The Fireballer

12 year old John Massey goes back in time to meet his father's favorite baseball player Nolan Ryan experiencing the eras of Ryan's career from the 1960's-1990's.

Chapter 1:

Baseball is a big part of my life. The day when I turned 12, my dad came home one day after work. I witnessed the Giants in action against the Diamondbacks. Paul Goldschmidt up at the plate. The bases filled. Darkness enveloped the room as night fell.

I was so focused on the tube, exhausted from a homework assignment given by my strict English teacher, Mr. McMillan, that I didn't notice the sound of footsteps. McMillan. I had full attention on the tube, so I didn't notice the sound of footsteps. The still living room carpet buffered any detectable sound.

"Hey son, who came out on top today?" A booming voice filled the air.

I stared at the dark form of someone standing in the doorway. The light came on. My dad, a business suit and tie, stood in the room. I stood up and gave him a hug.

I gave him a sigh. The Red Sox triumphed over the Yankees.

"Did Buster Posey get a hit?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Homer," I answered, smiled ear to ear.

"I figured he could pull it off."

My dad, in his pressed suit, grew quiet and stood still for a second.

"What are thinking about Dad?" I asked him.

My dad was a caring parent, but silence always seemed to build an invisible wall between him and others. I saw my dad's face. It seemed he mellowed again.

"I was thinking of the old Angel Stadium," Dad said. For a while, the Angels were unsuccessful. Dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Let me tell you, they were terrible." I mean, it's awful. The team's only star player was also my favorite. Abruptly changing the topic, he inquired about my day, giving my head a pat.

Mom called us for dinner, steak, and fries, my favorite. While at dinner, Dad chatted about his boring day at the office. Another problem-solving day for my father. It was a typical homemaking day for Mom. Her full-time job was keeping the house clean and in charge of yours truly.

Soon, I started discussing Angel Stadium, and Dad traveled down memory lane while eating in the brown-painted chair next to the kitchen table.  

 "My favorite player," he began, "was a young flamethrower who pitched wild and hit batters by the time he came to the team. He was a slender young kid in his 20s who received minor consideration, despite the Angels GM praising him and putting in a lot of hard work to include him in the deal.

"Who was the pitcher?"

" Nolan Ryan."

"Cool!" I said.

I kept eating and listened to Dad switch topics and talk about his day at the office, non-stop boring stuff.  

Though I'm originally from Baytown, just north of Los Angeles, I'm a Giants fan. Life moves at a slower pace in small towns like Baywatch than in a bustling city like Los Angeles, leaving people more time for conversation, I believe. My father's upbringing was in a modest, middle-class Los Angeles neighborhood, a city kid among many others, attending the public schools and cheering for the Dodgers. Although Dad cherishes his childhood memories, he rarely speaks of them now.

 My dad stood out from the other kids in the neighborhood. On the streets, at home, and everywhere else, he frequently wore an Angel cap. Dad's high school years spanned the end of Eisenhower's presidency and the resignation of Nixon. 

I only received fragments of stories about Dad's favorite player, yet people always recounted them with reverence. Nolan Ryan, whom Dad called "The Fireballer,"... My dad coined the playful phrase "high stink cheese" for Ryan's pitches, which topped 100 mph. I only understood him tonight.

I found a picture of the player Dad mentioned on Google. Nolan's windup was excessive. They took the picture when he was a child. Ryan's picture came from a 1979 Topps baseball card. My green eyes widened at Ryan's impressive stats. For instance, his 27-year major league career spanned four decades.

 Fifteen minutes into the search, I understood my dad's fondness for this guy. He was one of the best pitchers of the 1970s. I remembered him. Before logging off, I spent about an hour researching him.

I opened my math textbook. Math makes me anxious. I was working on a division problem when a knock came on my bedroom door. I make a turn. Dad. Are you going with me?

"Sure, I would love to."

"Alright, I see if I can get tickets." He said. "Love you," he said, and then he closed the door. I work on homework until 9 pm. Then go to bed.

The game had perfect weather. It's not raining. The sky is clear. That baseball game was the most enchanting experience of my childhood. My dad never enjoyed being around people. He was introverted and spoke slowly.

 Our seats were close to the third baseman who fielded every ground ball. The sun dazzled that day. June in California is like this. I've only ever lived here, so I can't compare it to anywhere else. Smooth sailing for the pitcher; ground balls and strikeouts were the order of the day. My trip was to get some more popcorn. The stands included a food court.

