Time Out In Time Part 2

So with a shake and a whirl, our magnificent time machine settled down in an unknown corn field. The door dropped opened and as soon as the incomplete combustion gathering near the door had cleared, the three of us stepped into the day.

“Wow, it’s beautiful out here,” I breathe deep and take in the cool, clean fall air.

“It is,” Erik agreed, “but in all honesty, how do we know we’re not still back in Southwick?”

“Outta my way, Doorstop!” Mr. Ty bellows as he gives Erik a shove.
Erik says, “Oof,” and manages to be less in the way.

“We’re not going to see anything standing around here jaw bonin’.” Mr. Ty leads the charge and strides towards an open road, “Come on, the game’s up here.”

Just then a resonating crack of the bat rockets through the scene and the roar of the crowd can be heard. We are definitely not still in Southwick. I feel a chill roll up my spine and when I look at Erik, his eyes are really big.

“How freakin’ cool is this?” I squeal.

“I know,” he was giddy, “we’re going to meet Honus Wagner.”

“Meet?” Mr. Ty snipes, “Nobody said anything about meet. These are ball players and they’re busy playing ball. You get to stand to the side and watch and if that ain’t good enough for you then I got a smack up side the head that will make it fine.”

“Okay, no watch is good.” I mumble.

“Oh yah,” Erik adds, “watching is way more than we ever expected.”

“Good attitude.” Mr. Ty looks back for a second, “Who knows,you two might just turn out to be workable after all. God knows I can teach anybody anything as long as they ain’t already convinced they know it all.”

“We know nothing.” I’m quick to agree.

“Yes, nothing.” Erik sings.

“What’s with talking like a Kraut?” Mr. Ty is not amused.

“Oh nothing, I just naturally go there. Not sure why.”

“Yah and maybe I was too quick with the praise. God knows, if I have one fault it’s that I can be too quick with the praise.” Mr. Ty seems very serious and yet Erik and I must work hard to resist laughter.

Fortunately it got instantly easier when we turned a dog leg in the road and came upon the source of the bat cracks and crowd roars. Before us laid an imposing wood structure that rose out of the ground and leaned against the clouds. The air smelled of popcorn, leather and cigar smoke. Cheers and jeers intermingled and Erik and I found a new skip in our step.

“My God that’s beautiful.” I exclaim.

“Like the Thunderbolt of baseball stadiums.”

Being escorted by Mr. Ty meant we were able to skip the turnstiles and enter through the players’ door. No one seemed to notice our outdated garb as no one seemed eager to make eye contact with Mr. Ty or anyone he was near. Easily we zig zagged through the catacombs of the stadium until a square of bright light appeared. We were drawn like butter on a lobster.

“That’s the playing field, isn’t it?” I asked while pointing at the square of light.

“It sure is,” Mr. Ty stares ahead. It’s the only time his face has looked friendly during our whole adventure, “so why don’t you two tourist head out, grab a seat and wait for me. And try not to let her cause any trouble.” He accusingly points at me, “Dames ain’t really encouraged to cheer or hoot.”

“I’ll try to keep my hooting down to a minimum.”

“Now see, that’s just the attitude....” he starts.

But Erik interrupts, “No we’ll both keep the hooting down.” Mr. Ty and I exchange glares and Erik drags me by the arm to the square of bright light.

Unsure of where exactly to sit, we decide to mingle with the SRO crowd. As you can imagine, no matter where we stood the view was as amazing! We were, after all, watching the 1909 World Series.

“Hey, who are those guys over there?” I point to a contingent of straw hat wearing men.

“Not sure, why?”

“Because they seem sinister.”

“Sinister?”

“Yah sinister and angry and that’s just weird. I mean who comes to a baseball game and stays angry?”

“Not many unless...” Erik’s voice fades.

“Unless what?”

“Unless they’re losing a lot of money or something.”

“Huh?”

“Gamblers,” Erik explains, “this is 1909. The game is loaded with them.”

“What are you talking about? The Black Sox scandal doesn’t happen for another 10 years.”

“I know but the Black Sox scandal was such a small part of the gambling problem. The World Series’ games weren’t the only ones that got thrown. Games got thrown everyday. Not too mention guys giving away meaningless battles for incentive clauses.”

“You lost me with that.”

“You know what an incentive clause is, right?”

“Sure, players get money for certain statistical achievements.”

“Right, only in the early part of the century owners held a monopoly on players and could pay them crap. To make it seem a little less like crap they’d throw in these unattainable incentive clauses. Players couldn’t complain because the money was offered but they knew they’d be kept from reaching most of them. Like managers would bench a guy who was a few hits short or skip a pitcher who was a few strikeouts away.”

“Nice.”

“To get around it, players would feed each other opportunities to attain the milestones needed for payouts.”

“So pitchers would give guys meatball pitches to slam.”

“And fielders would hold up on making plays. Not too mention guys giving away at bats to give pitchers wins.”

“So it sounds like the early statistics of the game can’t really be trusted.”

“Probably not. Even at the time, a lot of guys would keep their own stats to counter management’s bogus numbers. So who knows what the early numbers really were.”

“All righty then, it’s time to go.” Mr. Ty reappears on the concourse and there’s something hurried in his approach, “Come on, let’s go!”

“We’re leaving?” I ask with a confused look on my face, “But it’s only the seventh inning. I never leave a ballgame early, even in the rain.”

“Well let’s put it this way, I’m leaving. You wanna stay, you’re more than welcome.”

“No, 1909 does not seem like my kind of time.”

“The women’s rights issues?” Eric queries.

“No, no NESN.”

“Ah, yes. Well than we better run because Ty’s gone.”

“And it looks like that’s why.” I point down the concourse at a gang of suspendered men raging their way towards us.

“Holy crap they’re ugly.”

“And big. Come on, let’s boogie.”

Erik and I take off and blast our way out of the stadium. Once we hit the wide open dirt road though, we realize we may not exactly know our way back to the time machine. A bit of panic rolls through us.

“We can not get left behind in 1909. I’m Irish. This was not a good time for my people.”

“You’re worried about being Irish?” Erik looks confused, “What about the whole gay thing?”

“Oh that’s not even an issue.”

“It’s not?”

“No, there were no gay people in 1909. We weren’t invented until the sixties.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“THERE THEY ARE!!!” the big ugly men scream, “GET ‘EM!!!”

“Okay, well this is no time for a Stonehenge reunion,” Erik yells, “let’s go.”

“Stonewall and I’m right behind you!!!”