Roberto & Me (11 page)

BERNARD AND I LANDED IN A FIELD. IT WAS A BASEBALL
field, but it took me a moment or two to figure that out. It wasn't a nicely mowed and groomed field like the ones I play on. There was no backstop, no fences, and no bleachers. It was more like a vacant lot.

There was a piece of cardboard where first base would be. Somebody's shirt was second base. An old shoe was third. And home plate was a garbage can cover.

“Are you okay?” Bernard asked, brushing the dirt off his pants.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said.

A bunch of boys were throwing high pops to one another in the outfield. They seemed to be about my age. I looked around. There was a house in the distance, a barn, a silo, and some trees—but not much else. We were out in the country somewhere.

What was going on? I looked up to the sky to see if there were any cars or people flying around with jet packs. There was nothing up there. Not even planes. Something must have gone wrong. Well, that figured. Something
always
goes wrong. Why is it that I never land where I want to land?

“Didn't you say you live in Chicago?” I asked Bernard.

“I do,” he replied. “This
is
Chicago.”

“Where's the Sears Tower?” I asked. I remembered reading that the Sears Tower was one of the tallest buildings in the world, and that it was in Chicago.

“It's gone,” Bernard said. “It was gone before I was born.”

I wanted to press him for details, but the boys in the outfield came running over. They all had on ratty old clothes like Bernard. Some of them were barefoot. I was glad I had just thrown on a pair of jeans. If I had gotten dressed up, I would have looked like I was going to a wedding compared to these guys.

“Hey, Bernard!” one of the boys shouted. “Where were you? Let's play ball. Who's the kid?”

“This is my gr—” Bernard began, but I interrupted him.

“Cousin,” I said. “Joe Stoshack. I'm from Louisville. Call me Stosh.”

I didn't know if people still shook hands with each other in 2080. Bernard had told me that a lot had
changed in 70 years. For all I knew, they pulled each other's ears or had some other bizarre greeting. But they all came over to say hello and shake my hand, just like back home. They seemed like good guys.

We divided into two teams, and I was put on Bernard's team. There were only enough for seven players per team, so everybody agreed to having one roving outfielder. We were up first. The other team ran out to the field.

As I watched the pitcher warm up, I realized how hot it was outside. It must have been close to a hundred degrees. Ordinarily, I try not to go out when it's that hot. I'd rather stay inside with the air-conditioning on. But nobody else seemed to mind. It must be the middle of a summer heat wave, I figured. The sun was high in the sky.

“The new kid gets to bat first,” one of the guys said.

“Go get 'em, Gramps,” Bernard whispered in my ear.

There was no bat rack, just a garbage can with six bats in it. All of the bats were made of wood. I picked up one of the smaller ones. It felt heavy.

“No metal bats anymore?” I asked Bernard.

“Nah, we're baseball purists,” he replied. “This is the way the game was meant to be played.”

I took some practice swings, choking up a few inches on the bat. With a heavier bat, I knew I would have to get it moving a little quicker to make contact.

“Come on, Stosh, hammer it!” somebody on my team hollered.

“Hit one into the next century!” Bernard yelled.

For all I knew, in 70 years, pitchers might have developed some new trick pitches that would totally fool me. I decided to let the first two go by before taking a swing. That's what I did, and the catcher called both of them strikes. The second pitch looked a little outside to me, but I didn't argue about it. I didn't want to look like a jerk.

I also didn't want them to think I couldn't hit. So I was determined to take a rip at the next pitch if it was anywhere close to the plate.

“Three strikes and you're out, Stosh!” somebody yelled. “Protect the plate.”

Well, at least the rules of baseball were the same. It would have been embarrassing if they had changed it to four strikes or something like that.

The pitcher went into the standard windup and threw the next one right down the pipe. I hacked at it and slapped a hard grounder to the left side of the infield.

I didn't look to see if the shortstop or third baseman fielded the ball. I just put my head down and dug for first. Safe by a mile! There was no throw.

But when I crossed the first-base bag and turned around, everyone was in hysterics. I mean, they were falling all over one another with laughter. It was like the funniest thing they had ever seen. Tears were running down their faces.

“What?” I asked. “What did I do?”

“Is that how they play ball in Louisville?” one guy said, doubled over.

Bernard came jogging over to me. He put his arm around my shoulder.

“Uh, Grandpa,” he whispered. “There's one thing I forgot to mention. They changed the rules slightly. You don't run to first base anymore. You're supposed to run to
third
. Then second. Then first. And home. Like that.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief. “You run around the bases
backward
? That's dumb! Why did they change the rules?”

“For the novelty of it, I guess,” Bernard said. “I don't know, to tell you the truth. It happened about 40 years ago.”

Everybody was still doubled over laughing, and my face was probably as red as a fire engine. But the guys were fair about it. They let me go back and have a do over because I didn't know the rules.

The count was still 0-2. I dug in at the plate—or the garbage can cover, anyway—and gripped the bat tightly. I was determined not to make a fool of myself again. The pitcher asked if I was ready; and when I nodded my head, the ball suddenly came flying out from behind his back. He didn't even wind up. The next thing I knew, the ball had plopped into the catcher's mitt. I never got the bat off my shoulder.