I ran about halfway around the building to find the food court. All the lines were busy. I got the popcorn at last. Returning, I noticed a door painted a faded blue. Upon opening the door, I proceeded inside and flipped the light switch. I entered a long, empty hallway.

I discovered a steel door. The door then scanned my eye. A large screen and keyboard materialized from the door, transforming my fear into intrigue. I put the bucket down.

            The screen flickered to life.

            "What in the world?" I muttered out loud.

The screen flickered and asked me a question.

            ARE YOU JOHN A. MASSEY?

            My feet led me to the screen, and I typed yes.

            The screen flickered again.

What kind of person would you meet if you traveled back in time?

            "Okay, are you kidding me?" I told myself. "This isn't real."

            Another question popped up that sent chills down my spine.

            THIS IS REAL.

         My shaking hand typed:

             Athlete

            Computer: Sport?

            I typed: Baseball.

            WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?

Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Cy Young, Mickey Mantle, and Ted Williams were among the baseball legends whose pictures appeared on the screen.

I typed. I remembered my dad's favorite player.

            NOLAN RYAN

Then the computer barked and flashed me a note:

            SELECT THE FIRST JERSEY OF THE PLAYER TO BEGIN JORUNEY.

           

The door creaked open. I found myself inside a locker room. The locker room stood vacant. A bare table and stools sat in the middle of the room. I scanned the names at the top by era.

In the room, the sight of Tom Seaver and Nolan Ryan's brought the vibrant colors of the 1960s to life names etched side by side. The fresh wood locker exuded a clean scent. As I ran my hands over the five jerseys of Nolan hanging on the rack, a faint whiff of nostalgia lingered in the air. Despite my efforts, the surrounding silence was deafening, with no sound of footsteps. The smooth, blue lined Mets jersey, number 30, grazed my skin; its fabric provided comforting contact. As I pushed open the swinging door at the end of the hall, a rush of cool air brushed against me, accompanied by the creaking sound of the hinges. Startled, I found myself face to face with a green panel door, a mysterious portal to the other side. With a sense of wonder, the door closed behind me, vanishing from sight.                                    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                       Chapter 2:

      YEAR: 1965

I hit the ground hard. Upon arrival, I examined the landscape. Desert stretched out all around. The sun beat down, its heat heavy and dry on the exposed earth. I cast my gaze downward at what I was wearing. Jeans and a T-shirt, not a uniform, clothed my tall frame. The wind blew dust into my eyes. A green sign caught my eye. I walked up to the sign. A sign stood outside. The sign read "Alvin, Texas". 34 miles. The town of Alvin, Texas. That's Nolan's hometown. I might be close. I hitchhiked under the sign. The sun began its descent. I needed a ride. Many cars drove past without stopping. It took me six times, but I succeeded. A blue truck displayed Texas license plates. Driving the car was a man in a cowboy hat, his face framed by a beard and sideburns. Someone else was in the truck. She was a teenager, around my age, with dark hair and overalls. A smile graced her lips as she looked at me. I managed a wave. There was a definite Texas drawl to the driver's way of speaking. "What's your destination?"

"Alvin High School."

"Oh, yeah? Are you going to the ballgame tonight? Hop in son. It's only a short drive. Besides, my neighbor's son is pitching tonight." I climbed in.

"Thanks, sir. Your name is?"

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Andy. And you are?

I accepted the offered hand.

"John." I told him. "John Massey."

"Pleasure, my boy. Last name is Mitchell. The tomboy back there is my daughter, Samantha." A thump on the roof distracted me.

It came to my attention. It's Sam.

 Okay, Dad?" a girl's squeaky voice replied.

"Got it. Sorry, honey!" he yelled.

"It's Sam," Andy chuckled with a wink.

The truck's worn clutch was obvious. You could see the yellow stripes on the seats. Bob Dylan's songs poured from the radio speakers. A cowboy hat rested on the dashboard.  

"They released the new song in June. Like A Rolling Stone. Are you familiar with it?'

" I have. It's an oldie. The song is great, and the title is catchy."

Andy roared with laughter.

A smile touched my lips. Oldie. A term for classic songs from the past. My mistake.

We're going to Alvin High School tonight to watch my neighbor's son pitch. He's a senior in high school.. 6 5 tall. The tallest person I've ever encountered. He also throws the ball really fast."

"Here, look.

