Willie & Me

by Dan Gutman

“Um-hmm,” I said.

  “Well, I’m asking you not to do that,” Bobby said.

  That’s exactly what I thought he was going to say. I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Look,” Bobby continued. “I’m not a star. They’ll never vote me into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Other than that one swing, that one home run, I’m just an ordinary player. But that homer was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. It made me famous. It put me on the map, and I got a feeling it’s gonna help put my kids and grandkids through college. Please don’t interfere with what happened naturally. Just let it be. What’s done is done.”

  He looked sad, almost as sad as Ralph Branca had looked when he was in my room a few nights earlier.

  “I . . . I don’t know, Mr. Thomson,” I told him.

  Now I was confused. I had decided I was going to go back and help Branca the next night. But Thomson was asking me not to help Branca.

  The expression on Bobby’s face seemed more serious.

  “Joe,” he said, “everybody likes to win. I like to win. You don’t get to the top in professional baseball, or any other business, unless you’re a pretty tough cookie. My team likes to win, too, and that was a great victory for me and the guys. I play with some competitive people. If you do anything to mess things up for us . . .”

  “Are you threatening me?” I asked.

  “Let me put it this way,” Bobby said, looking me straight in the eye. “Winning that game for the Giants was the greatest moment of my life. I’m not going to let you take it away from me. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

  He had given me something to think about, that’s for sure. I was torn. Maybe I should go back to 1951 to help Ralph and prevent Bobby from hitting the home run. Maybe I should help Bobby and just leave things alone. Or maybe I should do something so that neither of them would be a hero or a goat.

  But if I did that, both of them would turn out to be nobodies. All that money they would eventually earn signing autographs together would vanish. I would be stealing money from both of them. I would be ruining both of their lives.

  Is it right to tamper with history at all, I wondered? My thoughts were all jumbled in my head.

  I remember reading about something called the “butterfly effect.” It’s pretty complicated, but it boils down to the theory that an insignificant little action—like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings—could set off a series of events that would cause something really bizarre to happen. A butterfly could flap its wings in Ohio, and it might eventually cause a tornado in Hawaii. Every little moment of our lives might change what happens afterward.

  For example, if my dad had driven just a little bit slower or a little bit faster on the day of his accident, he wouldn’t have been hit by that drunk driver. He wouldn’t be sitting in a wheelchair today. If the bullets that killed Presidents Kennedy and Lincoln had been a few inches to the left or right, those men would have lived and American history would be totally different.

  And if Bobby Thomson had hit that ball just a fraction of an inch lower or higher on the bat, there never would have been a Shot Heard Round the World. Everything would have been different. He wouldn’t be a hero. Ralph wouldn’t be a goat. Nobody would have ever heard of either of them. It would be a different future. Maybe it would have been better. Maybe it would have been worse. And the Dodgers, most likely, would have won the pennant in 1951.

  Sometimes the simplest thing changes everything. What if every little decision we make matters and changes things that will happen down the line?

  My head was spinning. Messing with something that happened back in 1951 was too dangerous, I decided. I would not take the trip after all.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said to Bobby.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I won’t interfere with your home run,” I told him. “But you’ve got to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  I got out the plaque that my dad had given me for my birthday. I handed it to Bobby.

  “Will you sign your card for me?” I asked.

  “Sure, kid,” he said, taking a pen off my night table. “If Branca signed his card, it’s only right for me to sign mine, too.”

  As I went to sleep that night, things were looking good. I got both of the baseball cards signed, and I didn’t even have to go back in time to do it.

  That gave me an idea—now the plaque with the two cards was valuable. It might be worth a few thousand dollars. I could sell it and give my dad the money so he could start his business.

  Everybody would be happy.

  EVEN THOUGH BOTH OF THE BASEBALL CARDS WERE SIGNED and probably worth a lot of money, I was feeling a little depressed after my visit from Bobby Thomson. I didn’t know exactly why.

