Ted & Me (5 page)

“The !@#$%! flaps don't work,” he said. “The wheels won't come down. If one of the wings comes off, we're finished. You holding on to anything, Junior?”

“Yeah.”

The altimeter was dropping. 7,500 feet. 5,600 feet. 3,200 feet. 2,000 feet.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I didn't have to sit there and let fate determine what was going to happen to me. I had a pack of new baseball cards with me! I could go back to my own time whenever I wanted. Holding on to the handle with one hand, I used the other one to fish around in my pockets. But I couldn't find it.

Looking out the canopy window in front, I could see what looked to be a landing strip in the distance. There were rows and rows of other planes on the
ground. The only other plane in the air was the one that was escorting us down.

The pilot of that plane signaled for Ted to lower his wheels. But when Ted pushed a button on the dashboard to do that, there was an explosion that shook the whole plane.

“!@#$%!” Ted muttered.

“What happened?” I yelled.

“One of the !@#$%! wheel doors blew off!” he yelled back to me. “When we reduced our speed, it must have made the fuel pool up in the wheel wells.”

There was a whooshing sound behind me; and when I turned around, all I could see were flames.

“We're on fire!” I yelled. “We've got to eject!”

“Too late for that,” Ted shouted back. “We're gonna have to crash-land this bucket of bolts, Junior.”

“I'm gonna die!” I screamed. “Of all the ways you could die! I never thought—”

“Will you shut up?” Ted yelled. “I'm trying to concentrate! We've got about 11,000 feet of runway to slide on.”

“Is that long enough?” I asked.

“We're about to find out.”

He looked calm, totally calm and focused. I grabbed the handles tighter. Even if I could find my baseball cards now, it might be too late to use one. We were coming in low, just barely clearing a fence that surrounded the base.

“Here goes nothin'!” Ted hollered as we were about to touch ground.

If the speedometer was working properly, we hit the runway at 225 miles per hour. It felt nothing like the few other times I had been on a plane. With no wheels, we hit the ground belly first, with a bump that bounced me a foot off the floor. I was still holding the handles on the sides. There was the awful sound of metal scraping against pavement. Everything was shaking. My teeth were vibrating in my mouth. I was afraid they were going to fall out.

Ted mashed his foot on the brake and was pulling on the stick, but it wasn't doing anything. We just had to let physics run its course—deceleration, momentum, and all those laws Newton figured out centuries ago.

Pieces of the plane were flying off as we scraped along the runway. I could see flames, sparks, smoke, and debris out the back, because that part of the plane wasn't there anymore. In the distance, I heard the siren from fire trucks speeding toward the runway.

“Stop, you dirty !@#$%!” Ted was shouting. “When is this dirty son of a !@#$%! gonna stop? If there's a Christ, this is the time old Teddy Ballgame needs you!”

It felt like we were sliding along the ground
forever
. I was hoping and praying that we wouldn't run out of runway.

In front of us, I could see rice paddies and a Korean village. What a stupid place for there to be a village! Women and children were running for their
lives to get out of the way.

We slid off the runway, a little to the left. By that time, we had slowed down quite a bit, and the dirt and grass slowed us down even more. But we were still moving when Ted pulled an emergency lever to pop the cockpit canopy open. It flew off behind us. I felt the rush of air on my face.

“Get out, Junior!” Ted shouted. “There still might be enough fuel left in this junker to blow!”

The plane—or what was left of it, anyway—finally came to a stop just past the end of the runway. Ted somersaulted out of the hatch and rolled off to the right, out of sight.

Acrid smoke filled my nose. The whole plane was in flames. The sleeve of my shirt was on fire! I jumped out, rolled a few times, and landed in a ditch on the opposite side of the plane from Ted.

I had survived.

As I lay in the ditch catching my breath, I planned my next move.
I could stay here,
I thought. Ted might take care of me. But what would be the point? It was 1953. I couldn't stop Pearl Harbor, because it was already years in the past. And I couldn't talk Ted out of joining the marines, because he was obviously already
in
the marines. I might as well try to get home.

I fumbled around in my pockets again for my baseball cards.
There
they were! I ripped the pack open and pulled out a card. Fire trucks had arrived on the other side of the plane, and somebody was shooting
foam stuff to snuff out the flames. But nobody could see me in the ditch.

I closed my eyes and tried to put what happened out of my mind. I thought about going home. Back to the twenty-first century. Back to my house, where I would be safe. My own time.

It didn't take long. Soon I was feeling the tingling sensation in my fingertips. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was working. The buzzy feeling worked its way up my arm, across my chest, and down the other side. I began to feel light-headed, and I knew from experience that soon I would be gone.

And then I disappeared.