I pulled back the latch. A piece of paper was there. I pulled it off. The paper folded. I spread it out on my lap. The news began with a story about high school pitcher Nolan Ryan. August 17, 1965, was the date on the paper.

I attempted to date the historical item. Three years had passed since Kennedy's death. Midway through his term, Johnson pleaded for reelection. History defeated and cast him aside in 1969. Space was unexplored until John Glenn's historic flight, making him the oldest person and first American to orbit the Earth.

I had a bizarre realization: my dad was a four-year-old living in Los Angeles.

The paved desert highway transitioned into unpaved country roads. We were still making slow, clumsy progress. Andy and I talked as we rode past the bakeries and restaurants on Main Street. I was careful about how much I revealed. Andy was a local boy who had lived in the area for decades. His slow speech continued as the sun set behind the horizon, the truck pulling up to the baseball field. I entered the ballpark. The lights were illuminated. I saw players in uniform on the baseball field.

"Hey, little one."

The girl in the truck had pigtails. Sam.

"Hi, kid. Dad and I live next door to Ryan's. Maybe you could come and visit us sometime?"

"Sure, nice to meet you." my cheeks turned bright red again.

"Nice to meet you, John." Andy nodded at him.

"You too, Andy."

All the men were in suits. It was a working day. The men sported crew cuts, while the girls' hairstyles blended Annette Funicello and Hayley Mills styles. Adorable and sweet. Long-haired hippies were a common sight in the bleachers. A varied gathering. I lived through a time of free love and long-haired religious rebels who blamed the government for everything. The uniform makes my jeans and t-shirt seem to fit right in. My future whereabouts were a secret.  

I found a seat in the middle row of the bleachers. It was a glorious and awe-inspiring sight. As the sun set, its fading light contrasted with the vibrant glow of the field below. Sam and Andy were close behind. Sam ran straight to me, and Andy sat beside her. Young and tall for his age, the pitcher had a babyish face. He brought the batter to a full count, catching every pitch. It was a 2-2 tie. One player has been called out. The slender teenage batter glanced at his coach, who shook his head. Nolan Ryan pitched to the batter. Nolan's next pitch struck the batter's helmet with a hollow crack, splitting it in two. In the dirt, the child tumbled.

The umpire told the child, "Assume your batting stance. The pitcher was shouted at by the child. "I'm glad you spared me, Nolan."

Nolan shrugged and concentrated on the next batter. The next batter appeared to be at least six or seven feet tall. Above Nolan's six-foot frame on the mound, the batter loomed large. The announcer described the local kid as a left-handed hitter with impressive power, boasting a .300 average.

"That's not bad," I mused. Nolan searched for the sign before delivering. The batter hit the ground. A gasp rose from the crowd. Following the manager, the trainer ran out. Supporting the player, the manager gently held his arm. A player has fallen to the ground. A few seconds seemed like an eternity. I hope he's alright. Sam interrupted. Pitch fractured his arm: The announcer spoke

I couldn't believe that one of his pitches had once broken a batter's arm! The man held a clipboard. The man was nearby. Several clues pointed towards his occupation. Here comes the scout. He glued his eyes to the pitcher. Someone's minor quirks are clear. Ryan was under the scout's intense gaze. A uniformed man with a clipboard stood beneath the scout. The boy scout's sideburns were quite long. He had a childish face. I approached him and joined him.

That Ryan throws pitches over 100 miles per hour! I informed him.

"No way!" exclaimed the scout. "May I ask who you are?"

"My name is John," I replied. "Then this man tosses the smelly cheese high in the air."

Concern furrowed Red's brow. "Would you like some cheese?" He doesn't throw cheese."

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's my dad's expression for a pitcher who throws really hard."

"Is it Nolan you mean?

Bob held a thick, black object. The handle was roughly as long as my index finger. Then I realized.

"Can I use your radar gun, Bob?"

Bob's eyes were wide. "Sure, kid. Just don't break it.

I muttered my thanks, snatched the gun, and aimed it at the pitcher. The game restarted. Nolan's pitching motion started from the stretch.

"Are you trying to figure out timing that tall right-handed pitcher?" Red inquired.

"Yes sir, I certainly am."

Nolan threw the ball. Another pop caught by the catcher. The gun fired rapidly, almost 95 rounds per minute. The next pitch was almost at the limit; it was 100 mph.

Red glanced at me. With a wink and a whisper, he confided, "I think you're right. It's our secret."

