent on giving his players a hard time. They cowered in fear as he stalked around the locker room, looking them over like a general inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of one guy and ripped a cigarette out of his mouth.

“Cigarettes line the guideposts on the path to baseball oblivion!” said McGraw.

“Aw, heck, Skip,” the guy said. “I can lick any
team in the league.”

“Marquard, you couldn't lick a
stamp
!” spat McGraw. “That'll cost you 50 bucks.”

What a jerk. He walked around, insulting and fining just about everybody in the room except for Matty. Nobody argued with John McGraw. Nobody talked back. They all looked like they were terrified.

“Mr. McGraw?” Jim Thorpe asked quietly.

“What?” the manager said, spinning around to see who would dare speak to him.

“I was just wondering if I could get some playing time today. All I've been doing is pinch running and pinch hitting. I really need to get some swings and play every day to—”

“NO!” shouted McGraw.

“Well, why not?”

Everybody turned to look at Jim, as if they couldn't believe he had the nerve to question the judgment of the great John McGraw.

“I brought you here to put fannies in the seats, Thorpe,” McGraw fumed. “You were the
Olympic champion
. Everybody was supposed to come out to the Polo Grounds to see
the greatest athlete in the world
. So how come our attendance is down this year, Thorpe?”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jim said, “nobody comes to see me because you don't play me.”

Somebody gasped. It was as quiet as a tomb.

“I'm not your babysitter! I'm trying to win the pennant!” McGraw thundered. “Why should I play
you? You stink!”

“How would you know if you never play me?” Jim muttered under his breath.

A few more guys gasped.

“What did you say?” barked McGraw, getting right in Jim's face.

“Nothin'.”

“You are the highest-paid rookie in baseball
history
, Thorpe!” McGraw yelled. “We're paying you
6,000 dollars a year
! And you can't hit a curveball! Matty only gets 9,000, and he's won 300 games for this team. How many did
you
win?”

Bobby and I glanced at each other. 6,000 dollars a year? 9,000? The average salary in our time is about a
million
dollars a year.

“Then release me,” Jim argued.

“I'd release you in a heartbeat if you didn't have a three-year contract,” McGraw snapped back.

“Then trade me, or send me down to the minors,” Jim said. “Some other manager will give me a chance.”

“
Nobody
wants you, Thorpe!” McGraw said bitterly. “You can throw a javelin far and you can jump high. Well, that won't cut it in baseball. You gotta use your
head
.”

“I
do
use my head,” Jim insisted.

“Oh yeah?” McGraw hollered. “Tell me, Thorpe, the count is two and one. There are two outs. Bottom of the sixth. Runners at first and third. We're down by two runs. What do you do? Do you start the run
ners with the pitch? Straight steal? Double steal? Swing away? Take a pitch? Pinch hit?”

“Bunt,” Jim said after thinking it over for a moment.

“NO!” McGraw yelled. “Bunt with two outs? What kind of a bonehead are you? Baseball requires intelligence, and you ain't got it.”

“Just give me a
chance
!” Jim pleaded, raising his voice a little. “I've only played a little semi-pro ball. I never even
saw
a good curveball until a couple of—”

“Don't give me your sob story,” McGraw snapped. “When I was twelve, my mother, sister, and two of my brothers dropped dead from diphtheria. My wife, Minnie, bless her soul, died when she was twenty-two. You don't see me whining, you dumb redskin.”

At that, Jim exploded and went to grab McGraw by the throat. But four of the Giants jumped on him and held him back.

“Go ahead, get angry!” McGraw yelled at him. “That's exactly what you need, Thorpe! I know how to handle scoundrels like you! I've dealt with a hundred of 'em. I can control any man.”

Jim was still steaming, but he had calmed down enough so the other players relaxed their grip on him.

I wasn't sure if McGraw was a total jerk or a master psychologist. From watching my own team, I know that some kids play better when Flip tells them how good they are, while other kids play better when they get yelled at. Me, I need a little kick in
the pants every once in a while to get me motivated. But John McGraw was really going psycho on Jim.

McGraw finally backed away, and it almost looked like the hint of a smile flashed across his face.

“Boys,” he said, “I just signed a new outfielder. I want you to meet him.”

McGraw went back into his office and came out with a stocky guy with dark skin. In fact, his skin was so dark that he looked African American to me. But I knew that was impossible. Black players were barred from playing professional baseball until Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947.