  Then, as I looked at Uncle Wilbur’s old clothes hanging from my doorknob, I realized what it was. I wanted to go back to 1951. After getting permission from my mom and doing all that research and preparation, I was looking forward to this adventure. I felt like I was all dressed up with no place to go.

  I pulled out the box score from the game, which I had photocopied at the library. A box score is an amazing little thing, when you think about it. Without a single sentence, it tells the whole story of a game, right down to the attendance and the names of the umpires. Sometimes I go to the library and dig up newspapers on microfilm just to read the box scores of baseball games from decades past.

  I was struck by the names of the guys who played in this famous game. Stanky, Mays, Maglie, Irvin, and Dark on the Giants. Robinson, Reese, Snider, Furillo, Newcombe, and Hodges on the Dodgers. I knew those names better than I knew the names of guys who are playing Major League Baseball today. Half of them made it into the Hall of Fame. Then, of course, there were Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca. And who could forget Leo Durocher, the famous manager of the Giants?

  October 3, 1951

  A thought popped into my head: What if I went back to 1951 and just watched the game?

  Up until this point, whenever I traveled through time I always had some mission I hoped to accomplish. I wanted to see with my own eyes whether or not Babe Ruth really called his famous “called shot” home run. I wanted to stop Ted Williams from joining the Marines and missing four years of his baseball career. I wanted to prevent Roberto Clemente from getting on the plane that was going to crash and kill him. I always had an important reason to go back in time.

  What if I had no mission at all? What was to prevent me from going back in time just for the fun of it? It would be cool to witness the Shot Heard Round the World—the most famous home run in baseball history.

  I could be a spectator for a change. A tourist. I could just buy a ticket and walk into the ballpark like anybody else. Nobody would ever know. What would be the harm in that?

  I decided to do it. I wouldn’t try to interfere with the game at all. I’d just watch. This could be a little birthday present to myself.

  It would be unwieldy to take my wooden plaque with the two cards on it back in time with me. What would I do with the plaque when I got to 1951? No, it would be smarter to take a card off the plaque and just bring that one card with me.

  One problem—the cards were glued to the wood.

  I tiptoed downstairs and rooted around until I found a single-edge razor blade and a pair of rubber gloves. I put on the gloves and carefully—very carefully—separated the Ralph Branca card from the wood. It wasn’t easy. That thing had been in place for a long time, probably before collecting baseball cards became a popular hobby. Nobody in their right mind would glue cards to a wooden plaque today. They’d put them in a plastic holder.

  It took about ten minutes of hard work to remove the card from the wood. It was in okay shape. Not mint, but okay. I gathered all the stuff my mom had put on my bed—the umbrella, the food, the Band-Aids, and so on.

  I was ready. I knew that soon after I took off the rubber gloves and held the card in my hand, things would start happening. I’d get that tingling se
nsation in my fingertips.

  But wait. I had the vague sense that I was forgetting something. After all the preparation I had done, something was missing. What was it? I searched my memory and scolded myself. I should have made a to-do list.

  Oh yeah! A new pack of cards! Just as the 1951 Ralph Branca card was going to be my ticket to the past, I would need a new card to get me back to the present day. I went to my desk and fished through the drawers until I found an unopened pack of cards.

  Whew! If I hadn’t remembered that and went back to 1951 without it, I would have been stuck in the past for the rest of my life.

  I gathered the stuff on my bed again and made myself comfortable. This wasn’t scary. No, not anymore. I had done this so many times now that I wasn’t afraid of what was going to happen. It was more anticipation.

  No matter how much I had prepared, no matter how much I had researched, it was impossible to predict exactly what was going to happen when I arrived at the Polo Grounds. I would have to be ready for anything.

  I took a deep breath and removed the rubber gloves. I picked up the Branca card in my right hand. Closing my eyes, I thought about 1951. Mentally, I willed myself not to think about the Korean War. I didn’t want to end up in Korea, that was for sure. I’d already been there, with Ted Williams, and almost got killed. No, I wanted to go to New York City.