My face broke into a grin. Mission one, getting him noticed, was a complete success.

Red then excused himself to make a call.

Nolan allowed only three hits in that game. His expression remained unchanged as he left the mound. He entered the dugout, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. Seeing us, he approached and started a conversation.

"Hi Andy, how's it going?" Nolan spoke while shaking his hand. Andy introduced me to Nolan, who then greeted me. A young blonde woman in jeans and a smart shirt approached from behind. Nolan embraced her.

"This is my girlfriend, Ruth."

While Nolan remained silent, Ruth gave us a warm welcome and a friendly chat. Opposites often attract. It's just something people do, I guess. We were in mid-conversation when Red showed up.

Nolan spotted him and gave him a gracious nod. I changed direction. Beside me, Red extended his hand to Nolan.

They shook.

"Nolan, my name is Red Murff. I am a scout for New York Mets."

"Hi, Mr. Red. Nice to meet you." Nolan spoke in that distinct Texan accent way of his.

What's your grade level?

"Junior, sir." Nolan behaved with courtesy.

" I am very interested in signing you."

"You are?"

"Yes."

 "You can follow us back to the house." Barked someone.

Lynn Nolan Ryan Sr. Nolan's father. Big guy. As tall as Nolan.

"Why don't you follow us?" Ryan Sr. told the scout.

"Sure."

Within five minutes, we were back on the road. The Ryan family rode in their car along with Ruth. Red was in his own vehicle. Yours truly rode shotgun in the blue truck, with Andy and Sam following the cars to the house. The radio changed to a Dean Martin tune all the way down Main Street in Alvin, past the barbershop to Nolan's home on Dezso Drive.

 Pulling up, I noticed many cars parked along the street. Ryan Sr. gestured toward Andy's house. Andy poked his head out and nodded. Four men, each holding a clipboard under their arm, stood at the front door. We rounded the corner in the car. When we got to Andy's place, we parked secretly, and he opened the door. The group crammed in. To block the porch light and curious strangers, they closed the curtains. The kitchen chandelier and two lamps were our only sources of light. I quickly glanced next door. The scouts remained. A smile touched my lips. James Bond himself would be proud of our hide-and-seek game. Even on my worst days, I'm living better than Sean Connery did in the 60s. I told my Sean Connery joke. A relaxed mood settled over the party. Laughter filled the air, expressing a range of emotions. Nolan let out a chuckle. Last weekend, Andy reported seeing Thunderball at the movies. Sam chuckled and winked at me.

Red sat down before I could answer Sam. The only furniture present for the historic signing was Mitchell's large, wooden dining table. A built-in oven fit between the upper and lower cabinets. The counter and sink were close by. Signs of a very simple, relaxed way of life. I wondered if this was how the world was 50 years ago. The scout's enthusiastic tone snapped me back to reality.  

We'd like to offer you a contract. Red began. "What are your terms?"

My offer for your services is $6,000. I'm certain I can win over the Mets GM, Mr. Devine, to pick you in the draft."

Ryan Sr. took the two-page document, neatly printed. I peered over Ryan Sr.'s shoulder to read the contract. It was a 3-year contract with a $1 million bonus contingent on his son reaching the major leagues. Ryan Sr. and Red dominated the conversation. I watched Sam to make the time go by faster. I romanticized her childhood as a time of innocence. People chatted. I sensed everything in my life was a relentless struggle. I was curious about the transformations of the last half-century. History may change, but its lessons endure.

            I was, in a way, reliving my dad's childhood. Mr. Macmillan would request a report from me once the time was up.

Conversation subsided after an hour. He left, the contract's signed, and he promised to stay in contact. The scout snatched up his hat. Nolan sat on the leather couch in the den. I met him on the other side.

            "What are your dreams for the future?" I asked.

            His reply surprised me. "I wanted to be a veterinarian. I plan to study and graduate from Alvin Community College. My plan is to maintain the gas pumps at some local gas station., I figure to try this and see what happens if the Mets want me.

"What's your profession?" I asked.

Every morning, I get up at 2 a.m. when it's still dark. After reaching the corner of Gordon and Sealy, I deliver newspapers for the Houston Post before heading to school. I find school challenging. "

Silence.

Several of my classes have held me back.

"Why?"

Nolan hesitated, selecting his words with care. "Because I have trouble reading.

 I have a lisp and dyslexia. That's why I have difficulty reading.

