by Dan Gutman
“Is this a bad time?” asked the doctor.
“Not at all. Come in,” said my mom. “Sorry about the mess. How about a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Stoshack,” Flip said. “We just had a bite to eat.”
“Then what can I do for you?” Mom asked. “Is something wrong?”
I was in my pajamas but came down the steps, anyway.
“Your mother told me what you did today, Joseph,” said Dr. Wright. “Are you okay? Any headaches? Dizziness? Vomiting?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Doc tells me you’re good to go, Stosh,” Flip said cheerfully. “You can play ball again.”
“I’ve been thinking it over,” I replied. “I’m not sure I want to play ball anymore.”
“What?!” all three of them said at the same time.
“I won’t ask you to pitch again,” Flip said. “Promise. That was a dumb idea.”
“It’s not that,” I explained. “I just…I don’t want to play.”
“But, Joey, you love baseball!” my mom protested.
“It’s okay, Mrs. S. I’ve seen it a million times,” Flip said. “He’s a little gun-shy. It’s natural after a guy gets hit. But you know what they say, Stosh. When you fall off a horse, you gotta get right back on.”
“Horses don’t throw 80 miles per hour,” I said.
“Well, you take your time,” Flip told me. “Whenever you’re ready to come back, you’re my starting shortstop.”
“It was very kind of you to come over,” my mom said, leading them to the door. “Very few doctors make house calls these days.”
Dr. Wright stopped before they reached the door.
“There’s something I’d like to ask Joseph,” he said. “Would that be all right, Mrs. Stoshack?”
“Okay,” Mom said, looking at me. I could tell she was still mad, but she had softened a bit.
“Joseph,” the doctor said, “ever since Flip told me that story about Ray Chapman, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’ve been obsessing about it, really.”
“Wait a minute,” Mom interrupted. “Who is this Ray Chapman guy I keep hearing about?”
“He was the only player in major-league baseball history to get hit by a ball and die,” I explained. “He played for Cleveland. It was in 1920, before they had batting helmets.”
“How terrible!” Mom said.
She went to the kitchen to get some chips and stuff while Dr. Wright and Flip sat on the couch. I pulled over a chair. The doctor took a newspaper article out of his jacket pocket and put it on the coffee table. Parts of it were highlighted in yellow. Mom came back with the snacks.
“I’ve been researching the tragedy. Chapman got hit right here,” Dr. Wright said, touching his left temple. “The ball fractured his skull in the temporal lobe, which controls speech and language. But his brain was also injured on the opposite side, because a brain sort of bounces around inside the skull when the head is shaken severely. It’s called a contra coup. I don’t want to bore you with all the details—”
“No, go on,” my mom said. “I’m interested.”
I could tell that she wasn’t just saying that to be polite. Mom’s a nurse, and she’s into all that blood-and-gore-and-guts stuff.
“Well, a blow to the head often causes blood vessels in the brain to break,” Dr. Wright continued. “This leads to what we call an epidural hematoma.”
14 SPORTS
CHAPMAN SUFFERS SKULL FRACTURE
Cleveland Shortstop Victim of Severe Injury When Hit by Pitched Ball.
YANKS’ RALLY FALLS SHORT
Hugmen Make Belated Attack in Ninth Inning, but Fail to Overtake Indians.
LEAGUE LEADERS WIN, 4 TO 3
Covelaskie and Mays Pitch Good Ball, but New York Boxman is Handicapped by Errors.
“Hema-what?” asked Flip.
“Hematoma,” said Dr. Wright. “Blood builds up around the brain. The brain swells, and this puts intense pressure on the skull as delicate brain tissue is compressed.”
“So what can surgeons do about it?” asked my mom.
“Well, we sometimes remove the cranial walls to give the brain room to swell or to drain the clotted blood,” said Dr. Wright. “If necessary, we take out a good part of the skull; and after the swelling goes down and the brain has the chance to heal, we replace it with an acrylic implant.”