“Afternoon, gents,” the guy said, giving a little wave.

“This is Chief Tokahoma,” McGraw announced, glancing in Jim's direction. “He's a full-blooded Cherokee. The Chief is gonna take us all the way to the Series this year. It's about time I found an Indian who can play this game.”

“But Mr. McGraw, I ain't no Indian,” Chief Tokahoma said. “I'm a Negro. My name's Charley Grant.”

“I
know
you're a Negro!” McGraw shouted. “But Negroes ain't allowed to play, so from now on you're a Cherokee. And your name is Chief Tokahoma. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked over at Jim. His eyes were almost bugging out of his head, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You're gonna pretend this guy is an Indian so he can play, but meanwhile I'm a
real
Indian and you won't let
me
play?”

“That's right, Thorpe,” McGraw said. “And you know why?”

“Why?” Jim asked.

“Because Chief Tokahoma here can hit a curveball.”

“That's it,” Jim shouted. “I quit!”

“Good!” McGraw said. “If you quit, I don't have to pay you to sit on the bench for three years.”

“I hope you finish in last place!” Jim yelled, as he grabbed a shirt out of his locker. He was still buttoning it when he stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

It was quiet for a few seconds. John McGraw shook his head and massaged his temples with two fingers.

“He'll be back,” he said. “They all come back. And we'll finish in first place…if my brains hold out.”

AFTER JIM STORMED OUT OF THE LOCKER ROOM
,
JOHN
McGraw strolled back to his office as if nothing had happened. The players went back to preparing for the day's game.

I looked at Bobby and he looked at me. We both felt sorry for Jim, but there was nothing we could do for him now. There was no reason to stay in 1913 either.

But then again, there was no reason we had to get home right away.

“Let's blow this pop stand,” Bobby said, jerking his head toward the door.

There were lots of twists and turns in the tunnels under the Polo Grounds. It was amazing that we ever found our way out of the place. Eventually we discovered a door that led to the street. By that time, Jim Thorpe was long gone.

“How are we gonna find him?” I asked Bobby. The street was full of people rushing in all directions.

“I have a hunch I know where Jim's heading,” he said, and we took off down Eighth Avenue.

I had been to New York before. I visited Babe Ruth there in 1932 and Jackie Robinson in 1947. But this was decades earlier. It looked like a completely different city.

There
was
a skyline in the distance, but it was kind of wimpy, if you ask me. The Empire State Building didn't exist yet. Most of the “skyscrapers” were less than ten stories high.

Without tall buildings, you could actually
see
the sky, and there were no planes flying around. The Wright brothers had only gotten off the ground a few years earlier. There
were
cars in the street, but there were also a lot of horse-drawn buggies. You had to be careful with every step you took, because where there are horses, there's horse manure.

“This is my kinda place!” Bobby said.

Bobby acted like he knew where he was going, so I followed him. The street was a buzz of activity. Men with straw hats and mustaches were everywhere. It was like that was their uniform. Women wore huge floppy hats with flowers on top. Restaurants advertised dinner for 15 cents. There were pushcarts selling all kinds of stuff. I saw a guy lifting a big block of ice out of a truck and rolling it up somebody's front steps. I guess people didn't even have refrigerators yet.

There were lots of movie theaters, showing films like
The Last Days of Pompeii
and
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
. I wondered if they were silent movies. There were live theaters too, and each one featured an assortment of sword swallowers, fire breathers, glass eaters, and other weird acts: The Amazing Tomsoni and His Trick Bicyclists. The Duncan Twins. Buck and Bubbles.

“This is my kinda place!” Bobby said.

We had walked a couple of blocks when Bobby pulled me into a doorway with a sign over it that said
EIGHTH AVENUE SALOON
.

“Wait!” I said, stopping at the door. “This is a bar!”

“Duh!”

“Kids aren't allowed in bars,” I protested.

“Will you relax, Stoshack?” Bobby said. “It's okay as long as we don't drink. My parents took me to Las Vegas once, and kids were allowed in the casino as long as they didn't gamble. Same thing. Just look
like you belong.”

He was right. Nobody paid any attention to us at all.

There was sawdust on the floor, and a big sign that said
NO FIGHTING
! I noticed an autographed picture of Jim Thorpe on the wall, and photos of the other Giants too.