 During junior high, a teacher, losing patience, called me stupid and threatened to fail me. Mom intervened and gave the teacher a piece of her mind."

I nodded at the arm.  

"How's the arm?"

"It's good. It's painful sometimes.

The other day, I perceived a sudden popping sound. The coach took me out and sat me down. He told me he would not risk my arm."

Sam sat down next to me, sipping lemonade in a glass.

" You grew up here?"

"Alvin born and raised," her thin lips smiled. I smiled back.  

"I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," Nolan chuckled. He disappeared and walked into the kitchen.

"Where's your mom?"

"Mom and Dad divorced when I was about 8. The divorce caused many people to keep their distance from us.

Divorce, I thought. That's odd.

Divorce is difficult these days, I imagine. Dad's divorce has been a long and drawn-out court battle. My mother lives in Ohio. I seldom see her. My parents decided I would live with my dad."

Nolan came back with a bottle painted green. I turned my head sideways to read the label on the bottle. I could barely make it out.

"Impossible," I whispered.

I casually asked Nolan. "What is that bottle?

Perplexed, Nolan looked from his hands to me. "Why is it a Coca-Cola bottle?

Did I understand that correctly? Are you asking about a Coke bottle?

"No way, dude," I said. Coke bottles aren't even green. Nolan and Sam looked puzzled.

It then came back to me. 1965. Naturally. A smile of amusement crossed my face.

I ordered a Coke. Nolan got one from the refrigerator for me. Absolutely. The Coca-Cola logo, in crisp white lettering, stood out against a background. The only difference was the color. I sipped the drink. The liquid was ice cold. Just right for a scorcher.

I chuckled.

"Still taste the same, right??"

Sam spoke.

"Are you a coke drinker?" Sam asked.

I was honest with her. I chose water.

Coca-Cola's contour bottle was the first commercial product featured on Time magazine's cover, ten years prior.

"When did they use cans?"

This time it was Nolan who answered.

"The company tested the product inside of cans after the war ended.

" Only 12-ounce cans were available in the first years of the decade."

I stared at Nolan.

"1960?"

What's with your fascination with Coke bottles? I sensed a hint of suspicion in his tone. I had to think.

"History is a hobby of mine." I answered.

Sighing, Mrs. Ryan switched on the TV, wiping her arms with her apron. She checked her watch and turned the knob.

"Cronkite is about to come on." Mrs. Ryan said. Ryan Senior came into the room, and we sat down together.

The TV flickered to life.

The tube filled with black and white. A clock hung behind the speaker. A grandfatherly man, with kind eyes full of twinkling specks, delivered the speech. His voice was deeply reassuring.

 "Good evening, I'm Walter Cronkite. Today at 3.45 pm, Astronaut Ed White became the first American ever to conduct a spacewalk during the Gemini 4 mission. Here is a photograph taken by Commander James McDivitt of Ed White himself. A photograph took over the screen. The photo showed a man in full space gear, helmet, and suit holding on to some device. The scenery behind him was awe-shocking. Just to the left of White, a planet below him echoed rich blue colors, and the sky was a blank canvas. Blackness swallowed it whole. My eyes narrowed. The answer came to me.

Space.

I raised my coke bottle. "To where no man has gone before." I said. No response. Everyone in the group stared at the screen.

Once the picture became fuzzy, the newsroom came back into focus.

The grandfatherly reporter removed his glasses and spoke. "And that's the way it is."

The screen displayed today's date. He lingered a beat longer on his smile for the camera before disappearing.

The air was still. I glanced at the surrounding people. Amazed faces. A comment broke the silence. I wonder what Kennedy's opinion would have been if he were still alive. Sam spoke with a somber tone.

 

 Andy agreed with his daughter. "It's a shame he missed this."

Ryan Senior rose and patted his breast pocket. The door slammed shut, and I was aware of it.

Nolan walked to the window. I followed him. 

" I'm unsure if I choose wisely." Nolan said.

"Stay in the same place unless you make a move."

Nolan looked me. "My father smokes. Dad tried to stop. He says the desire is too strong. I plan to live a healthy life if I can. My dad mistakes give me motivation to do the best you can."

"Nolan, I have no time to explain this, and you won't believe me. But I will see you again. Trust me."

"You're kidding me?"

"I am telling the truth."

 

I detected coughing emanating from the kitchen. The person in question was Ryan Sr. Nolan's dad coming in from the back porch.

