Ray & Me (8 page)

The Yankees quickly jogged onto the field to start the second inning. They didn't have to wait for the TV commercials to finish. There
was
no TV in 1920. They didn't even have radio yet. This game was going to go fast.

I put my feet up on the seat in front of me and put my hands behind my head. And then reality hit me. I reminded myself—a man is going to die here, very soon.

My dumb plan to supply Ray Chapman with a batting helmet hadn't worked. But I was sitting no more than 30 yards from where Chapman was going to get hit. I couldn't just go home after a few innings. I had to do something. I had to come up with a plan.

If I was going to do anything, I'd have to do it soon. Maybe baseball didn't have a clock, but Ray Chapman's life did. And it was ticking away.

“M
AN
,
BALLPLAYERS SURE SPIT A LOT
,” R
ONNIE SAID
,
AS THE
Indians came up to bat in the second inning.

I ignored him. There were other things on my mind. Like saving Ray Chapman's life. I had gone over all the possibilities in my head. There weren't a whole lot of options.

My batting helmet was shattered, so there was no way to protect Chapman's skull from the ball. I would have to come up with a way to stop Mays from throwing the ball in the first place.

I had to distract him. Interrupt the game somehow. Maybe I could throw something on the field. No, that would only postpone the inevitable. I would have to cause some kind of a serious disturbance.

In the twenty-first century, crazy people charge onto ball fields to disrupt games all the time. Usually the cops get to them pretty quickly and drag
them away. But charging the field would probably be a novelty in 1920. I bet nobody had ever done that before. The cops wouldn't be able to react in time. That might be my only option at this point.

Then another thought crossed my mind. Streaking! I could streak! That would totally blow their minds if I ripped off my clothes and ran across the field.

No, streaking might be going a bit too far. I would probably be beaten up by people in the stands before I even got my clothes off. And where would I put my new pack of baseball cards? I couldn't lose it.

I looked around. About ten yards away was that security goon who took away my foul ball. He was eyeing me suspiciously.

There was only one thing I had going for me—knowledge. I knew exactly when Chapman would get hit. He would lead off the fifth inning. The third pitch from Mays would hit him in the head.

I was lost in thought when suddenly the Cleveland batter hit a long drive to leftfield. It cleared the fence for a home run.

“Boooooooooooo!”
yelled the Yankees crowd.

“Who was that?” I asked Ronnie.

“Steve O'Neill,” he replied. “The catcher.”

Never heard of him. O'Neill circled the bases to a chorus of boos and was congratulated when he went into the Indian dugout. The fan who caught the ball threw it back onto the field. Ronnie marked the home run in his scorecard. The Indians were ahead, 1-0.

From where I was sitting, I could see that the
baseball they had been using for the first two innings wasn't white anymore. There was dirt and spit all over it. I bet it was hard for a batter to see. But still, the umpire kept it in the game.

“Why do you think ballplayers spit so much?” Ronnie asked me.

“Beats me,” I said. “I don't spit when I play.”

“Me neither.”

He was right, come to think of it. You don't see football players spitting through their face guards very much. Basketball players wouldn't
think
of spitting on the wood floor during a game. But when you watch a baseball game, it seems like the guys are spitting constantly.

“They should keep statistics on spitting,” I suggested. “At the end of the year, they could give an award to the guy who spit the most times. That would be cool.”

“Cool?” Ronnie said. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Uh…swell,” I said.

I was looking at Babe Ruth in rightfield. He spit, and I told Ronnie to put a mark on his scorecard next to Ruth's name.

“That's one for Ruth,” Ronnie said.

As the next batter stepped up to the plate, Carl Mays spit on the mound. Ronnie recorded it on his scorecard.

“Wally Pipp just spit at first base,” I pointed out.

“Peckinpaugh too,” Ronnie said, quickly marking it down.

“Does the umpire count?” I asked. “He just spit.”

“Why not?”

At the end of the second inning, Cleveland was ahead in the game, 1-0, but the Yankees had the spitting lead, 19-12.

