Field of Screams (10 page)

But would it be enough? Would it change history?

And would that save the team and get me home?

T
he bottom of the ninth didn't start out well. Wade was tired, I guess. Anyway, the first Wildcat batter—that skinny second baseman with the glasses—hit a triple on the first pitch.

I winced. Not good. Definitely not good.

The next batter singled. So did the one after that. But at least I was able to keep the runner at third from going home.

The bases were loaded. Just the way Ernie described it.

The next batter stepped up. He hefted the bat with his left hand.

My stomach did a flip. “This is it,” I said. “This is where it all happens!”

“Shut up and look sharp,”
Gibson warned in my head.

I was too scared to get annoyed.

I hugged the third baseline, but the rest of the team shifted over toward right field. “Move it, Buddy!” Coach Johnson yelled.

I ignored him.

“Buddy!” he yelled again.

I waved at him, but I didn't budge.

Coach called time and ran over to me.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

Oh, boy.

“I'm playing third,” I replied, trying to sound innocent.

“I see. Are you playing third on my team?”

I gulped. “Uh—yes, sir.”

“So why don't you move where I tell you to move?” he barked.

“He's going to push the ball to the left, Coach. I just know it,” I argued.

“Oh, you know it, do you?” Coach snapped. “How do you know? Do you have a crystal ball or something?”

“Kind of,” I mumbled.

“Oh, for Pete's sake.” Coach sounded disgusted. “If you're not moving toward right in three seconds, I'll take you out of the game!”

I groaned, but I moved. What else could I do? I
stood there halfway to second, gazing tensely at that third base line.

The runners took their leads. The guy on second took such a big jump, he ended up only a few feet away from me.

The second the pitcher threw, I sprinted to the right.

WHAP! The batter cracked a line drive straight down the baseline.

“Go!”
Gibson yelled in my head.

The ball screamed through the air. I'd never reach it! I'd never make it.

But then something swelled inside me. It couldn't get by. It
wouldn't
get by!

I leapt through the air. My arm stretched out so far, I thought my shoulder was going to pop.

“I got it!” I screamed.

The ball hit the tip of my glove.

And stuck. I squeezed my fingers around it.

One out!

It had seemed such a sure base hit, the runner was already halfway home. He turned and tore back toward third. From the ground, I reached out and slapped the base with my glove.

Double play. Two out!

Feet skidded behind me. Still flat on the ground, I rolled back toward second. The runner from second spun to go back. I rolled twice in the dirt and tagged the heel of his shoe.

Three out!

A triple play!

The game was over. And we won!

The crowd in the bleachers erupted in a huge roar. I lay there, staring up at the sky.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes!”

My teammates raced to me from all directions. They pulled me to my feet and then hoisted me onto their shoulders. We paraded around the field as the crowd cheered.

Boog was jumping up and down like an idiot. “An unassisted triple play! Did you see that?” he yelled to the whole world.

I was still dazed from what I did. What
we
did. Buddy Gibson and I. An unassisted triple play!

I went through the trophy ceremony in a daze of happiness and relief. In fact, it wasn't until I was on my second burger at the barbecue that it hit me.

Hold on a second!

“What am I still doing here?” I gasped.

“What's wrong?”
Gibson asked inside my head.

“I'm still here,” I muttered. “That's what's wrong! On TV the time traveler gets to leave after he does what he's supposed to do. What's the deal?”

Boog, who was standing nearby, turned and stared at me.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked.

“Uh—no,” I said quickly. “I just said, ‘What a meal!' There's so much to eat!”

“Yeah. Isn't it great?” Boog laughed and stuffed half a hot dog into his mouth.

“Maybe this doesn't work like TB,”
Gibson suggested.

“TV,” I said under my breath.

“Whatever. What I'm saying is, maybe you can't go home.”
Gibson's voice was unusually quiet, for him.
“Maybe you're stuck here. With me.”

“You think?” My heart sank. “No. It can't be. There must be some delay or something. That's all.”

“I hope so,”
he said.
“But just in case—are you any good at schoolwork?”

I had to laugh.

Boog gave me a strange look. “What's so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I answered.

“Come on, boys. Loading up,” Coach Johnson called.

We all climbed on the bus. Soon it was whizzing down the road and we were on our way home. Everybody but me.

I closed my eyes. Maybe I even drifted off. Because I don't remember how long we'd been on the bus when it stalled.

Hrrrn, hrrnn, hrrrrrnnn,
the starter moaned.

I sat up, bleary-eyed. “What is it?” I asked Boog.

“The bus is stalled,” he answered.

The noise of the starter continued. “Don't flood it,” Coach Johnson advised.

I peered sleepily out the window. Then I stared in horror.

A double thread of track ran below the bus and curved sharply to the right.