  Take me to 1951, I thought.

  I fingered the money in my pocket that my mom had given me. Maybe I’ll buy a candy bar when I get to New York, I thought. Back in 1951, you could get a candy bar for a nickel. Everything was cheaper back then. I could buy just about anything I wanted.

  Soon, I had the sense that something was happening to me. The buzzy feeling came to my fingertips, the way it always does. It was gentle at first, like a cat purring, or a string on a guitar vibrating. It felt nice.

  I knew what was going to happen next. The tingling sensation was going to move, to spread. It went from the tips of my right fingers up my hand, across my wrist, and throughout my whole arm. I felt like my arm had fallen asleep because I’d slept on it the wrong way.

  And then, while I was thinking about that, I felt my whole chest vibrating. I had reached the point of no return now. Even if I dropped the card at that moment, it was too late to reverse what I had started. I was going back in time whether I wanted to or not. I hoped that I hadn’t screwed anything up in my preparation.

  What if the Branca card wasn’t really from 1951? What if I arrived in January instead of October? There were so many things that could go wrong.

  Too late to worry about that stuff. My whole body was tingling now. What a feeling! Suddenly it was like I was twenty pounds lighter, and then fifty pounds lighter. It was as if I was becoming weightless. I felt like I could just rise up off the bed like a balloon and float around the room, the way astronauts do in zero gravity. That’s how light I felt.

  I fought the temptation to open my eyes and watch what I knew was going to happen next. It would be so cool to watch myself disappear, but maybe a little frightening at the same time. So I kept my eyes closed.

  Take me to 1951, I kept repeating to myself. Take me to 1951.

  And then, I vanished.

  WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, I WAS HIT BY A BLAST OF BRIGHT sunlight that forced me to squint and turn my head away. It was morning, that was for sure. I could tell by the angle of the sun in the sky. It was probably around nine o’clock, maybe even earlier.

  I checked to see if all my body parts were in the right places, and that I had all the stuff I had brought with me. Check, check, check. Nothing missing.

  I looked around. Ticket booths. Gate D. So far, so good. I was at the Polo Grounds.

  The Branca card was still in my hand, luckily. It was worth a lot of money, and I didn’t want to lose it. I slipped it into my shirt pocket for safekeeping. The umbrella and the other stuff, I didn’t need. I left it all on a bench for somebody else to pick up. Mom might be mad, but I like to travel light. I’d tell her I lost it.

  For once in my life, it looked like I had landed exactly where I wanted to be. Usually, when I went back in time, I landed someplace near where I wanted to be. Then I had to find the way to my destination. Time travel would probably never be an exact science. But this time, things were looking better than usual.

  There weren’t any people around, but that didn’t surprise me. Day games usually start around one o’clock in the afternoon. The players wouldn’t be arriving for a few hours. I knew that they had night games in 1951, but most baseball games still took place during the day.

  I was pretty sure I had the right year, but I wanted to make sure I had arrived on the right day. The easiest way to find out was to look at a newspaper.

  There weren’t any newsstands around, but there was the next best thing—a garbage can. You can almost always find a newspaper in a garbage can, especially back in the old days before they had recycling.

  I spotted a can near the corner and went over to it. I rooted around until I found a copy of the New York Times. . . .

  Okay, good. It was probably yesterday’s paper. Everything was working out perfectly. After eleven trips, I was finally getting the hang of this time travel thing. Maybe my luck had finally changed.

  I scanned the Times for a minute. It cost just five cents in 1951, I noticed. The first parking meters were being installed in Brooklyn. The heavyweight champion Joe Louis had signed a contract to fight Rocky Marciano. RCA was inviting the public to see an early test of color television. But I wasn’t about to waste my time reading the paper. I wanted to get inside the ballpark.