T
HE NEXT THING
I
KNEW
I
WAS FLYING ACROSS MY LIVING
room, tripping over the coffee table, and almost slamming headfirst into the TV. I swerved out of the way at the last instant, landing on the floor next to the couch.

I was all messed up. Nothing was broken as far as I could tell. But I had scrapes on my arms, and I was sore all over. My head hurt.

I looked up and saw my mom and that FBI agent, Mr. Pluto. He was holding his briefcase; but he dropped it when he saw me, and they both came running over. My mom had tears on her face.

“Joey!” she screamed. “You're safe!”

“I'm sorry, Joseph,” said Agent Pluto. “I came over as soon as I realized—”

His voice trailed off because my mom had stopped crying suddenly. She was examining me very
closely, sniffing me.

“Joseph, you smell like smoke,” she said sternly. “Have you been smoking?”

“Smoking?!” I said. “Yes, of
course
I was smoking! That's what you do when you're on
fire
!”

I turned to Agent Pluto and just about lost it.

“You didn't send me to 1941!” I yelled at him. “You sent me to 1953! Did you know that Ted Williams was a fighter pilot in the Korean War? I was in a plane with him! We got hit by anti-aircraft fire and had to crash-land!”

“I'm terribly sorry,” Agent Pluto said, and he looked like he meant it. My mother was back in crying mode again.

“It was the
wrong year
!” I shouted at Pluto. “The wrong war! I risked my life! You almost got me killed! Don't you research this stuff in advance before you send people out on a dangerous mission? You're supposed to be the
FBI
!”

“I accept full responsibility for the error,” Agent Pluto said, trying to calm me down. “We're not infallible. As soon as I realized that I had given you the wrong baseball card, I rushed over here. But you had already left….”

“You're !@#$%! right you gave me the wrong card!” I shouted.

“Joseph!” my mother said. “Where did you learn such language?”

“From Ted Williams,” I told her.

It took a few minutes for me to regain my composure.
I had been through a lot that day. Mom went to get me a glass of milk and came back with a plate filled with cookies too. I have to admit, the milk and cookies made me feel better. Mom got an ice pack from the freezer to put on my scrapes and bruises. The three of us sat down on the couch.

Agent Pluto took a card out of his jacket pocket and placed it carefully on the coffee table. This one looked more like a traditional old-time baseball card, with a cheesy illustration on the front….

The 1941 card.

“
This
is the 1941 Ted Williams card,” he said.

“You're sure now?” my mother asked, shooting him a look as she picked up the card to examine it.

“We've researched this card extensively to make sure it's authentic,” Agent Pluto told us. “It was produced by a company called Gum Inc. and was part of their Play Ball series. The series was discontinued when World War II started.”

“Why?” my mom asked.

“Every scrap of paper was needed for the war effort,” he replied. “So no baseball cards were produced during that time. This card would have been sold as a penny pack. A kid would buy a wax paper pack for a penny and get a baseball card along with a square piece of gum.”

“I wonder how much it's worth today,” I asked.

“Hundreds,” Agent Pluto replied, “especially the Williams and DiMaggio cards.”

I knew that 1941 wasn't
just
the year Ted Williams hit .406. It was also the year Joe DiMaggio had his famous 56-game hitting streak. Neither record has been seriously challenged in over seventy years.

“So this card should work?” my mother asked.

“It will take Joseph to
sometime
in 1941,” said Agent Pluto. “We can't say exactly when, of course. But we know Pearl Harbor was late in the year: December 7th. So chances are Joseph will arrive in 1941
before
the attack. That will give him time to warn the president.”

“I'm going to be very honest with you,” my mother
said, a worried look on her face. “I don't feel good about this. Maybe what happened the first time was an omen. What if something
else
goes wrong next time? What if Joey lands at Pearl Harbor
exactly
on December 7th, and planes are dropping bombs all around him?”

“I would advise Joseph to abort the mission if he arrives on or after December 7th,” Agent Pluto said. “He should just pull out one of his new baseball cards and return home immediately.”

The two of them were talking back and forth as if I wasn't even there.

“What happens if I open my eyes and I'm inside a plane again?” I asked. “Or in a submarine or something?”

“I realize this is still a dangerous mission, and both of you have every right to be concerned,” Agent Pluto said, turning to face me. “That's why I went back to the Bureau with a special request, which my superior granted. Here's the deal. We're willing to offer you a reward this time if the mission is carried out successfully.”

He went over to get his briefcase and put it on the coffee table. He popped the latches and opened the top.

The briefcase was filled with cash—stacks of twenty-dollar bills.

Mom and I both flinched. She let out a whistle. I had never seen so much money in my life.

“How much is it?” my mother asked.

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Agent Pluto said, lowering his voice as if anyone else could hear. “If Joseph is able to complete the mission and warn the president about the Pearl Harbor attack in advance, this money will belong to him. It should cover a good part of his college education, I would think. I know that's a concern of yours, Mrs. Stoshack.”