We were stalled on the railroad tracks!

My plan—it didn't work! We were all going to die anyway!

“We have to get out!” I yelled.
“Now!”

“Simmer down, son,” Ernie called. “It'll start in a minute.”

“No. The train. The train!” I wailed. “It's going to hit us. Why won't you—” I broke off. Listening.

Oh, no.
No!

The train's rumble came right through the floor of the bus.

“The train! It's coming!” Johnny Beans screeched.

“Oh, no!” Coach shouted. “Ernie, get us out of here!”

The starter whined. I could see the light from the train now.

“Let us out!” someone screamed.

But there was no time. The train barreled around the curve. Its light blared in my face.

We were done for!

“N
o!” I yelled.

It couldn't be! Not after I'd been through so much!

HRRRN! HRRRRN!
The engine whined. The train roared closer. Its whistle shrieked.

Then the engine caught. The bus lurched and surged forward.

WHAM! Metal crunched as the train clipped the rear corner of the bus. We shot forward as if the bus were a rocket.

Ernie struggled with the wheel. The bus careened crazily back and forth across the road.

“Hold on, everybody!” he bellowed.

We were all yelling and screaming now. The smell of burning rubber filled my nose. I clutched the metal bar across the top of the seat desperately.

Then the bus ran off the road. I lost my grip and went flying. My head crashed against the window.

And that's the last thing I remember.

*   *   *

“Buddy? Buddy? Are you okay?”

I opened my eyes and saw the coach—
my
coach, Mr. Burress—looking down at me. I glimpsed Eve's face over his shoulder. Her mouth hung open so wide, you could have fit a baseball in there.

“All right!” I whispered.

I was back!

Coach Burress helped me to my feet.

“Send in Charlotte to pinch-run,” he called over his shoulder.

“I'm okay. I'll shake it off,” I protested.

“Shake it off? You just got clobbered in the head with a fastball. You're out of this game,” Coach declared firmly.

Coach and Eve led me to the dugout. On the way, I gazed around, drinking in the sights. Red and blue uniforms that didn't look like sacks. Women in jeans instead of dresses. Normal cars.

I was really back!

“So—what did I miss?” I asked Eve, trying to sound casual.

“Miss?” Eve frowned. “You were knocked out for only about fifteen seconds. You didn't miss anything.”

We reached the dugout. Both my mom and dad were there already, hovering. Mom dipped a cloth in
the ice chest and held it to the place where the ball had got me.

“Mom, I'm all right, really,” I told her.

She smoothed my hair back and gave me a worried look. “Are you sure, Buddy?”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “I have a hard head.”

Then I did something really embarrassing. I threw my arms around my mom and dad and hugged them both. Hard.

“My goodness!” Mom sounded surprised. “Thank you, sweetie! What brought that on?”

I flushed. “I don't know,” I mumbled. “I just felt like it.”

Mom glanced at Dad and raised her eyebrows. “Maybe we'd better take him to the doctor after all.”

After I talked them out of that, I sat on the bench and watched Oneiga clobber us. Same old lousy Shadyside team.

Boy, was I glad to see them!

* * *

By the time we left the ball field though, I was starting to wonder. Everything here was so real. So normal. And even though I spent three days in 1948, it seemed that no time passed at all in the present.

Did I really travel in time?

Or did I just imagine it all?

Maybe the whole adventure happened in my mind!

I puzzled over it as Dad drove us toward Shadyside.
Eve was riding with us—her parents couldn't make it to the game.

We stopped off at the 7-Eleven on Village Road. Dad ran in for sodas. When he came back to the car, he tossed a couple of packs of baseball cards onto the backseat.

“Maybe that'll help make up for losing the game,” he said.

I smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Sanders,” Eve echoed.

I picked up one of the packets and tore off the plastic wrapper. Eve leaned over to watch. “Get anything good?”

My mouth dropped in shock as I spotted the top card. It was a special issue on shiny, stiff paper with a gold border. A special Hall of Famer card.

Staring out at me was Buddy Gibson!

He looked older, of course. But it was definitely him. No way could I make a mistake about that. The caption said he played third base for the Yankees in the sixties.

“Oh, man!” Eve exclaimed. “A Buddy Gibson! You're so lucky. Those things are pretty rare.”

I studied the card with a pounding heart.

So it wasn't a dream at all!

I
did
go back in time. I
did
change the past. No one died in that bus crash. And Buddy Gibson went on to the major leagues. To the Hall of Fame!

“Buddy Gibson.” Eve sighed. “The most famous person who ever came from Shadyside. I sure would like to meet him. But he probably wouldn't have any time for a couple of kids.”

I grinned. “I have a feeling he'd find time for us.”

Because, thanks to me, Buddy Gibson had all the time in the world!

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