Roberto & Me

by Dan Gutman

  “It was the bottom of the eighth,” my dad told me. “The Yankees were ahead, 7–5. It was looking good. There were two outs and two on when Clemente came up.”

  “And he hit a homer?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Dad said, “he hit this weak grounder between the pitcher and first base. Shoulda been an easy third out. But Clemente beat it out. The next guy hit a homer, and Pittsburgh went ahead, 9–7.”

  “Was that how it ended?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Dad continued. “The Yankees scored two runs in the top of the ninth to tie the game. But Bill Mazeroski led off the bottom of the ninth for the Pirates and hit a solo homer to end it. I’ll tell you, that broke a lot of hearts in New York. The Yankees outscored the Pirates 55 to 27, but they lost the Series.”

  “It’s not fair to blame that on Clemente,” I said. “The pitcher or the first baseman should have made the play on him to end the inning. If you were gonna hate anybody, it should have been Mazeroski. He was the guy who hit the home run to win it.”

  “Oh, I hated him too,” Dad said. “Hey, what did I know? I was a kid. I wasn’t gonna blame my own team for losing.”

  “Clemente was a great player, Dad.”

  “I know, I know,” my father said. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re gonna go back in time and save Clemente, aren’t you? You’re gonna try to talk him out of getting on that plane.”

  “How did you know?”

  “If I could do what you can do, that’s what I would do,” Dad said. “It’s a no-brainer.”

  “I just have one problem,” I told my dad. “I don’t have a Roberto Clemente card. Flip thought he might have one, but he couldn’t find it.”

  My dad wrinkled up his forehead for a moment, and then he snapped his fingers.

  “I think I have one,” he said.

  “Really?”

  My dad laughed, then wheeled himself into his bedroom, where he keeps the stuff he collects. My dad sold most of his valuable baseball cards a while ago and switched over to collecting autographed baseballs. But he kept a shoe box full of cards he didn’t think anybody would buy.

  The value of a baseball card depends partly on its condition. A card that has marks or creases isn’t worth nearly as much as the same card in mint condition. Dad pulled a shoe box out of his closet that was labeled POOR.

  “It must be in here,” he said, flipping through the cards in the box. “I remember it.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I told him. “I should be able to find one on eBay.”

  “Aha!” he said as he pulled out a card.

  Well, it was a Clemente card, all right. I could make out the CLE and the TE. The rest was hard to read because the card was filled with holes.

  The Roberto Clemente card, before it was destroyed. Note the first name. As recently as the sixties, some Americans were still uncomfortable with Spanish names.

  The Topps Company, Inc.

  “What happened to it?” I asked.

  “Me and my friends used it as a dartboard,” my father said. “After that World Series, we really hated the Pirates.”

  “You messed up Clemente good,” I told him.

  “You should’ve seen what we did to Mazeroski,” he said.

  I didn’t touch the card. If it really did work and I held it in my hand, I knew what would happen. I would get that tingling sensation in my fingertips. It would move up my arm and across my body, and the next thing I knew I would be in the year…

  Actually, I didn’t know where I would be. The Clemente card was so beat up, you couldn’t even see the year on the back of it. But it didn’t matter. If the card was printed any year before Clemente died, I would be able to warn him not to get on the plane.

  “Do you think a card in this condition will still work?” I asked.

  “Beats me,” Dad said. “You’re the one who has the power. Give it a shot. Keep the card. It’s worth pennies. Happy birthday.”

  We both laughed as he carefully slid the junky card into a plastic holder.

  I looked at the Clemente card closely. It may not be worth more than a few pennies in the baseball card market. But it could be worth a lot more. If I could convince Roberto Clemente not to get on that plane, he might still be alive today. I stashed the card in my backpack.

  “Hey, speaking of birthday presents…” my dad said as he pulled a wrapped package out of his closet.

  My dad hasn’t worked since his accident, and he doesn’t have a lot of money. His presents are usually stuff he picks up at the dollar store. I wasn’t expecting much when I tore off the wrapping paper. So I was totally blown away when I saw that my present was the new Nintendo portable video game system.

  “Dad!” I exclaimed. “Where’d you get the money for this?”

  “Your mother chipped in on it,” he replied. “It’s from both of us.”

  I thanked him about a million times. After we had some pizza and tried out the video game system, I figured it was time to leave. My dad gets tired early, and my mom doesn’t like me riding my bike home late at night.

  “Hey, I got a brainstorm,” Dad said as I picked up my stuff to go. “As long as you’re going back in time to see Clemente, how about doing your old man a little favor while you’re there?”

  Uh-oh. I was afraid he was going to ask me to do something. He usually does. My dad is always cooking up some get-rich-quick scheme for me to pull off for him. Like, he’ll give me money to deposit in the bank fifty years ago so he can collect the interest. Or he’ll assign me to buy up baseball cards in the past so he can sell them at today’s prices. It’s so annoying.

  “Dad, we talked about this,” I said. “I’m not gonna do some borderline illegal thing to make money. Forget about it.”

  “No, no, nothin’ like that,” Dad said. “All I want you to do is stop Clemente from getting that cheap infield hit in the 1960 World Series.”

