Roberto & Me

by Dan Gutman

  “My family is here,” Bernard replied. “You go.”

  “We can come back and get them,” I suggested. “There are so many questions I wanted to ask you…about me, my family—”

  “No time for that!” he said more forcefully. “Hurry up!”

  I grabbed something out of my pocket, but it wasn’t the pack of cards. It was the hundred-dollar bill and the card Roberto Clemente had given me:

  If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don’t do that, you are wasting your time on this earth.

  I stuffed them back into my pocket. Finally, I found the baseball cards in my other pocket and ripped off the wrapper. I pulled out a card. The wind was howling louder now. The tornado must have been right over our heads.

  “I’m scared, Mommy!” I heard one of the girls whimper from the other room.

  “I shouldn’t leave you,” I told Bernard. “You need my help.”

  “You can’t help us here,” he insisted. “You can help us in your time.”

  “What about your parents?” I asked. “What are you gonna tell them? That I just disappeared?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said, hugging me. “Now get out of here!”

  I sat down on the dirt floor and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on going home. It wasn’t easy. It sounded like a jet engine was right above us. I was shivering from the cold dampness of my clothes.

  “Do you feel anything?” Bernard asked.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the faintest tingling sensation brushed my fingertips. It didn’t take as long as I thought. The vibrations spread up my arm and across my body. I knew that soon I would be out of there.

  “I won’t forget you,” I told Bernard.

  “You know what you need to do,” he said.

  As my body became lighter, I heard the sound of the plywood being ripped off the storm shelter. There was a crash and some screams.

  And then I vanished.

  21

  Better Late than Never

  WELL, I DIDN’T TRIP OVER THE COFFEE TABLE THIS TIME.

  I tripped over the footrest of the chair next to the coffee table. Then I landed on top of the coffee table. Fortunately, it didn’t break. Neither did I.

  “Joey!” my mother shouted as she came running down the stairs. “Where were you?”

  “I was in Chicago, Mom! In 2080! You won’t believe—”

  “You had me worried sick!” my mother complained. “I was fast asleep, and I heard you in your room saying something about Grandpa. I figured you were having a dream; but when I went in there to see if you were okay, you were gone. I was just about to call the police. Don’t scare me like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “But listen, this is important. We need to change everything. We need to get a smaller car that gets better gas mileage. We have to use less energy. We have to stop burning fossil fuels.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” she said. “Joey, I’m late for work. Coach Valentini keeps calling. He’s really mad. Your game started almost an hour ago. I can give you a ride over to the field, but we have to leave right away.”

  I dashed upstairs to change into my uniform. When I took off my jeans, I remembered the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. That money really shouldn’t be lying around. It should be in a safe place. But there was no time to go to the bank now. I stuffed the bill in the pocket of my baseball pants for the time being.

  Mom was in the car with the engine running when I came dashing out the front door with my equipment bag. She took a shortcut to Dunn Field, running a couple of stop signs along the way. By the time I jumped out of the car, the scoreboard said it was the bottom of the sixth inning. We were losing, 6-5. Mom asked me to find a ride home after the game and drove off to work.

  “Where in the heck have you been?” Flip hollered when I ran over to the dugout.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Save it,” Flip told me. “Grab a bat. You’re on deck.”

  Usually when guys show up late, Flip makes them sit on the bench as punishment. He must have been really desperate if he was putting me in the game. As I took a bat out of the rack, I looked around, trying to size up the situation. Brian Wenzel was on first base, and Danny Cretney was on second. Jack Naughton was up. There was a lefty on the mound. The scoreboard said there was one out.

  If Jack hit a double or better, I realized, both runners would score and the game would be over. I wouldn’t even come to bat.

  That was fine with me. The way I had been hitting lately, the best thing I could do for the team would be to stay as far away from a batter’s box as possible.

  “C’mon, Jack!” I shouted. “Win it for us right now!”

  Jack took a couple of pitches, one of them a strike and the other one in the dirt. On the next pitch, he hit an easy grounder toward second.

  Everybody on our bench groaned. It was a perfect double play ball. All the second baseman had to do was field the grounder cleanly and flip it to the shortstop, who would throw to first. Game over. We lose. Part of me was actually hoping that would happen, because I really did not want to come to bat.

  But it didn’t happen that way. The second baseman bobbled the grounder for a moment. He didn’t have time to make a play at second, so he scrambled to pick up the ball and barely threw out Luke at first.

  Brian and Danny advanced to second and third on the play. Two outs now.

  “Stosh!” Flip shouted. “Yer up!”

  The metal bat felt light in my hands compared to the wooden one I’d used in 2080. I took a few practice swings and walked slowly to the plate. Why did I always get myself into these situations? A hit would drive in the two runs and win the game. An out would lose it. And I was in the worst batting slump of my life.

  “Wait for a good one, Stosh!” Flip yelled, clapping his hands.

  “Make him throw strikes, Stosh!” hollered Brian.