Nobody scored in the third inning. Ray Chapman came up again with a runner at first, but he bunted into a double play. In the fourth, the Indians scored two more runs with a walk, an error, and a single by O'Neill. That made it 3-0. Ray Chapman was on deck when Cleveland made the third out. The Yankees went down weakly in the bottom half of the inning. The home fans were getting restless for their team to do something.

The drizzling rain had stopped. I was having fun keeping the spitting statistics with Ronnie, but now it was crunch time. Ray Chapman would be leading off the fifth inning. I could feel my heart beating faster. I had never run onto a field before to disrupt a game. Causing a disturbance and breaking the law was not my thing.

“Are you okay?” Ronnie said to me. “You're sweatin' like a pig.”

“Something bad is happening,” I said.

“Yeah, the Yanks are gettin' beat,” said Ronnie.

“No, something worse than that.”

“There's nothin' worse than that,” Ronnie replied.

I glanced at the security guard. If he grabbed me before I reached the field, it would all be over. I
needed Ronnie to help me. The Yankees were already coming out of their dugout to take the field.

The security guard was giving me the evil eye. I would have to level with Ronnie. I lowered my voice so the people sitting around us wouldn't hear.

“Listen,” I told Ronnie, “I need your help. You're not gonna believe this, but I'm from the twenty-first century.”

“What?!”

“This is important,” I told him. “I can name every president after World War…I mean, after the 1940s. There's gonna be TV and DVD and rock and roll and the Internet and all kinds of other cool…I mean swell…stuff.”

“Are you nuts?” Ronnie asked.

“You gotta believe me,” I told him. “Babe Ruth is gonna end his career with 714 home runs, but Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds are gonna hit even more. A guy named Jackie Robinson's gonna break the color barrier. The Dodgers and the Giants are gonna move to California. We're gonna land a man on the moon in 1969. That same year, the Mets are gonna win the World Series.”

“The Mets?” Ronnie asked. “Who are the Mets?”

Carl Mays jogged out to the mound to warm up.

“That's not the point!” I told Ronnie. “Chapman is about to lead off. On the third pitch, Mays is gonna hit him in the head.”

“So what?” Ronnie said. “Mays hits guys in the head all the time.”

“This time he's gonna kill one,” I said.

“Who cares?” said Ronnie. “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

I sat back for a moment. It was mind-boggling to think that somebody could be so selfish.

“Lemme put it in a way you might understand,” I said, grabbing Ronnie's shoulder. “Killing Chapman is gonna keep Carl Mays out of the Hall of Fame.”

“The Hall of
what
?” Ronnie said. “You're a lunatic.”

I was getting nowhere with this kid. I had forgotten that the Baseball Hall of Fame didn't even exist in 1920.

Ray Chapman was coming out of the Cleveland dugout. He had two bats in his hands, and he was swinging them loosely around his body. Mays was tossing in warm-up pitches.

“Listen to me,” I said urgently. “I came from the future to save Ray Chapman's life. I need you to cause a distraction. I need you to get that security guy to stop staring at me. Pretend to choke or something. I'm gonna run on the field and tackle Mays just before he throws the third pitch.”

Ronnie just looked at me.

“I'm not fooling around!” I said. “In a minute or two, a man is gonna have his head split open right over
there
! Are you gonna help me save him or not?”

“Prove you're from the future,” Ronnie said.

Oh, man! I didn't have time for this crap! How could I prove it to him?

I thought of a way. Frantically, I pulled my new
baseball cards out of my pocket.

“Look at this,” I said, ripping open the pack. “See this guy? Alex Rodriguez. They call him A-Rod. See the stats on the back? See the year? Here, keep it. I've got plenty more.”

Ronnie looked at the card carefully, turning it over and over.

“Okay, okay,” he finally said. “What do you want me to do?”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“When I say so, you distract the security guard,” I told Ronnie. “I'm gonna charge the field.”

“Now batting for Cleveland,” hollered the megaphone man, “the shortstop, Ray Chapman!”

Chapman flung one of the bats toward the Cleveland dugout. He was coming up to the plate. The Yankees were still tossing a ball around the infield. Tris Speaker came out of the dugout and kneeled on deck.

