IGMS Issue 37

by IGMS

  "Oh, Sylvia," Grandma gasped. "I can't believe you risked opening one of those things." And then my prickly, tough-as-nails Grandma hugged me tight. "Please don't do anything so dangerous again. I don't know what I'd do without you."

  I melted, and hugged her back.

  "It wasn't dangerous," I said. "Puck told me what's inside the box, and then Pete confirmed it. How often do you get the opportunity to open one of those things, risk-free?"

  The device sits on the shelf in the most secure storage room of the shop, between the Holy Grail and the snow-globe-shaped pocket dimension with Cthulhu sleeping inside.

  Grandma and I discussed selling the device to Puck. She would pay more than enough to cover the damage and our trouble. But, for now, we decided against it. The Internet is a weird enough place without high-tech fairies in the mix.

  Big Al Shepard Plays Baseball on the Moon

  by Jamie Todd Rubin

  Artwork by Scott Altmann

  * * *

  I

  Virgil I. "Gus" Grissom walks to the podium. It has been more than three decades since he stood on the lunar surface. His hair, black then, is now an iron gray. He wears a black suit of a fine weave and his astronaut pin catches the light filtering in through the cathedral windows.

  "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen," he says. "Tonight we gather to honor the memory of a friend, a colleague, and a pioneer whose legacy will be difficult to match for decades to come. Tonight, we bid farewell to Alan B. Shepard." At this he pauses and looks across at the sea of faces that stare back at him in silence. He has rehearsed this speech in front of his wife, Betty, but now it seems all wrong. He considers this for a moment, then continues.

  "Al was the first American in space. He was the first commander of a Gemini mission. He was my backup commander on Apollo 1. And in October 1968, Al was slated to be the fifth man to walk on the moon. Neil Armstrong and I beat him by a few months, but Al still acquired more firsts than anyone else in the astronaut corps.

  "Many of you knew Al. He was NASA's brightest star. Many of you know of Big Al Shepard's major league baseball career just before the United States entered the Second World War." Gus pauses again, looking for the words. "But today I want to tell you a story that most of you don't know. I want to tell you about how a wild pitch Al took during his playing year endangered his moon landing, and the effect it had on his Apollo 13 mission a quarter century later.

  "I was CAPCOM during the launch of Apollo 13, and as we all remember, that mission seemed cursed from the start . . ."

  1968

  Fourteen Minutes in October

  As his world rumbled and shuddered around him, Big Al Shepard glanced at the instruments and said, "The clock is running."

  Beside him, his command module pilot, Stu Roosa, said, "P-eleven, Al."

  "Yaw program," Al said. His gloved left hand cradled the abort handle as a chef might cradle an egg.

  A voice in his helmet said, "Clear the tower."

  "Clear the tower," Stu Roosa said. That was when the ringing in Al's left ear started, so loud and piercing it stole all his other senses. He twisted his head to the right, as if trying to escape the sound, but it didn't help. He would have to wait it out. The old injury could not have picked a worse time to remind Al of its existence.

  "Yaw program complete," Al said a few seconds later. He could feel the speed building up. The cabin shook violently, and with the shrill sound in one ear, he had to focus his attention to hear anything at all. He felt like he had all those years ago, tuning out the crowd when he came to the plate at Fenway.

  "Houston, roger. Roll."

  Four minutes passed with all systems running smoothly. The ringing in Al's ear subsided. He glanced across the cabin toward his crew: Stu Roosa, his command module pilot, and Ed Mitchell, his lunar module pilot. Two rookies, Al thought, but you had to get your start somewhere. Al had flown Mercury and Gemini. Thirteen was his third trip into space.

  "Thirteen, Houston. Coming up on five minutes. You're looking perfect." Al cringed. It was like the color commentators that always seemed to jinx the ballgame with their pronouncements of perfection.

  Thirty seconds later all hell broke loose.

  Al scanned the instruments. As far as he could tell, their rocket had just lost an engine.

  "Inboard," Al said, keeping his voice calm. His heart skipped second and third and was racing for home.

  "Roger. We confirm inboard out," Houston said.