“Ugh,” Flip said. “Now you’re grossin’ me out.”
“Actually, they knew about this in 1920,” the doctor continued. “This article says they removed a small piece of Ray Chapman’s skull, possibly to reduce the pressure. But the thing is, the surgery began after midnight. That was about eight hours after Chapman was hit. And that’s the main reason why he died. Time is of the essence in these situations. The key is to quickly treat the secondary injury by controlling blood flow to the brain, blood pressure, and oxygenation. If you have a drop in blood flow, blood pressure, or blood sugar level, you’re more likely to have severe brain damage.”
“They probably didn’t know all this in 1920,” my mom said.
Dr. Wright nodded. “Nowadays, we know, for instance, that if one pupil is dilated, it means there’s pressure on that side of the brain,” Dr. Wright said. “If there’s a skull fracture, we assume there’s an epidural hematoma; and we operate right away. And we’re much better at controlling bleeding and preventing infection. Even today, some patients with severe head trauma will die no matter what we do. But if they knew in 1920 what we know today, Ray Chapman probably would have survived. I’m confident of that.”
“Okay,” Mom said. “But what does any of this have to do with Joey?”
Flip had been pretty quiet this whole time. He put his hand on my mother’s shoulder.
“That’s why we came over tonight,” Flip said. “Doc here wants Stosh to take him to 1920.”
“I believe I can save Ray Chapman’s life,” said Dr. Wright.
16
The Deathball
I HAD TAKEN PEOPLE BACK IN TIME WITH ME BEFORE. FLIP came with me when I went back to 1942 to clock a Satchel Paige fastball. My mom came with me when I went back to 1863 to see if Abner Doubleday really invented baseball. So it wouldn’t be a big deal to take Dr. Wright back with me to 1920. He couldn’t do anything to stop that ball from hitting Ray Chapman’s head. He couldn’t run on the field and disrupt the game. But he might be able to perform an operation that would save Chapman’s life.
Of course, if I was grounded, I wasn’t going anywhere with anybody.
Flip, Dr. Wright, and I all turned to look at my mom.
“I don’t know about this,” she said. “When Joey took me back in time with him, we were nearly killed. What if something goes wrong this time? Or what if you save this Ray Chapman’s life, and he becomes a criminal or something? What if he assassinates the president? Then Joey would be responsible.”
I rolled my eyes. My mom is a bit of an assassination buff. She knows about every assassination in history.
“That’s just crazy, Mom,” I said. “Ray Chapman was a great guy. He wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“On the other hand,” Dr. Wright said, “what if we saved Ray Chapman’s life, and he went on to discover a cure for cancer? Or what if he became the next Beethoven? You just never know.”
Dr. Wright asked my mother if he could talk to her privately. They went to the kitchen. Flip and I were alone.
“Y’know, Stosh, we got a game on Friday,” he told me.
“I saw the schedule,” I said.
“We sure could use your glove at short.”
“I don’t think so, Flip,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “I…I’m afraid.”
“Not that I’m tryin’ to pressure you or nothin’,” Flip said. “But we haven’t won since the day you got hit, Stosh. It would sure be a boost for the guys to see you out there on the field again.”
Flip kept buttering me up, telling me what a good shortstop I am and how the kid who took my place c
hokes every time a ground ball is hit in his direction.
“I just don’t know, Flip,” I said, as Dr. Wright and my mom came back from the kitchen.
“I thought it over,” Mom announced, as she sat down next to me. “You can go to 1920 if Dr. Wright is with you. You’re officially ungrounded. But you better be careful!”
“All right!” Flip and Dr. Wright said, slapping hands.
“When should we go?” I asked Dr. Wright.
“The only day this week that I’m not on call is Thursday,” said Dr. Wright. “Shall we say 6 P.M.?”
After school the next day I went to visit my dad. He knows a lot about baseball. It was my dad who first got me interested in baseball cards when I was little. He’s the one who taught me how to play ball too.