The Yankees catcher squatted down. Chapman set himself in the batter's box and pulled down the brim of his cap slightly. The umpire signaled for Mays to pitch and leaned in behind the catcher. Mays looked in for the sign. Then he nodded, went into his windup, and let it fly.

“Steeeee-rike!” cried the ump.

Chapman didn't step out of the batter's box. He just took a few practice swings. Mays was a fast worker too. He got set to deliver the next pitch and pumped it in.

“Ball one!” cried the ump. A little outside.

One and one count. This was it. The third pitch.

“Okay, you ready?” I said to Ronnie.

“Yeah.”

“Go!” I said, bolting out of my seat.

I ran down the aisle toward the field and was about ten feet from the fence when I heard Ronnie shout.

“Officer!” he yelled. “That kid is crazy! Stop him!”

Dammit!

I had my hand on the fence when I was tackled from behind. Then I saw it all like it was in slow motion….

Mays went into his big windup. Chapman shifted his back foot, as if he was going to attempt a push bunt down the first-base line.

The ball was rocketing toward the plate. It had to be a fastball.

The Yankee catcher raised his glove to snare the high pitch.

Chapman wasn't moving. He stood like a statue.

“Duck, Ray!” I shouted.

But he never heard me.

And then I heard the sickening sound of a baseball striking bone.

T
HE SECURITY GUARD WAS ON TOP OF ME
,
PUSHING MY
face against the concrete floor.

“Owww!” I groaned under his weight. “Easy! I have a bad shoulder!”

“Boo-hoo,” he muttered with tobacco breath. “I'm cryin'.”

“Can't you see what just happened?” I shouted. “Chapman just got hit!”

The security guard looked up at the field and said, “No he didn't.”

I strained to look up through the fence. The ball was rolling slowly between the pitcher's mound and third base. Carl Mays picked it up and threw it to first.

“Yer out!” called the ump.

It looked like nothing unusual had happened. Wally Pipp, the Yankees first baseman, was about to
step off the bag and fire the ball around the infield. But then he stopped, frozen.

There was no base runner.

I looked back at home plate. Chapman was still standing there holding the bat in his hands. Then he sank to his knees. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. The bat dropped to the ground.

“Faker!” shouted somebody in the stands. “Those bums'll do anything to get on base!”

“The ball hit his bat!” Mays yelled, as he walked toward the umpire.

Chapman struggled to his feet. He took a few clumsy steps toward the pitcher's mound, as if he was going to charge Mays.

And then he collapsed.

The crowd gasped. The Yankees catcher rushed over to Chapman. So did Tris Speaker, who was on deck. He was the first Indian to get there.

“We need a doctor!” shouted Speaker, waving his arms. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Suddenly, people were shouting instructions from all directions.

“Somebody get a stretcher!”

“Give him air!”

“Get some water!”

“Get him to a hospital!” I shouted.

I figured the security guard lying on top of me would see that there were more important things to deal with than a crazy kid charging the field. But he wouldn't release his grip on me.

“All right, show's over, pal,” he said, grabbing the back of my neck. “You're coming with me.”

“What did I do?” I protested. “I didn't do anything!”

As he dragged me up the steps, I could see the Indians rushing out of their dugout, and some of the Yankees too. Carl Mays was showing the ball to the umpire, like there was something wrong with it.

I tried to get the security guard's hand off mine. He pulled me past the row where I had been sitting next to Ronnie.

“How did you know?” Ronnie asked, wide-eyed.

“I
told
you how I knew!” I yelled at him. “You should have listened! You could have helped me! We would have stopped it!”

“Shut up!” the security guard barked in my ear, pulling me up the steps.

A pinch runner was already on first base to take Chapman's place. Two doctors were out there now, holding a cup to Chapman's lips. He struggled to his feet once again, and the Yankee crowd gave him a polite round of applause. Ray took a few steps under his own power, and then he crumpled to the ground for good.

The crowd gasped again. Two guys ran out with a stretcher, but I couldn't see any more because the security guard was pulling me away.

I couldn't believe what was happening. They were just going to continue the game as if nothing
unusual had happened. Nobody but me knew that Ray Chapman's beaning would be fatal.

