by Dan Gutman
“I’m always careful, Mom,” I said. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Joey, you take care of Mr. Valentini and do everything he says.”
“I will, Mom.”
“And Mr. Valentini, you take care of Joey, and don’t do anything he says.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stoshack.”
“Please fasten your seat belts and put your tray tables in the upright and locked position,” my mother said.
“Mom, I can’t concentrate,” I said. “Would you mind, uh…”
“Okay, okay. I’m leaving!” Mom said. She kissed me on the forehead. “You are such a big boy!”
I heard her footsteps tramp up the stairs. It was quiet. I concentrated on the card in my hand.
“What if something goes wrong?” Flip whispered. “Does anything ever go wrong?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes. Time travel isn’t an exact science. You never know where we’re gonna wind up or what’s gonna happen. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
I didn’t mention to Flip that something always seems to go wrong. In my previous trips through time, I had a nasty habit of attracting gunfire in my direction.
I thought I felt a slight tingle in my fingertips. It might have been a false alarm.
“What if we never come back?” Flip asked.
“Shhh. Just relax,” I said.
I could definitely feel that tingling sensation in my fingers that were holding the card.
“But what if we don’t?” Flip asked. “You know, 1942 was such a long time ago.”
“How old were you back then?” I asked, keeping my eyes closed and focusing on the feeling.
“Lemme see,” Flip said. “I was born in 1934. So in 1942 I was…eight.”
My right arm was tingling now. I could feel the sensation starting to move across my body.
“Do you remember what it felt like to be young?” I asked. Both my arms were tingling now. It was such a pleasant feeling.
“Man, those were the days,” Flip said. “It’s true what they say, Stosh. Youth is wasted on the young. I sure wish I was young again. Like, say, eighteen. That was a good age. Boy, if I knew then what I know now, I woulda done things different. I woulda done a lotta things different.”
The tingling sensation was sweeping up and down me now, like a wave. My body was almost vibrating. I had reached the point of no return. I wanted to see what it looked like, but I didn’t dare open my eyes.
“What would you have done differently?” I asked.
I never heard Flip’s response.
I felt myself fading away.
7
The Diner
“NEED SOME KETCHUP AT TABLE THREE!”
“Gimme one Adam and Eve on a raft! Make it to go!”
“One blue plate special! And a hockey puck!”
I opened my eyes. I was sitting at a booth in a diner, with waitresses hustling back and forth and the loud buzz of conversation all around. What a relief! At least I hadn’t landed in a dark alley, or in some battlefield with bullets whizzing by my face.
Flip was nowhere to be seen. A teenage kid was sitting on the other side of the table, and he was staring at me.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“What do you mean, who am I?” the kid replied. “Stosh, it’s me!”
“Me who?”
“Flip!”
“Get outta here!” I said.
The kid couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Twenty, tops.
“You’re not Flip,” I said. “Flip is an old man.”
I noticed that Flip’s suitcase was next to the kid in the booth. He looked at himself in the shiny metal surface of the napkin holder. His jaw dropped open. He touched his face and pulled at his skin as if he didn’t think it was real. The kid took off his hat. He had short blond hair.
“Hey, I look good!” he said.
The kid was wearing the same clothes as Flip too. And they fit him!
“Where’s Flip?” I demanded. “What did you do to him?”
“Stosh, I swear, I am Flip.”
“Prove it,” I said. “Who won the World Series in 1955?”
“The Bums, of course. The Brooklyn Dodgers,” he said. “It was the only year they ever won.”
“Well, everybody knows that,” I said. “That doesn’t prove you’re Flip.”
“We live in Louisville, Kentucky, Stosh,” the kid said. “I run a baseball card shop there.”
“Oh yeah? Well, why are you called Flip?” I asked.
“When I was a kid, me and my buddies in Brooklyn used to flip baseball cards against the wall. Stosh, you gotta believe me. I’m your Little League coach! We came here to see how fast Satchel Paige could throw a ball.”