  I have always been a patient hitter. I take pride in the fact that I have a good sense of the strike zone and refuse to swing at pitches that aren’t over the plate. But lately, that strategy wasn’t working. I needed to try something different.

  I tried to think back and recall what Roberto Clemente had told me about getting out of a batting slump. I remembered the question he’d asked me: “Who do you think has more chances to hit the ball: a batter who takes three swings—or a batter who takes one swing?”

  That had stuck with me. Of course, the batter who takes three swings has the better chance of hitting the ball.

  The heck with it, I decided. I’m just going to swing at everything. I don’t care if the ball is behind my head. I’m going to take a whack at it. What did I have to lose?

  The pitcher looked in for the sign, wound up, and let fly. The pitch was a little high, but I went for it anyway. Missed it. Strike one.

  “Whaddaya swingin’ at, Stosh?” Flip yelled. “That was over yer head!”

  I didn’t care. There was something liberating about going up there and knowing I was going to rip at the pitch no matter what. If you don’t have to think so hard about whether or not you should swing, you can put more energy and concentration into the swing itself. It felt good to take a wild cut for a change.

  I dug in. The pitcher peeked at the runners on second and third, and then wheeled and delivered.

  It was outside. I reached out and swung anyway. The ball ticked off the end of my bat. At least I got a piece of it.

  “Stosh, are you outta yer mind?” Flip yelled. “That pitch was in Indiana! Now yer down two strikes!”

  I didn’t care if I was down ten strikes. I was going to keep taking my cuts. If that strategy was good enough for Roberto Clemente, it was good enough for me.

  I fouled off the next three pitches. One of them might have been a strike. Maybe not.

  “Fuhgetuhboutit,” Flip said, throwing his hands up.
r />   The pitcher must have been getting tired of toying with me. Or maybe he was just getting tired. But the next pitch was over the heart of the plate. I slashed at it, and the ball jumped off my bat with a nice ping. The shortstop leaped for it, but it was a foot or two above his glove.

  “Go! Go! Go!” everybody was yelling.

  Danny scored easily from third; and when the ball skipped between the two outfielders and went all the way to the wall, Brian trotted home too. That was the winning run.

  Everybody mobbed me when I got back to the bench. Flip put me in a headlock and told me I was a lucky son of a gun. He may have been right. But I broke out of my slump, we won the game, and that was all that mattered.

  I was packing up my stuff on the bench when Tommy Rose suddenly said, “Oh no, not again.”

  I turned around and saw those Girl Scouts parading through the bleachers with their signs and cans.

  “SAVE THE POLAR BEARS!” they chanted. “SAVE THE POLAR BEARS!”

  I stood and watched them walk around asking people to donate money. Me and the guys had always made fun of those girls doing their good deeds. Polar bears! The only polar bear I’d ever seen in my whole life was on TV. It had all seemed so silly.

  But after my experience in 2080, it didn’t feel silly anymore. These girls didn’t have to be spending their time raising money to save polar bears. They could have been out with their friends, having fun or whatever. But they really cared about something. And it wasn’t just that they cared. Anybody can care. They were doing something. I had to admire them for that.

  I thought about all the places I had been the last couple of days. Woodstock. Cincinnati. Chicago. And I remembered the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket. I reached in to make sure it was still there.

  It was.

  22

  A Quick Trip

  I THOUGHT REALLY SERIOUSLY ABOUT DONATING THE hundred-dollar bill to the Girl Scouts. That would have blown everybody’s minds. But then I came up with another idea.

  “Flip!” I yelled. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  He was packing up his car and getting ready to go home. Flip drives a big old Cadillac with tail fins, one of the few left on the road. To some people, it would be an antique. To Flip, it’s just his car.

  “What can I do ya for, Stosh?” he said as I jogged over.

  “Do you have any baseball cards with you?”

  “Does a squirrel have nuts?” he replied. “Whaddaya need?”

  Flip is probably the only guy in the world who drives around with a trunk full of baseball cards. He popped open the trunk and I peered inside. There must have been thousands of cards in there, stuffed haphazardly into shoe boxes.

  “Do you have one from 1972?” I asked.

  “Anybody in particular?” Flip asked. “I got Johnny Bench…Lou Brock…Nolan Ryan…Harmon Killebrew…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Any 1972 card will do. Oh, and I need a new card too.”

  Flip rooted around back there until he found what I wanted. Then he slipped the two cards into plastic sleeves and handed them to me.

  “What are you cookin’ up now, Stosh?” he said, looking at me with a crooked grin.

  “Just give me ten minutes,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You are crazy,” Flip said, shaking his head.

  I opened the passenger door of Flip’s car and slid inside. I stuck the new card into my back pocket and slipped the 1972 card out of its sleeve. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated.

  Wait! There was something else I needed.

  In the beverage holder between the front seats, there were a couple of quarters and dimes that Flip uses to pay tolls. I scooped them up and put them in my pocket, making a mental note to pay Flip back. Then I closed my eyes again.