That was before a drunk driver almost killed him. Dad is paralyzed from the waist down. He can’t work and doesn’t have a lot of money. But then, he didn’t always work or have a lot of money before he got hurt either.
I wasn’t really in the mood to visit my dad. I go see him once a week or so, mostly to make sure he’s okay. We usually make popcorn and watch a game on TV. He lives in a handicapped-accessible apartment at the other end of Louisville. It has railings all over and one of those mechanical chairs that goes up and down the stairs.
“What’s up, Joe!” he said cheerfully when I knocked on the door.
“Not much,” I replied.
I never know if my dad really wants to know what’s up with me or if he’s just making small talk. I didn’t want to tell him that I was planning to go back to 1920 with Dr. Wright. He would be jealous. One time I took Dad back in time with me to see Babe Ruth, but that was before his accident.
“Wanna watch the Cubs game on the tube?” Dad asked.
“I guess.”
“Dr. Wright told me you went and saw the Ray Chapman beaning,” he said, as he tore the wrapper off a bag of microwave popcorn.
“Yeah. I tried to stop it, but I messed up.”
“Terrible thing that happened to that guy,” Dad said. “But then, who’s to say which is worse, a blow to the head that kills you right away or not being able to move your legs for the rest of your life?”
Sometimes it’s so depressing going to visit Dad. As the corn started to pop in the microwave, he took a soda out of the refrigerator for me and a beer for him.
“Listen,” he continued, “Doc told me you’re gonna try to save Chapman again. He’s gonna operate on him or something?”
“Yeah, it’s a long shot, I know.”
“Well, sometimes long shots come in,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. He lowered his voice to a whisper even though nobody else was around. “Listen, Joe, I was thinkin’. I got an idea that can make us some cash. A lot of cash.”
I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach. Mom always says Dad should just get a steady job instead of wasting his time on lottery tickets and get-rich-quick schemes. Lots of handicapped people work. He’s perfectly capable.
“Let’s hear it,” I said, not really wanting to.
“Okay,” he said, “every serious fan knows that Chapman was the only player in history to get hit by a pitch and die. You were there. You saw it. Do you know what happened after that ball hit him?”
“It bounced back toward the pitcher,” I said, remembering the scene in my head. “Carl Mays picked it up. He thought it hit Chapman’s bat, so he threw it to first base.”
“And what did the first baseman do with the ball?”
“I was looking at Chapman,” I said, “but I guess the Yankees threw it around the infield and then back to Mays. Because a few seconds later, I saw him holding it and showing it to the umpire. It was all brown and dirty, because they used just one ball for the whole game. But I don’t know what happened to it after that.”
“That’s right!” said my dad. “Nobody knows what happened to it after that. The ball was never recovered. You’d think it would be in the Baseball Hall of Fame or somethin’. But it’s not. It was lost.”
Dad just looked at me, a gleam in his eye. I didn’t see what he was driving at.
But then I put two and two together.
“Are you asking me to go back to 1920 and get the ball that killed Ray Chapman?” I asked.
“Joe, do you have any idea how much that ball might be worth?” Dad asked excitedly. “Let me spell it out for you. M-I-L-L-I-O-N-S.”
“Dad, that ball fractured Ray Chapman’s skull,” I said. “It killed him.”
“Exactly my point,” said my dad. “It’s the deathball. It’s one of a kind. It might even have blood on it. Maybe you can get Mays to sign it. We could auction it off. It would be worth a fortune. Can you imagine what we could do with that money?”
“That’s sick, Dad,” I said. “How would you like it if the drunk who hit you autographed his car and auctioned it off?”
“It would be fine with me if we split it fifty-fifty,” Dad replied.
I just shook my head sadly. I didn’t want to hear it.
“Look, Joe,” Dad continued, “if it wasn’t for me, none of this time-traveling stuff would have happened, right? I’m the one who started you with baseball cards when you were little. I don’t ask a lot in return. How about doin’ me a favor?”