  “Dad!”

  “You could rewrite baseball history, Butch!” he exclaimed. “You could win the World Series for the Yankees!”

  I didn’t like the idea. It sounded wrong. How could I even do that, anyway? And if I was going to change history, it would have to be for a more important reason.

  “Haven’t the Yankees won the World Series enough times?” I asked.

  “Ah, I guess you’re right,” Dad said with a sigh. “But what about this? You said Clemente and Thurman Munson were teammates one year, right? And they both died in plane crashes. Well, while you’re talking Clemente out of getting on his plane, how about telling him to talk Munson out of getting on his plane?”

  “Dad…”

  “Think of it as saving two birds with one stone,” he said. “Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?”

  My father looked at the portable video game system that he had just given me. Then he looked at me again.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I told him.

  That’s what my mom always says to me when she doesn’t want to make any promises. I’ll see what I can do.

  “Fair enough,” Dad said, reaching up to hug me. “Oh, one last thing before you go. Remember how you said your only problem was that you didn’t have a Clemente card?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I think you might have another problem,” Dad said. “You’re gonna have a tough time convincing Clemente not to get on that plane.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Roberto Clemente didn’t speak English.”

  6

  Going…Going…Gone!

  OKAY, SO ROBERTO CLEMENTE WAS FROM PUERTO RICO, AND he didn’t speak English. Big deal. I really didn’t think the language barrier would be that much of a problem. I mean, how hard could it be to say “Don’t get on the plane!” in Spanish? If worst came to worst, I could always use sign language. It’s not hard to pantomime a plane crashing into the ocean.

  Of course, if I was lucky enough that my dad’s messed-up baseball card actually worked and I was able to get to Roberto Clemente, it
wouldn’t hurt to know a little Spanish. I would want to have a conversation with him. Can you imagine if some strange kid walked up to you from out of nowhere and just said, “Don’t get on the plane! Don’t get on the plane!” You’d think he was crazy.

  I went home and spent the rest of the night reading my Introduction to Spanish textbook from school. I memorized all the numbers, greetings, and common phrases. I learned which words were masculine and which were feminine. I learned all the possessive adjectives and pronouns. I was obsessed.

  In case of emergency, I practiced saying Estoy enfermo. Necesito ayuda. (I am sick. I need help.) I don’t think I ever worked so hard preparing for a test at school. Señorita Molina would have been proud.

  Just after midnight, there was a soft knock on my door. My mom had come back from working at the hospital, and she wanted to say good night.

  “You’re studying Spanish?” she asked. “In the middle of the night? On the weekend? Are you feeling okay, Joey?”

  “I want to be able to talk with Roberto,” I told her.

  “So you’re already on a first-name basis with him?” she said with a laugh. “Is tonight the night?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Dad gave me a Clemente card. He gave me the video game system too. Thanks, Mom! It’s really cool.”

  I opened my backpack and showed her the Nintendo.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re not going to bring that along, are you?”

  “Sure,” I told her. “Why not? I thought I might have a little time, and I could play some games.”

  “Joey, what if somebody sees it?” my mother said. “There were no video games back in those days! People won’t know what to make of it. Maybe they’ll think it’s a bomb or something. They might think you’re a terrorist!”

  “Mom, will you relax?” I said. “There were no terrorists back in those days either.”

  My mother rolled her eyes the way she does.

  “All right,” she said. “Let me pack you some lunch to take with you.”

  “Mom, I don’t want to bring lunch.”

  “Joey, you’re going to get hungry!”

  “I’ll get something to eat while I’m there!” I insisted.

  Mom rolled her eyes again.

  “So, you’ll take a video game with you, but you won’t take lunch?” she said. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “No lunch, Mom!”

  My mother sighed, which means I won the argument. She must have been pretty tired, because she usually fights a lot harder than that. There were times when she talked me into taking an umbrella back in time with me in case it rained.

  “Hey, listen to this,” I said as she kissed my forehead. “¡No subas el avion, Roberto!”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means, ‘Don’t get on the plane, Roberto!’”

  “That’s what you spent the whole night learning?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her. “I learned a lot of other stuff too. Like ¿Donde esta el correo? That means ‘Where is the post office?’”

  “That should come in handy, in case you need to mail a letter in the past,” my mother joked. “You just be careful, okay? I know how dangerous it can be.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re doing a good thing, Joey. A very good thing. I’m proud of you.”

  She kissed me again and closed the door behind her as she left.

  It was quiet in my room. I put on a pair of jeans, my old sneakers, and a T-shirt that didn’t have any writing on it. I wasn’t sure what year I would end up in, but I wanted to blend in. If I showed up 40 years ago wearing a T-shirt that said something like AMERICAN IDOL or BRITNEY SPEARS on it, people might be suspicious.

  Not that I own those T-shirts, mind you.

  I went to my desk drawer and took out a fresh pack of baseball cards. These would serve as my ticket back home when I was ready to return to my own time. I carefully slipped the pack into one of the zippered pockets on my backpack.

  I took the messed-up Clemente card out of its plastic sleeve. It was time to see whether or not a card in such poor condition would still be able to take me back in time.