  Stu and Ed looked toward him. "Steady boys," Al said, "Keep your eyes on the ball." They could still make it to orbit.

  A long fifteen seconds later Al heard his CAPCOM say, "Al, you've got it."

  "Roger, we've got S-IBV to COI," Al said. He started breathing again. They would make it to orbit.

  The clocked rolled past six minutes.

  "What's the word on number five?" Al asked.

  He heard Gus Grissom's voice. "Al, Houston. We don't have the story on that yet, but the other engines are go, and you are go."

  "Roger," Al said. He hadn't been worried about a disaster. A disaster would have killed them instantly. He'd faced more danger doing nighttime aircraft-carrier landings. What bothered Big Al Shepard was the possibility that his mission would be aborted, and he'd lose his one and only chance to play baseball on the moon.

  A few minutes later Al heard Gus say, "Apollo 13, Houston. Your preliminary orbit is 102.5 times 100.3. Everything is looking good."

  "Roger, Houston. It's good to be up here again." The ringing in Al's ear was gone. Through the window Al could see the Earth looming overhead. How far he had come from those boyhood days when his daydreams were filled with playing baseball for the Boston Red Sox, and walking on the moon.

  A day earlier, his Boston Red Sox opened the World Series with a 4-3 loss against the New York Mets.

  Fourteen minutes after ignition, the engines cut off and Al turned to his crew. "Looks like we've had our excitement for this mission, fellas," he said.

  1942

  Feeding the Green Monster

  Al dug his cleats into the faded square of the batters box and flexed his fingers around the handle of the bat that rested on his right shoulder. He fixed his sharp eyes on Marv Breuer. A crisp New England chill lingered in the air. The Red Sox were down 7-2 against their long-time rivals, the New York Yankees, and in the ninth inning, Joe Cronin called on the new guy to make some noise.

  Behind the plate the umpire shouted, "Play ball!"

  A calmness settled over Al Shepard, the same calmness that would, in three decades, allow him to sit atop a bomb hurtling toward space, with a hand poised on the abort handle, but without ever aborting the launch. Breuer went into his windup.

  Al Shepard did not exactly see the first pitch, but he sensed it and pulled a mental abort handle that collapsed his knees. He plummeted into the dust with the sound of the baseball wickering overhead.

  "Ball!" the umpire said.

  The crowd shouted at Breuer and jeered the umpire. Al stood, a small cloud of dust circling him, and stepped back into the box. From the stands, the howling fans could not see the slight upturn of lip on Breuer's face. But Al could. His eyes flicked up to the sky, where an almost-full moon hung like a pale baseball. Then his gaze returned to Breuer.

  The pitcher delivered and Al could see at once the ball would be on the outside corner, a little high. He began his swing as Breuer released the ball. Contact was so smooth Al barely felt it. But he heard the crack of leather on ash, like a shotgun in deer season, and watched the ball rise. By the time Al was halfway to first base, the little white rocket had sailed over the Green Monster.

  Boston lost 7-3 that day.

  Three days later, Al played in his second major league game. This time the skipper had him starting, batting eighth. He came to the plate in the top of the third inning and sent the first pitch he saw over the Green Monster. Al came up again in the sixth inning, looked at a ball, a strike, and sent the third pitch smashing into the f
oul pole down the left field line. It was his third major league at-bat and his third home run.

  Al Shepard did everything big. In size he was average, but in stature, he was Big Al Shepard.

  In the top of the eighth inning the pitcher threw at him on the first pitch, but Al had the good sense to be elsewhere. The catcher couldn't stop the wild throw and it sailed to the backstop, moving runners from first and second to second and third. With first base open, Al walked on three more pitches.

  Heading into the clubhouse after the game, Ted Williams clapped Al on the back.

  "That was some fine hitting, kid," Williams said. "You keep that up and you'll be going places."

  1968

  Stirring the Pot

  Two days into the mission, Al found himself trying, unsuccessfully, to get some rest. Kitty Hawk coasted toward the moon. Al had been daydreaming about his Gemini flight, crammed into that tiny spacecraft. The Apollo command and service module was a palace by comparison. Al had wanted to fly Gemini 3 with Gus Grissom, but Deke Slayton had it in his mind to pair the Mercury veterans with rookies on Gemini. So Al flew Gemini 3 with Tom Stafford while Gus flew with Ed White. Sleep hadn't come easy then, and the extra room didn't seem to make much difference now.