A few years back, I would have done it. Maybe I would have done it a few weeks back. I always did whatever my parents told me to do. That’s how I was brought up.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I’d do just about anything for you. But not this.”
I didn’t stick around to watch the Cubs game. The popcorn was burned, anyway.
17
Makeover
AFTER SCHOOL ON THURSDAY, I RUSHED THROUGH MY homework. Then I rode my bike over to Flip’s store to buy a fresh pack of baseball cards.
Mom and I didn’t talk too much during dinner that night. I was a little nervous, like I always am before a trip. You never know what’s going to happen. Maybe Dr. Wright would save Ray Chapman’s life. Maybe he wouldn’t. There was always the chance that something would go horribly wrong. There was the chance that I might not make it back home.
Mom went upstairs to read after she finished eating. While I was washing the dishes, there was a knock at the door. I went and looked through the peephole to make sure it was Dr. Wright. You’ve got to be careful who you open your door to these days.
There was a guy standing on the front porch. He was dressed like a doctor, wearing one of those white coats; but it wasn’t Dr. Wright.
It was a bald white guy. I figured that he was collecting for the local volunteer ambulance squad or something. My mom always gives them money, being a nurse and all.
I opened the door. The man was holding a black doctor’s bag in one hand.
“Are you with the ambulance squad?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I heard there was a boy in this neighborhood who has the unique ability to travel through time with baseball cards. I’m here to open up his brain and see what’s wrong with him.”
What?! This guy had to be putting me on. I leaned forward and looked at him closely.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Joseph, it’s me—Dr. Wright!” he said, laughing.
“But you’re…white!”
“Of course I’m white!” Dr. Wright said. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to put on this makeup?”
“But why did you do that?” I asked.
“Joseph, do you really think they would let a black doctor perform brain surgery on a white man in 1920?” he asked. “Especially a famous white man?”
He had a point. I knew a lot about prejudice because I had already traveled back in time to meet Jackie Robinson and Satchel Paige. And that was in the 1940s. Prejudice against African-Americans was probably even worse in 1920.
“You shaved your head,” I pointed out.
“Smooth, huh?” Dr. Wright said, touching his scalp. “I kinda like it. I just might keep it like this when we get back.”
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“Is Dr. Wright here, Joey?” Mom called from upstairs.
“No,” I replied, “it’s just some bald white guy.”
My mother came downstairs; and when she saw Dr. Wright, she just cracked up. She ran to get her camera to take pictures.
“Oh, this is priceless!” Mom said, trying to hold the camera steady while she was giggling. “You’re lighter than we are!”
After my mother finished snapping pictures, she went to get lunch bags for each of us; a fold-up umbrella; a first aid kit; and other silly, overprotective Mom stuff. While she was running around, Dr. Wright put his doctor bag on the coffee table.
“Will I be able to bring this along?” he asked. “I’m going to need it to perform the operation.”
“Sure,” I said. “What’s in there, drills and saws and stuff?”
“No,” Dr. Wright replied, zipping open the bag. “They pretty much had the tools they needed to cut through bone back in 1920. What they didn’t have were our medications to reduce swelling, put the brain to sleep, and reduce the metabolism of the brain. I brought some barbiturates to induce a medical coma if necessary. And I’m bringing along a syringe, just in case. Oh, and a trephine, which is this tool we use to cut open the skull.”
I really didn’t want to hear all the details of how he was going to cut open Ray Chapman’s skull. Just getting a blood test makes me feel woozy. I looked in Dr. Wright’s bag and noticed there was a manila envelope in there too, like the kind they use in school.
“What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s my little secret,” Dr. Wright replied.
Mom came in and put her stuff into Dr. Wright’s bag. He zipped it shut.
“Do you have that new pack of cards you bought, Joey?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom,” I said, patting my back pocket to be sure.
“Maybe you should put on some sunscreen,” she suggested, “just in case.”
“I’m not putting on sunscreen, Mom!”