  Standing right next to it, I thought the Polo Grounds somehow looked different from the other times I had been there. I pulled on a door, but it was locked. I tried another one. No luck. I looked for a window I might be able to climb into. But it was a solid brick wall. It occurred to me that maybe I was in the back of the ballpark. I walked all the way around to the front and backed away from the wall until I saw this. . . .

  What?! Yankee Stadium isn’t even in Manhattan. It’s in the Bronx. Everybody knows that. That’s why the Yankees are called “The Bronx Bombers.” I needed to be in Manhattan. What was I doing here? Somehow, I had messed up, again.

  Across the street, I spotted a guy in overalls pushing a big broom. He was on a walkway next to the river. I ran over to him.

  “Excuse me,” I said in my most polite voice. “Can you tell me how to get to the Polo Grounds?”

  The guy stopped sweeping and looked up at me with disgust.

  “You from outta town?” he asked me. “Or just stupid?”

  He turned around and pointed across the river. There was a ballpark on the other side, and a big hill behind it.

  I didn’t know that the Polo Grounds and Yankee Stadium were so close to each other.

  Of course! Yankee Stadium and the Polo Grounds were right next to each other on either side of the Harlem River. I knew that. I had forgotten.

  “I’m from out of town,” I said, running off. “Thanks, mister!”

  “Fuhgetaboutit,” he mumbled.

  One of the things I like about New York City is that it’s easy to get around, because the streets are numbered. There was a small bridge that crossed over the Harlem River into Manhattan. A little sign said it was the Macombs Dam Bridge, and it opened in 1895. That was the year Babe Ruth was born, I remembered. I jogged across the bridge.

  It ended with a fork that led onto 155th Street. I walked two blocks north to 157th, and there it was. . . .

  The Polo Grounds.

  It wasn’t a beautiful ballpark, like Wrigley Field, Shibe Park, and some of the other places I had visited. But this was the ballpark I remembered from my previous trips. I ran across the street and peered through the chain-link fence. The place looked empty.

  I figured I would just hang out at the front gate until somebody showed up and the ticket booths opened. There was a lot of time to kill. I wished I had brought a portable video game system, or something
to read. Waiting is boring.

  That’s when I remembered the little video camera that my grandmother had given me for my birthday. I had been planning to bring it along and shoot some video from 1951, but I must have left it on the desk in my room. Bummer!

  I kept looking through the fence and thinking that anybody could sneak into this place. There were no surveillance cameras or anything. They really should have some security. Any lunatic could waltz right into the Polo Grounds and plant a bomb, start a fire, or who knows what? I guess they didn’t have to worry about terrorism and stuff like that back in 1951.

  Eventually, I got tired of waiting. YOLO, right? You only live once. I dug my sneaker in and hopped the fence. If anybody stopped me, I figured, I would just play dumb and buy a ticket later. I had the money my mom had given me.

  But nobody stopped me. Nobody was around. Not even the groundskeeper. I had the run of the place. It was like a ghost town. I hopped another fence inside and a few seconds later I was climbing over a short wall near the third-base line to get right on the field.

  Have you ever been in a ballpark all by yourself? It’s sort of an eerie, beautiful feeling. I felt like a neutron bomb had wiped out the human race, and I was the only living person left on Earth.

  I ran out to second base and spun around slowly to see the Polo Grounds as a panorama. I pinched myself to make sure it was real. Here I was, standing in a place that didn’t exist anymore. I knew the Polo Grounds had been torn down in the 1960s. In my time, there was an apartment building complex on the site. For that matter, Yankee Stadium had been torn down, too. But that was just a few years ago. Neither of these great ballparks was with us anymore. Probably most of the buildings from 1951 had been torn down a long time ago.

  At the Polo Grounds, the center-field wall was nearly twice as far as the foul lines.

  The Polo Grounds was pretty much the way I remembered it from my previous trips. It’s shaped like a giant horseshoe, with the open end at center field. It was actually possible to hit a home run that traveled only 260 feet down the foul lines, and yet you could blast a shot 450 feet to center field that would be a fly ball out. It didn’t seem fair.