“Strike three!” yelled the catcher. “You're out!”

I trudged back and sat down next to Bernard.

“Is that pitch legal?” I asked.

“We play by jungle rules,” he told me. “Anything goes.”

Jungle rules? I never heard of anything like that.

It was okay, though. The game was still fun. Baseball is baseball. I just had to get used to a few changes. For instance, one kid on each team was the “designated fielder.” That meant he would play the field but not come to bat.

When the other team was up, I borrowed a glove and they put me at shortstop—I mean, lowstop. When the first grounder came my way, I threw the ball to first base out of instinct. Everybody fell all over themselves laughing again. But after an inning or two, I got used to the new rules. I didn't get any hits, but I made a couple of nice plays at “low,” and we were winning by three runs when some of the guys said they had to go home. So we ended the game there.

Everybody said good-bye and walked or rode their bikes down the dirt road leading away from the field. Nobody's parents came to pick them up, I noticed. Bernard gave me a rag to wipe the sweat off my face.

“Come on,” he said when everybody was gone. “I'll show you around.”

At last! Finally, I would get to see Bernard's cool future stuff. I figured that his cell phone was probably the size of a fingernail and his iPod held every song ever recorded.

“So, how come the Cubs and the White Sox became
one team?” I asked as we walked down the dirt road toward Bernard's house.

“There was a tornado,” he explained. “A big one. It pretty much picked Wrigley Field up off the ground and dumped it into Lake Michigan. A lot of people died that day.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Around 2055,” he said. “There have been other changes too. The Florida Marlins are gone. Tampa Bay Rays too. And the Cubs and the Sox weren't the only teams to merge. The Mets and the Yankees became one team in 2066.”

“Don't tell me,” I said. “They became the New York Mankees.”

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Lucky guess.”

We approached a field where a man was walking alongside a plow that was being pulled by two horses. Bernard waved to him and told me it was his father.

The future wasn't at all what I expected.
Library of Congress

Bernard's house was small, and it wasn't in great shape. Some of the shingles were missing from the roof, and there were boards over a few of the windows. I guess his family was poor. Before he pulled open the screen door, Bernard took me aside on the porch, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“I need to tell you something. My parents don't know what you and I can do with baseball cards,” he said quietly. “And I'm not going to tell them who you are.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing, I didn't know if the baseball card was going to work,” he said. “And I didn't know if I would even be able to find you in Louisville or bring you back here with me. The other thing is, well, my dad is your grandson.”

“Yeah, it might be a little weird,” I agreed. Grownups sometimes freak out when the world they've become used to is suddenly turned upside down. Kids are more adaptable.

We entered through the kitchen door, and Bernard's mom was in there, slicing carrots at the sink. She smiled. Bernard's dad—my grandson—came in though the other door.

“Mom, Dad,” Bernard said, “I just met this kid. His name is Joe.”

I couldn't help but stare at my grandson. He was about my dad's age, but he had long hair tied in a ponytail. His face was wrinkled and tanned, as if he spent a lot of time out in the sun. He looked tired.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag before he shook mine. “Joe, huh? My grandfather's name was Joe. I don't remember him, though. He died when I was little.”

I gulped.

“Nice to meet you too,” I mumbled awkwardly.

“Will you join us for dinner, Joe?” Bernard's mom asked. “We're having spaghetti.”

I looked at Bernard, and he nodded.

“Uh, sure,” I said. “I guess so.”

“You boys be ready in a half hour,” she told us. “And wash your hands. You're filthy!”

“C'mon,” Bernard said, pulling me through the kitchen, “I want to show you some stuff.”

Bernard gave me a tour of the house. What a disappointment! There was no cool futuristic stuff at all. In fact, they didn't even have the stuff I have in
my
house. There was no TV or DVD, no computer, no electric lights or telephones. In the kitchen, there was no microwave, no dishwasher, no toaster. They didn't even have air-conditioning. I was astonished. So much for science fiction.

We went outside and headed for the barn. I didn't want to hurt Bernard's feelings by saying how poor his family seemed to be. But I was genuinely perplexed. Even poor people in my time lived better than this.

“So, what's a typical day like for you?” I asked, trying to be diplomatic.

“Well,” he said, “I get up in the morning to feed the
horses and milk the cows. Then I gather the eggs and feed the chickens before school. After school, there are chores, of course. In the early spring, we prepare the field for planting. In the summer, we tend the crops and make hay. Late summer and fall is harvesttime. And in the winter, we do canning—y'know, fruits and vegetables.”

The
clop-clop
of hooves interrupted him. Somebody went past the window on a horse.

“I know this isn't what you expected,” Bernard continued. “I'm sorry to let you down.”

“No, it's fine,” I said. “I just thought you would have…a lot of cool stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bernard said with a sigh. “But when you get something new—like a present—you're really happy for an hour, maybe. After that, it doesn't mean much. You start thinking about the next new thing you want to get. And it just goes on and on like that. I decided that stuff doesn't make you happy.
People
make you happy.”