  He saw Stu Roosa glance in his direction, and although Al tried not to sneer at him, he knew his crewmates could tell just by looking at him that he was in a foul mood. They could probably guess why.

  He touched the TALK button clipped to a loop at his waist. "Houston, Apollo," he said, all business.

  After a brief, but noticeable delay, Al heard Gus Grissom say, "Apollo, Houston. Go ahead."

  "Gus, do you have the number yet?"

  Another pause. This time Al caught both crewmates looking his ways. He pretended not to see them.

  "Al," Gus said, "I've got the numbers, but you're not going to like them."

  Stu Roosa and Ed Mitchell looked at one another.

  "Let's have it," Al said. Someone listening in might have imagined they were discussing a regrettable course correction.

  "New York five, Boston --" What came next was garbled.

  "Oh for Pete's sake!" Al said. Stu and Ed could no longer contain their amusement. Al glared at them and touched TALK. "Say again, Houston."

  Pause.

  "New York, five. Boston, three."

  Al frowned. The Boston Red Sox were down two games to none against the Mets.

  "Thanks, Houston," Al said.

  A few seconds later, Al heard Gus again. "You need some better luck, my friend."

  "With a mission designation of thirteen?" Al said. "What I need is your luck, Gus. Will you loan it to me?"

  "It's on its way, Apollo," Gus Grissom said.

  Al turned to his crew, who appeared to be fiddling with a camera in preparation for some picture-taking. "Boys, the Sox have lost again and since there isn't a still onboard, I'm going to drown my sorrow in sleep. Don't wake me unless the CM is on fire."

  "Sure thing, Al," Ed said.

  Al closed his eyes. They hadn't been closed two seconds when he heard Gus's voice again. "Apollo, Houston."

  "Houston, Apollo. Go ahead."

  "Al, we'd like you to stir your cryos."

  "Roger," Al said. "Ed?"

  "I'm on it, boss," Ed Mitchell said. Ed sat on the left side of the couch and Al could see him reach for the H2 FANS and O2 FANS switches. He toggled them with a click, waited a few seconds, and then toggled them again.

  "Consider the cryos stirred," Ed said.

  "Houston, Apollo. We've stirred the pot."

  "Copy that, Apollo. Now get some shuteye, Al. Go too long without your beauty sleep and you're liable to frighten the crew."

  Al closed his eyes, thinking about his friend back home on CAPCOM. Gus Grissom was one lucky S-O-B. There was a problem with the hatch on his Mercury flight that almost cost them the Liberty Bell, and later, he and his crew were saved by the hatch on his Apollo plugs-out test that ended up destroying the command module. And finally, of course, was the fact that Gus Grissom commanded Apollo 11, making him the first man to walk on the moon.

  As Al drifted into a light sleep, the ringing in his ear started again. Though not as bad as two days ago, its mosquito-like keening seemed to follow him down into sleep, singing through his dreams.

  1942

  One of the Team

  In his third, fourth and fifth games for the Boston Red Sox, Al Shepard sent baseballs over the Green Monster. He also managed two doubles and four walks. In his first five big league games Al made only a single out. With the bases empty in the fifth inning of his fourth game, Al smashed a towering fly ball that would have left the park if not for a driving wind that kept the ball in play.

  Boston fans loved him from the start. So did the press.

  "How do you do it, Al?" a reporter asked him as he headed to the clubhouse after the game.

  "I keep my eye on the ball and try not to become distracted," Al said. He knew the reporter wanted something more, but what Al said had the virtue of being true. If Al could see the ball leave the pitcher's hand and that ball arrived in the proximity of the strike zone, Al could hit it, and it showed. In his first five games with Boston, the Red Sox lost only once, a close 2-1 game against the Yankees in which Al scored Boston's only run.