It really was Flip! When I looked at his face closely, I could see a slight resemblance. But he was more than fifty years younger than the Flip I knew.
Then I figured out what must have happened. When I travel through time, I get whatever I wish for. One time I wished I was an adult, and when I opened my eyes in 1909, I was a grown man. This time, Flip wished he could be eighteen years old again. And he was!
While I was figuring it all out, Flip took off his jacket. He rolled up a sleeve and made a muscle.
“Hey, Stosh!” he said, admiring his bulging biceps. “Check this out!”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Flip, will you knock that off? People are staring.”
I looked around the diner. It had those red stools that spin around. There was a jukebox in the corner. There were a bunch of pies in a glass container on the counter. It was just like one of those diners that are made to look like they’re from a long time ago. Only this one really was from a long time ago.
“Hey, Flip,” I whispered. “Did you see that waitress over there? She’s beautiful!”
“Fuhgetabout that, Stosh! What are we doin’ here? I thought we were supposed to meet Satchel Paige.”
“Be patient,” I said. “He might walk in the door any minute. Or we might have to go find him. But believe me, he’s around somewhere.”
“Somethin’ tells me we ain’t gonna see Satchel Paige in this joint,” Flip said.
“Why not?”
Flip pointed to a sign above the restroom door. It said WHITES ONLY. Everybody in the diner was white, I noticed. It never would have occurred to me if I hadn’t seen the sign.
“It’s the 1940s,” Flip said. “It’s a different world.”
This was a world Flip knew from when he was a kid. He beamed from ear to ear when he saw something he remembered. “Look, Stosh!” he said. “Clicquot Club orange phosphate soda! I used to drink that stuff all the time back in Brooklyn!” He pointed out the old Studebaker and Nash cars through the window.
But mostly, Flip was admiring his new muscles. He was really built, and he kept flexing his arms and posing proudly.
“Will you quit that?” I said, “It’s embarrassing, Flip! You’re in your seventies.”
“Not here I ain’t,” he said pulling the front of his shirt out of his pants. “Hey, get a load of my abs, Stosh! I got a six-pack!”
Suddenly I noticed somebody was standing next to our table. It was that good-looking waitress. Her name tag read LAVERNE.
“You wanna put your tummy away, big boy?” she said. “This is a family place.”
“I’m sorry,” said Flip, and his face got all red.
This girl Laverne was really cute. She had long dark hair with curled bangs and these piercing green eyes. She was probably the prettiest girl I had ever seen.
“What can I get you fellas?” Laverne asked.
“Oh, we’re not hungry,” Flip said.
Laverne put a hand on her hip and stared at him.
“Just like sittin’ ’round diners?” she asked.
“We were about to leave,” Flip said.
I kicked him under the table. He looked at me and I mouthed the words, “She’s hot!” but he just ignored me. When it came to women, Flip w
as clueless.
“Sure we’re hungry,” I said. “What’s the specialty of the house?”
“My daddy makes roast chicken and corn bread that will make you think you died and went to heaven,” Laverne said.
Through an opening in the back of the diner, I saw a guy cooking on a smoky stove. He was wearing a white apron and one of those white paper hats.
“Do you have anything that’s low carb?” Flip asked.
“Low what?” Laverne replied, and I kicked Flip under the table again. I’m not even sure they knew what carbohydrates were in 1942. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what they are now.
“The chicken sounds good,” I said. “How much is it?”
“For you, a buck and a quarter.”
“That’s all?” I asked.
“You can pay more if you wanna,” Laverne said.
“Can I get a Coke too?”
“Sure thing, toots.”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” Flip said.
“CUPPA JOE!” Laverne called out toward the kitchen. “How do you like it, handsome?”
“Black,” Flip replied.
“NO COW!” Laverne shouted.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I said.
“Well, you’re a little young to be wantin’ my telephone number,” she replied, glancing at Flip.
“No,” I said. “Where are we? I mean, what town?”