  I flipped off the light and sat on the bed. My bedroom was totally dark except for a sliver of white under the door. I closed my eyes and concentrated.

  Nothing happened.

  I didn’t panic. Usually, nothing ever happens for a few minutes.

  My eyes still closed, I focused my mind on the past. It was hard. Most times I know the specific year I’m traveling to, so I can concentrate on that year. This time, the year on the card had been obliterated. I would just have to go wherever the card took me. Go with the flow.

  Clemente was a rookie in 1955. I knew that. He played his last game in 1972. Eighteen years. A lot can happen in that time. I had to be prepared for anything.

  That’s what I was thinking when the faintest tingling sensation tickled my fingertips.

  Aha! The card works!

  The feeling was buzzy, like a vibrating string on a guitar. I resisted the urge to drop the card. The tingling grew stronger, and then it started to move. First across my hand and then up my arm. I nodded my head pleasantly. Soon there would be no turning back.

  I thought about what Flip had said. Something about quantum physics and wormholes. There was supposed to be a rush of air around the room after my body left it. Papers were supposed to blow around. I wondered if any of that stuff would actually happen. My room was pretty much a mess, anyway. Who would even know if papers blew around?

  The tingling sensation was moving across my chest, and soon I could feel it on the other side of my body. My legs were getting numb. I knew it wouldn’t be long. My whole body felt lighter, as if I had suddenly lost fifty pounds. Maybe I did. Maybe that’s what happens when you—

  There were no more thoughts to be had. I just vanished.

  7

  Peace and Love

  BEFORE I EVEN OPENED MY EYES, MY BRAIN WAS BEING pounded by an avalanche of sound. It was an awful, eardrum-rattling noise—almost like a jet taking off. Or landing. Or, more likely, crashing. It was a shrieking, screaming sound, but not a human voice. It was more like a distorted air-raid siren or a wounded animal crying to be put out of its misery. People say that the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard is horrible. This was even worse. I covered my ears, but it was no use. It was so loud I could hear it through my skull.

  Maybe I’m in the middle of Roberto Clemente’s plane crash, I thought. I was afraid to open my eyes.

  And then, in the middle of all the noise, I recognized a tune. I knew that song. It was…it was “The Star-Spangled Banner”!

  I opened my eyes.

  I was outdoors, and there were people crowded around me on all sides. There were people everywhere. I mean everywhere. They were almost all teenagers, and they were dressed in tie-dyed shirts, sandals, jeans, and headbands. It was hard to tell the girls from the boys, because almost everybody had long hair. It took a moment or two before I realized who they were.

  Hippies!

  For Halloween one year, I dressed up as a hippie, with my dad’s old bell-bottom jeans and a wig. People thought it was a riot. I won the contest that year at school for having the best costume.

  I didn’t know where I had landed, but I knew when—the sixties.

  The guy next to me wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he had a big red peace sign painted on his chest. His eyes were closed, and he was dancing. He wasn’t dancing with anybody. He was just swaying back and forth to this strange music. He had long, stringy hair; and it looked like he hadn’t washed it in a long time.

  “What is that noise?” I shouted into his ear.

  “That’s Hendrix, man,” he said without opening his eyes. “Can you dig it?”

  “Jimi Hendrix?” I said. “My mother loves him.”

  “Your mom is groovy, man,” the guy said, and then he went back into his own little world.

  Somehow, some way, I had lande
d in the middle of a Jimi Hendrix concert! If only my mother could see this! I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look. There was a huge speaker system mounted on giant scaffolds on either side of the stage. I have been to a few concerts, and they usually have a giant video screen so the people in the back can see what’s going on. Not here. I squinted until I could make out the figures on the stage.

  There was a guy sitting behind a big bongo drum. There was a regular drummer too, and a bass player. But none of those guys were playing. The only one who was playing was Jimi Hendrix.

  Somehow I had landed in the middle of a Jimi Hendrix concert.

  I was standing pretty far back, but I could see that he was wearing a red headband and a white shirt with fringe all over it. He must have been left-handed, because he held his white guitar the opposite way most people do.

  He wasn’t singing the words to “The Star Spangled Banner.” He was just playing it, with the fringe on his shirt flying all over as he whipped around his guitar and tortured the whammy bar. He never looked at the guitar. Sometimes he would lean his head back and open his mouth wide as he played. All the people around me were jumping up and down, going crazy. Nobody had ever played “The Star-Spangled Banner” like this before.

  Finally, after what seemed like a half hour, he finished the song and went right into “Purple Haze” without pausing. I knew that song, because my mom is always playing it at home.

  I looked around. The sun was low in the sky. It must have been early morning. I couldn’t figure out why there would be a concert so early in the day.

  “Excuse me,” I asked an African-American guy beside me. “This probably sounds like a silly question, but…what year is it?”

  “You don’t even know what year it is?” he replied. “That is soooo groovy! It’s 1969. This is Woodstock, man!”

  Woodstock!?

  I had heard about Woodstock. My mother told me about it. It was a big outdoor music festival in New York that had performers like Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, and my mom’s favorite band, Creedence Clearwater Revival.