  During his sixth game, this one in Philadelphia, the Red Sox exploded, unloading 19 runs on 21 hits. Through six innings, Al plated six runs. In the bottom of the sixth, Al watched from right field as a pitch got away from Red Sox starter Charlie Wagner, hitting the Phillies catcher, Frankie Hayes. The taunts of the Philadelphia crowd made their displeasure clear.

  Al led off the top of the seventh. He barely had time to square up in the batter's box when Les McCrab let loose an inside fastball. All Al could to was turn his head away.

  The ball connected with Al's helmet, just above his left ear, and Al felt as if he'd been brained. The world went white and it seemed to Al that the bones in his skull screeched along their seams. When the fuzziness backed away, Al was left with a loud ringing in his left ear. It sounded like a gate creaking slowly open on rusty hinges, but it went on and on and on.

  When his vision cleared he found himself in the dirt, surrounded by chaos. Both teams had cleared their benches and minor skirmishes were taking place across the infield. Joe Cronin and the Red Sox trainer knelt beside Al while the umpires tried to get control of the situation.

  Joe's lips moved, but Al couldn't make out the words. The trainer held up three fingers.

  "Three," Al said. His voice sounded thick and distant.

  The home plate umpire bent down between Joe and the trainer. "He alright?"

  "I'm fine," Al said. He felt like he was going to lose his lunch. The umpire gave Joe Cronin a questioning look.

  "We're killing them, Al. I'm going to have Pete run for you. Head back to the clubhouse and let the doc take a look at you, alright?"

  It was not alright, but Al didn't argue. He knew Joe was just trying to protect his new star. Al would just have to take one for the team.

  Joe and the trainer led Al off the field. As they cut across the infield grass, Al turned to Les McCrab who stood motionless on the mound. Al muttered a curse and McCrab took one step forward and then stopped when he saw Al's eyes.

  "Next time you throw a pitch that close to me," Al said, "I'll put it on the moon."

  1968

  A Conspiracy of 38 Ounces

  Al floated through the tunnel that linked Kitty Hawk and Antares. The windows no longer looked into the blackness of space. Instead they looked down upon the desolate grayness of the lunar surface as it rolled by a mere fifty miles below.

  "Coming up on Fra Mauro," Stu Roosa said. He floated by the window with the 70-mm Hasselblad clicking away like some mad clock. "I think I see home plate, Al," Stu said, one eye pressed against the camera's eyepiece.

  "Oh yeah?" Al said.

  "Yeah. And it looks like someone beat you to it. Wait, let me zoom in. Yup, there h
e is. Pinstripes. Number 7. Al, I hate to break it to you but I think I see Mickey Mantle down there, taking warmup swings."

  Ed Mitchell laughed so hard that he spit out the water he'd been sipping. A million tiny spheres of liquid spread about the cabin, splattering as they hit a solid surface. Al rolled his eyes.

  "Ed, did you make sure the bat and ball are in the cart?" Al said.

  "All set, boss," Ed said. "You sure Deke is okay with this?" Al had worked this out with Deke Slayton before the mission. Deke only agreed to it, Al thought, because he felt bad about almost pushing Al and his crew to Apollo 14.

  "You can't sneak 37¼ ounces of ash and leather onboard without Deke clearing it," Al said. He didn't add that Deke wasn't happy about the idea. Al had pointed out the good publicity that would come from playing baseball on the moon.

  "You think Ivan could come to the moon and play baseball?" Al had asked Deke. "Baseball is America's pastime."

  Deke had frowned, but allowed it. "But you only swing the bat when all of the other items on the checklist are complete," he added.

  Al agreed. Now, fifty miles above their landing site he was growing anxious.

  "Think you can hit the ball over the rim of the crater from where you guys will be standing?" Stu asked.

  "The hard part will be tossing the ball into the air while packed tight inside a bulky spacesuit," Al said.

  "Maybe you should have brought a golf club instead," Ed said.

  Al glared at him.

  "Besides," Ed said, "you'll have an unfair advantage."

  "How so?"

  "No outfielders," Ed said, smiling.

  "No atmosphere either," Stu added.

  "First Ed and I have to get down there," Al said.

  All three men sobered up at the thought.