I picked up a stack of bills and ran my finger along the edge like it was a flip book. It felt good, and it smelled like money.

“But if my son dies, he won't be going to college,” my mother said, “will he, Mr. Pluto?”

“I suppose there is a very slim chance of that happening,” he admitted.

“You're a big boy, Joey,” my mother said. “I leave it up to you.”

 

I knew one thing for sure. This time I was going to do my homework. After Agent Pluto left, I went to my room and studied the newspaper articles Flip had given me. I leafed through the baseball books on my shelf. I went online and learned a few things I didn't know about Ted Williams.

He was really young in 1941, I discovered. His birthday was August 30, 1918, so during the summer of 1941 he would be turning 23 years old. A baby, practically. He was only in his third year in the majors when he hit .406. He was so sharp that season that he only struck out 27 times. That's about once a week.

Hitting over .400 was a big deal in 1941, and Williams's accomplishment would be even bigger today. I learned that since 1941 the rule was changed so that a sacrifice fly was no longer counted as an at-bat. Ted had a number of sac flies that season, and if he was playing under today's rules, his average would have been even higher: .411.

I went to Google Images and found hundreds of pictures of Ted Williams. I wanted to get a good look at him so I would recognize him as soon as I saw him in 1941.

I also read the article Agent Pluto had given me about Pearl Harbor. The naval station was attacked by 350 Japanese planes that day, and the whole attack lasted just two hours. In the end, 21 ships were sunk or damaged, over 300 of our planes and all 8 battleships were damaged or destroyed. When the USS
Arizona
was hit, more than a thousand men died almost instantly. It was a horrible tragedy, and so many more deaths would follow. And I was the only person in the world who could do anything about it.

I decided I would try again, with the 1941 card.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that getting a briefcase with $100,000 in it was a factor in my decision. I
did
want to go to college someday. And maybe, I thought, there might be a few dollars left over so I could buy myself a decent used car when I'm old enough to drive.

“Mom, I'm ready,” I said as I opened my bedroom door.

I took a new pack of baseball cards out of my drawer while I waited for her. I would need them to get back home when I was finished. I also grabbed the newspaper articles that Flip and Agent Pluto had given me, just in case.

My mother and Uncle Wilbur came into my room. Mom was carrying a little brown lunch bag and a portable umbrella.

“Mom!” I protested, but I knew it was no use.

“You're going to get hungry,” she said. “They didn't have fast-food joints on every corner back in 1941.”

Uncle Wilbur had a pair of corduroy pants with him, which he handed to me.

“Only farmers wore blue jeans back in those days,” he told me. “These should fit you.”

While I was putting Uncle Wilbur's pants on, he stuck his fingers in a jar of Vaseline and started smearing the stuff on my hair.

“Stop it!” I told him. “Why do I need that goop?”

“In my day,” Uncle Wilbur informed me, “we slicked our hair back with this stuff called pomade. We wanted to look like Valentino.”

I didn't know who Valentino was, and I didn't care.

“You want to fit in, don't you?” my mother asked.

Finally, they were done fussing with me. My mother stepped back to look me over.

“You look like a real boy from the Depression,” she said.

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Now I'm depressed.”

“Nervous?” Uncle Wilbur asked.

“A little,” I admitted.

“I'd love to go back to 1941 again,” he said wistfully. “See my old friends. I sure wish I was in your shoes.”

“You can wear 'em while I'm gone,” I told him.

My mother hugged me and kissed me good-bye.

“Remember,” she said, “if you get into any trouble at all, you come
straight
home. Hear me?”

“Don't worry.”

They left and closed the door behind them. I picked up the Ted Williams card that Agent Pluto had given me and thought about 1941. Where would I land? Ted Williams played for the Red Sox, so I figured I would probably show up in Boston. I had never been there before. Maybe I would go to Fenway Park. See the Green Monster.

What would the world be like in 1941, I wondered? Would everybody be running around in those zoot suits I'd seen in old movies? Would they be singing show tunes and dancing around with top hats and canes?

I closed my eyes. A few minutes went by before I started to feel the tingling sensation in my fingertips. I was used to it by now, so I didn't freak out. It felt good. I relaxed. The card was doing its thing. Just another trip to…somewhere.

Goose pimples formed on my arms as the tingling spread across my body. I shivered a little as the feeling washed over me. It wouldn't be long now. I felt myself losing weight, almost like I was rising up off
the bed. But that wasn't it, I knew. The atoms, or molecules, or
whatever
it was that made up my body were disappearing from the twenty-first century so they could reconstitute themselves in 1941. I wished I could open my eyes to see it happen. But they wouldn't open. They were sealed shut.

It didn't matter. I was already gone.