“Hon, you’re right outside the beautiful town of Spartanburg, South Carolina.”
“And it’s 1942, right?” I asked.
“Last time I looked,” Laverne said. “Say, you don’t get out much, do ya? I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
Laverne left and I kicked Flip again.
“Did you see the way she was looking at you?” I asked. “She likes you, Flip. She’s flirting!”
“Don’t be silly. Waitresses just smile like that to get good tips.”
“Yeah, but after we track down Satchel Paige, you should ask her out on a date.”
“Stosh, I don’t even know her!”
“Well, that’s how you’ll get to know her,” I insisted.
I heard a noise outside, so I looked out the window. A bus had pulled up. The words “Homestead Grays” were painted on the side.
It wasn’t long before Laverne came back with our drinks.
“My friend Flip here says you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen,” I told her.
“I did not!” Flip exclaimed.
Laverne smiled. “You’re pretty cute yourself, Flip.” She giggled. “How old are you?”
“Seventy-two,” Flip replied.
“Hahahaha! He’s joking!” I said. “Flip’s eighteen. What a kidder!”
“Well, it just so happens that I’m gonna be eighteen in a couple of days myself,” Laverne said. “What do you do, honey?”
“Flip’s a baseball player,” I said. “He’s thinking of trying out for the Dodgers.”
“Stosh!” Flip yelled.
“Oh, too bad,” Laverne said. “Daddy won’t let me go with a ballplayer. He says they’re low class.”
“Low class?” I said. “Baseball players make millions of dollars a year.”
“What planet are you from?” Laverne asked.
I glanced up at Laverne’s father in the kitchen. He was shooting dirty looks in our direction. Laverne winked at Flip and said she had to take care of another table.
Flip and I were sipping our drinks when I noticed that the diner had suddenly grown quiet. Nobody was talking. Silverware stopped clicking against plates. Nobody was eating. Everybody was looking toward the front door.
An African American kid had just walked in. He looked like he was about my age.
I peeked out the window at the bus parked at the curb. Inside the bus windows, I could see a bunch of black guys. It looked like they were wearing baseball caps.
The kid walked up to the lady at the cash register.
“I’d like to order twenty hamburgers, please,” he said.
Laverne’s father rushed out of the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, sonny,” he said, “but we can’t help you. Ain’t nothin’ personal, you understand. You can use the bathrooms out back if you need ’em.”
The kid lowered his head for a moment. It looked like he might cry. He was probably hungry. He just turned around without a word and walked back to the front door.
I got out of my seat and caught up with him before he could leave.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’s your mother?”
“Ain’t got no mother,” he told me. “My momma died the day I was born. Daddy takes care of me.”
He pointed toward the bus, which was still outside. Then he opened the door and left the diner. When I went back, Flip was standing at the cash register.
“I’d like to order twenty hamburgers,” Flip said to Laverne’s father. “To go.”
Everybody in the diner was staring at Flip.
Laverne’s father looked at him. “What are you, a wise guy?” he asked.
“No, I’m a hungry guy,” Flip said, “and I’d like twenty burgers. Are you refusing to serve me?”
Laverne’s father looked disgusted. He went back to the kitchen and told somebody to put twenty burgers on the grill.
Flip and I sat down again. People were looking at us and whispering. Soon our chicken was done and Laverne came over with the platters. Outside, the engine of the bus started up again.
“Stosh!” Flip said. “Quick, go tell the driver to hold that bus a minute!”
I ran outside. The bus was starting to pull away. I banged on the door. The driver hit the brakes. The door opened.
“Wait!” I yelled.
Flip was jogging out of the diner with the two platters of chicken and the paper bag lunches my mom had packed for us. He climbed up the steps of the bus. I followed. All the guys on the bus were wearing baseball uniforms that said “Grays” across the front.
“Gentlemen,” Flip said. “Anybody want some roast chicken and cornbread? Believe me, this stuff is so good, you’ll feel like you died and went to heaven. And if you can wait a few minutes, I ordered those burgers you wanted.”