  I didn’t care where I landed. Just as long as it was 1972.

  It didn’t take long. Soon the tingling sensation arrived, and then the feeling of lightness. I was fading away…and fading away…and fading away…

  And I was gone.

  When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on a bench in a bus stop next to a lady with a shopping bag. There were some stores across the street. The lady looked up from the book she had been reading and smiled at me.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I asked. “Is there a post office around here?”

  She looked puzzled and shrugged her shoulders.

  “No hablo Ingles,” she said.

  Just my luck. She didn’t speak English.

  Wait! It was okay. This one I could handle.

  “¿Donde esta el correo?” I asked.

  She smiled and pointed down the street. I told her mucho gracias and ran off.

  The sign on the building said UNITED STATES POST OFFICE—CLAYTON, MISSOURI. I rushed inside. This was going to be a long shot, I knew, but I had to give it a try.

  There was nobody waiting in line, so I went right up to the counter. A little sign said TODAY’S DATE IS OCTOBER 27, 1972.

  “I’d like to buy one envelope, please,” I said to the lady behind the counter. I fished the hundred-dollar bill out of my pocket and slipped it into the envelope she gave me.

  “That’s a lot of money to be sending through the mail,” the lady told me. “Do you want insurance?”

  “No, thank you,” I said as I licked the envelope and sealed it. There was a pen on the counter that was attached to a little chain. I wrote this neatly on the outside of the envelope:

  Señorita Molina

  San Jorge Children’s Hospital

  San Juan, Puerto Rico

  “Do you know the street address?” the lady asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I think it will still get there,” she said.

  “I hope so,” I told her. “It’s very important.”

  She put the envelope on a small scale to weigh it.

  “That will be ten cents, please,” she said. “Two for the envelope and eight for the postage.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” she replied. “The rates went up last year.”

  “No, I mean, you can send a letter all the way to Puerto Rico for just eight cents?”

  “Would you like to pay more?” she asked with a smile.

  I gave her a dime and she promised to take special care to make sure my envelope made it to Puerto Rico.

  “Do you need a receipt?” she asked.

  “No thanks.”

  A chair was off to the side, behind a wall and near the post office boxes. There were no customers around. It was quiet, and private. I sat down and pulled out the new baseball card Flip had loaned me.

  Home, I thought. I just want to go home. Get something to eat. Go to sleep.

  I might have dozed off for a minute or two. The sound of approaching footsteps woke me up—and so did the feeling of a tingling sensation in my fingertips. Then there was the voice of the post office lady who’d helped me at the window.

  “Are you okay, young man?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, my eyes still shut. “I’m just…a little dizzy.”

  The vibrations were getting stronger, moving up my arm and across my body.

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I’m fine. I’ll be gone in a few seconds.”

  My whole body was vibrating. I wouldn’t have been able to stop it if I wanted to.

  “You forgot to put a return address on your envelope,” she informed me. “I can do it for you. Where do you live?”

  “Where do I live?” I whispered. “I live…in the future.”

  And then I faded away.

  When I opened my eyes, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Flip’s car again. He was sitting next to me reading Sports Illustrated. He was startled when I suddenly appeared.

  “Thanks, Flip,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “You can have those cards back.”

  “Where were you, Stosh?” Flip asked.

  “
In Missouri, in 1972.”

  “What the heck were you doin’ there?”

  “The usual,” I told him. “Trying to save somebody’s life.”

  “You are one crazy kid, Stosh. You know that?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “As long as you’re sittin’ here, you need a ride home?” asked Flip.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  23

  Extra Credit

  I HATE MONDAYS. ESPECIALLY MONDAYS LIKE THIS MONDAY, when we get our report cards. Most schools send out report cards by mail, so you don’t see the bad news until you get home. At my school, they hand them out first thing in the morning, during homeroom. That way you have the whole day to figure out how you’re going to explain things to your parents.

  “…Morrisey…Peters…Ralston…”

  My homeroom teacher, Mr. Meyer, was calling out our names in alphabetical order.

  “…Soriano…Stoshack…”

  I marched up to the front of the class, and Mr. Meyer handed me my envelope. Why do they even bother putting them in envelopes? I started ripping it open before I got back to my seat.

  What?!

  I had to look at it twice. Maybe the name was wrong and they gave me somebody else’s report card by mistake, I figured. No, that’s me. Maybe somebody was goofing on me and they changed my grade.

  I got an A in Spanish!

  Nina Wallace

  Nope, there were no signs of tampering.

  I, Joe Stoshack, aced Spanish!

  Still, it had to be a mistake, I figured. Just a few days ago I got that progress report saying I was flunking Spanish. How could I bring my grade up to an A so fast?

  For once, I was glad I had Spanish first period on Mondays. The bell rang, and everybody bolted out of homeroom like it was the Olympics or something. We only have three minutes between classes, and you get detention if you’re one second late.

  I got to Señorita Molina’s room before any of the other kids. There was a candle burning on her desk, as usual, and she was standing at the whiteboard.