“Look!” Bobby said. “There he is.”

Jim was at the bar with a drink in his hand and two empty glasses in front of him. Three guys wearing bowler hats surrounded him. We muscled our way over until we were close enough to hear them.

“So what did you say when the king of Sweden put that gold medal around your neck?” one of the guys asked Jim.

“Thanks, King!” Jim said, and the three guys roared with laughter. Jim leaned his head back and downed the drink. One of the guys signaled to the bartender to bring Jim another one. He did, and then said he had to get a new bottle from the cellar. It looked like Jim was a regular in this place.

“He's drinking like a fish!” I told Bobby.

Jim had started telling a story about the Olympics, when some other guy staggered over to the group. He was a big guy, and he wasn't dressed nicely like the other three. He had on an undershirt that showed off his muscles.

“Ain't you Jim Thorpe?” the guy asked.

“So they say,” Jim said, taking a swig of his drink.

“I hear you're one tough Indian,” the guy said.

“They say that too.”

“Well, you don't look so tough to
me
.”

“Maybe not,” Jim said, turning to get a good look at the guy.

“You know how to box?” the guy asked.

“A little,” Jim replied, turning back to the bar.

“I bet I could knock you down.”

A hush fell over the bar as Jim turned to look the guy over again. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Somebody gasped. A hundred must have been like a
fortune
in 1913.

“Tell you what,” Jim said, slapping the bill on the bar. “I'll give you one punch. If you knock me down, you keep this hundred.”

Jim was slurring his words. There was no way he should be making bets when he was drunk. I felt like I should do something, but I didn't know what.

“I'll take that bet,” the guy said, pumping a fist into his hand.

“But if you
don't
knock me down,” Jim continued, “I get
your
hundred and a punch of my own.”

“I ain't got no hundred,” the guy said.

Everybody at the bar rushed to pull bills out of their wallets. One of the guys counted up the money. When he reached a hundred dollars, he put the bills on top of Jim's hundred-dollar bill.

“Okay,” Jim said, as he got off the barstool and clasped his hands behind his back. “Your turn.”

Then the guy with the muscles smiled and made
a big show out of rolling his shoulders. Everybody stopped what they were doing.

The guy reared back and walloped Jim right in the stomach, really hard. His fist made a sound like a fastball slamming into a catcher's mitt.

A punch like that would have knocked me back at least ten feet. It would have put me in the hospital, for sure.

Jim grimaced a little and just stood there. Then he smiled. All the guys in the bar started whispering to each other.

“Okay,” Jim said. “My turn.”

Without any warmup, Jim socked the guy in the jaw.

The guy's head turned with the punch. He fell backward and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. His eyes were shut. He wasn't going to be bothering anybody for a long time.

I'll tell you, if the cell phone had been invented, every one of those guys in the bar would have been calling his friends to tell them what happened. They were all yelling and offering toasts and clapping Jim on the back. He calmly picked up the bills off the bar and stuffed them in his pocket.

That was when the bartender came back up from the cellar. He had a bottle in one hand, and a gun in the other.

“What's goin' on?” he asked, looking at the guy on the floor. “There's no fighting in this saloon.”

“Jimmy just taught that fella a lesson,” one of the
guys in a bowler hat said.

“You've had enough,” the bartender said to Jim. “I'm gonna have to ask you to leave…again.”

“Just one more drink,” Jim said, “and I'll be on my way.”

“Do you know who you're talking to?” another guy asked the bartender. “That's Jim Thorpe, the Olympic champion!”

“I know who he is,” replied the bartender, pointing the gun at Jim. “I don't care if he's Woodrow Wilson. No fighting in this bar.”

“There was no fight!” yelled Bobby. “Jim just punched that guy's lights out.”

Everybody turned to look at Bobby. Even Jim.

“Who are
you
?” asked the bartender.

“I'm Jim Thorpe's great-grandson,” Bobby said, which were probably the stupidest words anyone in the world has ever uttered. Some of the guys at the bar laughed. Jim wasn't even thirty years old.

“Well, you better get Grandpa outta here by the time I count to five, or he's gonna have a hole in his head big enough to put a baseball through,” the bartender said. “One…two…”

Jim wasn't making any move to leave.

“You think I'm kidding? Three…four…five.”