For a moment, the ballplayers on the bus just stared at Flip, like they didn’t trust him. But I guess their hunger overwhelmed any suspicions they had, because they all started grabbing the food and shouting. “Yeah! I want some! Gimme a drumstick! What’s in the bag? I’ll take a hunk of that cornbread….” They dove into the food like they hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.
The kid who had come into the diner was sitting in the seat right behind the driver. His eyes were moist with tears.
“What’s your name, son?” Flip asked, giving him one of my mom’s sandwiches.
“Joshua,” the kid said. “Josh Gibson.”
I thought Flip was going to fall over. He staggered back a step and his eyes bugged out. He looked like he was about to pass out.
“Josh Gibson…the ballplayer?” he asked.
At that, a huge man stepped forward and stuck out his hand for Flip to shake.
“I’m Josh Gibson, the ballplayer,” he said. “This is my son, Josh Junior.”
The guy was like a mountain. He was about as tall as Flip, but his chest, arms, and legs were enormous. There may have been a little bit of a belly there, but mostly he was solid muscle.
“I want to thank you, mister,” he said simply.
“Stosh!” Flip said, pumping the guy’s hand, “This is the great Josh Gibson. The Bronzed Bambino. Prob’bly the greatest hitter in baseball history. Hey Josh, is it true you hit 84 homers in 1936? Is it true you batted .600 one year? I heard you hit line drives that tear the gloves off infielders.”
“It’s true,” Gibson sighed. “All of it.”
The greatest hitter in baseball history? I had never even heard of him. I looked at Josh Gibson more closely. His eyes looked weary. There was a sadness in them.
“Numbers don’t mean nothin’,” one o
f the other players said. “I remember this one time we were playin’ in Pittsburgh and Josh hit one outta sight. Looked like it was never gonna come down. The next day we were playin’ in Philly and this ball comes flying out of the sky. Somebody caught it and the ump says to Josh, ‘Yer out! Yesterday, in Pitts-burgh!’”
Everybody cracked up. Josh Gibson introduced some of the other players. When he said this one guy’s name was Cool Papa Bell, Flip just about fainted again. Bell was another famous player from the Negro Leagues who I hadn’t heard of.
“Is Satchel Paige here?” I asked.
The players all started laughing, like I had told a joke or something.
“Satchel Paige don’t play for the Homestead Grays,” the boy said. “He plays for the Kansas City Monarchs. Everybody knows that.”
Well, I didn’t know that.
“Tell me,” Flip asked, “is Paige as fast as they say he is?”
“Fast?” Josh Gibson said. “Me and Satch used to be teammates on the Pittsburgh Crawfords. I was his catcher for five years. And believe me, nobody can fish like Satch, nobody can flap his gums like Satch, and nobody is faster than Satch. Greatest pitcher I ever seen.”
“Satch throws fire, that’s what he throws!” added Cool Papa Bell.
“It’s like he winds up with a pumpkin and he throws you a pea,” somebody else added.
Cool Papa Bell
“Oh, I’m gonna take care of Satch and his big mouth when we meet up in Pittsburgh, believe you me,” Josh said. “I’m gonna shut him up.”
“You’re playin’ the Monarchs in Pittsburgh soon?” asked Flip, throwing me a look.
“You got that right, mister,” Cool Papa Bell said. “We’re on our way there now.”
Laverne came out of the diner with a big platter piled high with burgers. The players looked at her like they’d never seen a pretty girl before. She seemed hesitant to step inside the bus, so Flip took the platter from her.
“Daddy says these fellas are welcome to eat here,” she told Flip, “so long as they don’t come in the restaurant.”
“Thank you kindly, miss,” Flip said.
The players started pulling out money to give to Flip, but he wouldn’t take it. “Lunch is on me, guys,” he said, passing out the burgers. Grateful hands reached out to grab them.