Babe & Me

1

The Tingling Sensation

IT WAS ABOUT EIGHT YEARS AGO—WHEN I WAS FIVE— that I discovered baseball cards were sort of…oh, magical to me.

It was past my bedtime, I remember. I was sitting at the kitchen table with my dad. This was before my mom and dad split up, before things got weird around the house. Dad was showing me his collection of baseball cards. He had hundreds, a few of them dating back to the 1920s.

My dad never made a lot of money working as a machine operator here in Louisville, Kentucky. I think he spent all his extra money on his two passions in life—fixing up old cars and buying up old baseball cards. Dad loved his cars and cards. They were two of the things Dad and Mom argued about.

Anyway, we were sitting there at the table and Dad handed me an old card.

That’s a Gil McDougald card from 1954, Dad said. He was my hero growing up. What a sweet swing he had.

I examined the card. As I held it in my right hand, I felt a strange tingling sensation in my fingertips. It didn’t hurt. It was pleasant. It felt a little bit like when you brush your fingers lightly against a TV screen when it’s on.

I felt vibrations. It was a little frightening. I mean, it was only a piece of cardboard, but it felt so powerful.

Joe, my dad said, waving his hand in front of my face, are you okay?

I dropped the card on the table. The tingling sensation stopped immediately.

Uh, yeah, I said uncertainly as I snapped out of it. Why?

You looked like you were in a trance or something, Dad explained, like you weren’t all there.

"I felt like I wasn’t all there."

He’s overtired, my mom said, a little irritated. Will you stop fooling with those cards and let Joey go to bed?

But I wasn’t overtired. I didn’t know it at the time, but a baseball card—for me—could function like a time machine. That tingling sensation was the signal that my body was about to leave the present and travel back through time to the year on the card. If I had held the card a few seconds longer, I would have gone back to 1954 and landed somewhere near Gil McDougald.

After that night I touched other baseball cards from time to time. Sometimes I felt the tingling sensation. Other times I felt nothing.

Whenever I felt the tingling sensation I dropped the card. I was afraid. I could tell something strange was going to happen if I held on to the card. I didn’t know what would happen, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

Gradually, I discovered that the year of the card determined whether or not it would cause the tingling sensation. Brand-new cards didn’t do anything. Cards from the 1960s to the 1990s didn’t do much. But I could get a definite buzz from any card from the 1950s. The older the card, I discovered, the more powerful the tingling sensation.

One day, I got hold of a 1909 T-206 Honus Wagner card—the most valuable baseball card in the world. The tingling sensation started the instant I picked up the card. It was more powerful than it had been with any other card. For the first time, I didn’t drop the card.

As I held the Wagner card, the tingling sensation moved up my fingers and through my arms, and washed over my entire body. As I thought about the year 1909, the environment around me faded away and was replaced by a different environment. It took about five seconds. In those five seconds, I traveled back through time to the year 1909.

What happened to me in 1909 is a long story, and I almost didn’t make it back. After that, I didn’t think I would ever travel through time with a baseball card again. But once you discover you’ve got a special power, it’s hard not to use it. For a school project, I borrowed a Jackie Robinson card from a baseball card dealer and sent myself back to the year 1947.

I nearly got killed in 1947, and my mom grounded me. She didn’t make me stay in my room or anything like that, but she did make me stay in the present day.

No more time traveling! she ordered.

But, like I said, when you’ve got a special power, you want to use it.

2

Use Your Head

SMASH IT, STOSHACK! ONE OF MY TEAMMATES YELLED as I pulled on my batting glove. "Hit one outta here so we can get outta here."

I snorted. Nobody has ever hit a ball out of Dunn Field, the park where most Louisville Little League games are played. It’s not because the outfield wall is so deep. It’s because it’s so high. The plywood fence in left-, center-, and rightfield extends twenty or thirty feet off the ground.

The wall is plastered with ads for just about every hardware store, car dealership, dry cleaner, and supermarket in Louisville. The Little League sold a lot of ads this year, so they made the fences even higher to have a place to put them all.

Casey Tyler—one of the kids on my team—hit a ball off the wall once. In left center. He only got a double out of it because the ball bounced right to the centerfielder. I hit pretty good—I mean, pretty well—but I can’t imagine hitting one out of Dunn Field.

Be aggressive, Joey, Coach Zippel hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth. That baseball is your worst enemy! Slam it.

My team, the Yellow Jackets, was down by two runs. There were two outs in the bottom of the sixth inning, which is all we play in the league for thirteen-year-olds. As I stepped into the batter’s box, Casey Tyler took a lead off second base and Kevin Dougrey edged off third.

Run on anything! Coach Zippel yelled. Two outs.

I pumped my bat back and forth a few times. The pitcher wasn’t so tough. I had already singled off him. A solid hit would score both our runners and tie the game. An out of any kind would end the game, with our team losing.

Smack one, Joey! my mom shouted. She was sitting in the mom section of the bleachers. That’s where all the moms sit. I don’t think any of them are big baseball fans, but they like to get together and gossip and stuff while we play.

The dads are usually around the field, shouting encouragement and advice to us. Most of the dads show up for our games if they can. Even though he loves baseball, my dad has never been to one of my games. He says he can’t get off from work, but I think it’s really because he doesn’t want to see my mom unless he has to.

In fact, we live only 250 miles from St. Louis, but my dad has never even taken me to a Cardinals game—or any big-league game.

As I dug a cleat into the dirt, I snuck a peek at the fielders. I bat lefty, so the defense had shifted to the right a little.

The third baseman, I noticed, was playing almost right on the foul line and way back—just behind the third-base bag. He wanted to keep Kevin close to the base, I knew, and he wanted to prevent a double or triple down the line.

A thought flashed through my brain: I could drop a bunt in front of that guy and beat it out. Kevin would score from third easily and Casey would advance to third. It would take everybody by surprise.

I didn’t want to talk my idea over with Coach Zippel. If the other team saw me go over to him, they might suspect something was up. Besides, there was no time. The pitcher was going into his windup.

I waited until the last possible instant to square around and slide my hand up the barrel of the bat.

He’s layin’ one down! the coach of the other team screamed.

The pitch was right over the plate, just where I like it. I held the bat out the way Coach Zippel taught us in our bunting drills. You’re supposed to sort of catch the ball with the bat. The idea is to tap it just hard enough so the catcher can’t pounce on it, but softly enough so it stops far in front of the third baseman. It was a good bunt, I thought.

When the ball hit the bat, I broke for first. The third baseman made a dash toward the plate as soon as he saw me squaring around to bunt.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him reach down and scoop up the rolling ball bare-handed. In one motion, he whipped it underhanded toward first. He made a great play, but I thought I had it beat. As my foot hit the first-base bag, I heard the ball pop into the first baseman’s mitt.

Out! bellowed the umpire. That’s the ball game!

What? I yelled, turning around to find the ump. I beat it out! I beat the ball to the bag!

Son, I had the best seat in the house, the ump said, and you were out.

Oh, man!

The kids on the other team were pounding the third baseman on his back and congratulating him on his