“Get him to a hospital!” I repeated as the security guard dragged me away. “He's going to die!”

“I said shut up!” the security guard barked again.

He had just about pulled me down the steps leading to the bathrooms when that little jerk Ronnie came running over.

“Hey, kid!” he shouted.

“What do
you
want?” I asked.

“I just wanna know one thing. Are the Yanks gonna win the pennant this year?”

I looked at him, disgusted. “You think I'd tell
you
?”

Once we were out of sight of the rest of the fans, the security guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of handcuffs. I couldn't believe it when he yanked my arms behind my back and clicked the cuffs around my wrists.

“Is this really necessary?” I asked.

“I said
shut up
,” he said, pulling me into the tunnel under the ballpark. “Let's go.”

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

“Someplace you can't bother nobody.”

“Chapman's going to die!” I told him. “I can't believe you're wasting your time with me when there's a man who is dying out there.”

“Kid, if you don't shut up,
you're
gonna be the one who's dying!”

“Am I going to go to jail?” I asked, as he dragged me through the tunnel.

“Maybe,” he muttered, “if you're lucky.”

We came to an unmarked door. He put a key into the lock, pulled the door open, and pushed me inside.

“After the game, the cops'll take care of you,” he said. “And don't bother trying to get out of here. The door locks from the outside.”

He slammed the door shut, and there was a loud click as he turned the key in the lock.

 

All I could think about was Ray Chapman. His skull was fractured, and those doctors didn't even know it. They were probably treating him with aspirin and Band-Aids. If it was the twenty-first century, somebody would have called 911 immediately. A helicopter would have been there in seconds to airlift him out of the Polo Grounds. He would be in a hospital by now, surrounded by doctors working desperately to save his life.

I looked around the room I had been locked in. There was nothing except one chair in the middle of the floor. A tiny window let in a little light. I could smell urine and alcohol. This must be where they put all the drunks and troublemakers, I figured.

I sat on the chair, disgusted. I should have knocked Mays out of the lineup when I had the chance. Or Chapman. There were so many things I should have done. But it was too late now.

I had blown it. Again. I didn't stop the Black Sox Scandal and save Shoeless Joe Jackson's career. I didn't help Jim Thorpe get back his Olympic medals. And now Ray Chapman was lying there dying. I always try to do the right thing, but it never seems to work out.

Look at me
, I thought. Locked in a smelly room. Handcuffed. Who knows what will happen to me now?

Wait a minute.

I don't have to stay here! I have my baseball cards! I can just blow out of here and send myself home anytime I want! I don't even have to unlock the door. I'll just disappear. The police will never know what happened. They'll think I was like Houdini or something.

I went to reach for my baseball cards, but there was just one problem. They were in my front pocket. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn't get to them. I struggled. It hurt my shoulder.

Some Houdini I am!

And then I remembered—the key! Houdini had given me that little key as a souvenir. He said it would open just about any lock in the world. It was in my back pocket!

I stood up and rooted around behind my back, trying to get the key. It wasn't in my left pocket; but when I reached into my right pocket, I found the little piece of metal.

Being very careful not to drop it, I took the key
in my right hand and scraped it over the handcuffs until I found the keyhole.

I was working blind, because I couldn't see what I was doing behind my back. The key fit, but it was a lot smaller than the hole. I pushed it around, jamming it against the lock mechanism every which way. Sweat was beading up on my forehead. I had no luck for five minutes or so, and then…

Click.

The cuffs opened and clattered to the floor.

Quickly, I reached into my front pocket and pulled out my new baseball cards. It didn't even matter which one. I grabbed one, sat down, and closed my eyes.

I just want to go home
, I thought. I want to sleep in my own bed in my own house in my own time, where my mom would make me a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and everything would be fine again. I didn't need to save Ray Chapman, or anyone else. I just wanted to be safe.

And I didn't want to see a fastball coming at my head—or
anyone's
head—ever again.

After a few minutes, I started to feel the faintest tingling sensation in my fingertips.

The tingles got stronger and worked their way up my wrist. As they swept over my arm and across my chest, I knew that I was on my way home.

It all happened so fast. The next thing I knew, I felt myself slipping away.