Nolan resumed his seat. My jeans landed on the couch. Sam looked at me. She had short, black bobbed hair. Her eyes blazed at me. I thought she was going tell me some family secret or some lonely heart's desire. Yet, there was no result. I find women difficult to understand. That's why we like them.

 Goodnight, I tell Sam.

"Will you stay for the night, John?" her eyes pleaded with me. I remembered what I came here for. "You'll see me around. In about a decade time for you. Time stands still for me here."

John, who are you? Sam inquired.

I hesitated. How can you explain your modern background to a Texan woman from the mid-20th century? A smile spread across my face. "We'll meet again soon."

My time here is no longer relevant, I realized. I bid the Ryans goodnight. Andy accompanied me to the door.

John, it's a pleasure making your acquaintance. Sam is fond of you. How about you come over next Saturday?"

"I can't but thank you. Do me a favor will you?"

" What is it?"

It's a complicated story. I'm short on time, but Sam will be informed later. It may take some time."

"I will tell her."

Thanks for the ride, and take care!

"My pleasure to help."

The door closed with a swing. As I turned, I saw Sam at the window, looking down. I grinned and gave a thumbs-up. A smile stretched across her face as pure joy filled her.

Then, something extraordinary occurred. Dawn arrived. Sounds of joy filled the neighborhood as I approached the door. I cast a glance backward. The quiet neighborhood buzzed with kids playing in the front yards. Mom called the houses "Leave It to Beaver" houses, referencing a 1950s show I've never watched. These days, life feels like a rat race. Innocence was my immediate reaction. Their laughter, a perfect melody, made me steal a glance at the fortunate children. My eyes welled up with tears, which fell to the floor. Closing the door, I looked around the room. I returned to the locker room. Silence was my solace in those difficult times. I took a moment to compose myself.

I paused at the door, inhaled, and then proceeded inside.

                                 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: YEAR 1967

My surroundings were unlike any I'd seen before. The sky was clear, burning blue. I saw a baseball field. I glanced around. An empty parking lot lay to the south. I found a newspaper in a nearby trash can. I retrieved it. The newspaper was from the Florida-based Palm Beach Daily News.

 February 16, 1967 was the paper's headline. I approached the fence and surveyed my surroundings. Fields stretched out around me as far as I could see. The sounds of bats and cheers were distinct.

The state of Florida. Fields for playing baseball.

Spring Training in the year 1967.

The New York Mets were the home team. Nolan Ryan was pitching. His appearance hadn't changed. He keeps a baby face and youthful charm. His hair had grown since I last saw him. Nolan tossed balls to the catcher. The umpire signaled the batter to proceed to his base. A person emerged from the dugout. An individual wearing a numbered jersey. He shook his head, then pointed at Nolan. Nolan's face registered disappointment. I understood that my participation was necessary. Rounding the corner, I moved from the dugout to the field. Voices from the dugout remarked, "Is that a child?"  

Why is he here? I jogged toward the pitcher's mound, ignoring the stares and pointing, to where the stranger in the jersey and the catcher were huddled around Nolan. Nolan was the target of the stranger's furious outburst. I recognized the stranger from his computer photo.

Gil Hodges was the manager of the Mets.  

Father Time had etched fine lines onto his face, replacing the youthful glow of his playing days. He seemed older, and his hand gestures and shouting suggested a violent temper.

"You can't pitch at all you're just a fast arm destined to blow out soon!" Gil said.

I interrupted.

Wait a minute, Mr. Hodges. I injected. He's working hard.

A murmur rippled through the group. The catcher looked confused. Gil's face was red with anger. Surprise registered on Nolan's face.

John, what brings you here? Nolan inquired.

I'm saving your job right here in front of Mr. Hodges.

"Listen here sonny; go back to your mommy." Hodges said. This isn't the place for you.

I didn't back down.

I'm staying until Nolan gets a chance."

Hodges laughed. " I already gave him a chance. Who are you?"

I'm a friend of Nolan's, sir. Your face is familiar to me. Didn't you play with Jackie Robinson in the 1940s, Mr. Hodges?

Mr. Hodges nodded.

"Look," I continued. The Mets rushed him to the majors, which is why he can't throw properly now.

Sir, he requires coaching. Also your methods are questionable, sir."

Hodges fumed. " My methods? Why you....?" He started.

I cut him off. 

"You are too old school sir," I began.

"Sir, you prefer a four-man rotation, not five. Nolan's Army Reserve duty, which takes him away every few weeks, won't change your mind. Nolan's pitching problems stem from his inconsistent rhythm. Silence ensued.

 "Well, you're done for today." Hodges said.

 Nolan nodded and said," Yes sir." Nolan left the pitcher's mound. I kept pace with him.

" Thanks for batting for me out there. However, Mr. Hodges is a kind man. He's old famished in his ways."

"Don't worry Nolan. We'll find someone who believes in you."

" Looks like someone wants to speak to us," Nolan nodded.

A young man wearing a uniform and baseball hat waved at us.

We traveled there on foot. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the young man wore a Reds uniform with the number 5 stitched near his left hip. It was a catcher's helmet. His height was exceptional for a catcher.  

"Could you do me a big favor?" the catcher asked.

" Sure," Nolan said. "What do you need help with?"

" Our pitcher Jim Maloney called in sick today. We are playing the Cardinals today and we need a pitcher. Can you help us?"

"Just a minute." Nolan said and jogged over to Gil. I saw Gil listening, so I waved him off. Returning, Nolan nodded his assent.
"Its fine with Mr. Hodges."
" Great!" said the player flashing a friendly smile. "I'll lead you guys there.

 My name is Johnny Bench, by the way. He reached out his hand.

"It's only a block away." Johnny told us. We followed Johnny briefly, then turned left and reached the field where the Reds played baseball.

"Hey Sparky. We got a pitcher to pitch for us today. Meet Sparky Anderson, our manager."

Kind and white-haired, Sparky Anderson greeted us with a warm smile.

"Thanks for helping us Nolan. We appreciate it."
"No problem," said Nolan. Nolan ran out to the pitcher's mound. Having donned his mask and the rest of his catching gear, Bench strolled to home plate. I sat in the dugout, wondering what would happen.

Leading off for the Cardinals was Lou Brock. The book on him was that he was a real speed demon on base paths. Before Ricky Henderson broke his record, Brock held the title of fastest man alive in terms of base stealing. Bench glared at Nolan, communicating through hand signals. Nolan nodded in agreement and then complied. A fastball on the corners of the plate. The pitch rocketed into Bench's mitt.

 Brock didn't even swing.

"Who is that pitching?" Brock asked.

"Somebody named Nolan Ryan." Bench answered.

"Never learned of him." 

Bench crutched again. The defense was surprised when Brock bunted perfectly, right after Nolan threw the ball. Charging in, third baseman Tony Perez snagged the one-hop throw and relayed it to first baseman Lee May. The umpire emphatically signaled with his arms. SAFE!

Next to bat was Ken Boyer, a right-handed hitter, the second-oldest of the three Boyer brothers to play in the major leagues, and a seven-time All-Star. Brock always returned to the bag quickly following Nolan's two outs of Lee May. Bench indicated Brock with a pointed finger. Brock shrugged his shoulders.

What is he up to? I inquired with Sparky.

"Attempting to impart a lesson to him." A grin spread across Sparky's face as he answered.

            The game continued. 

            Sweat trickled down my neck. Nolan delivered a pitch. Brock took off. A second later, the ball reached Bench, who then threw it to Pete Rose at second base. The umpire gave the thumbs-up signal. You're out! I hollered at the top of my lungs.

Sparky Anderson gave me a wink. "Every time Bench throws, everybody in baseball drools."

I laughed.

Then I noticed Bench's hand. I asked Sparky to call time and ran out to the plate.

"Hey Johnny, I got a few suggestions that might help you. May I?"   

  "I am always open to new ideas." Said Bench stood out of the way.

The umpire looked at me.
"I am here to help." I said.

The umpire didn't object. "Fair enough. One pitch." 

With my mask and helmet still on, I made two adjustments. I put my helmet on backward, tucking my right hand behind my back for protection. I pulled  the mask in front of my face and nodded to Nolan, a distant figure on the pitcher's mound.  

    "Strike the glove." I told Nolan. Keep your eye on the ball."

I put down the sign for the famous fastball. One finger. The red ball's streaks were heading towards me. Similar to a bullet fired from a gun. Targeted at my head. The time passed with excruciating slowness. My movements were like molasses. I just barely caught it. A loud boom reverberated across the field as a searing pain shot through my hand. The impact almost threw me off balance, and I had to put out my throwing hand to steady myself. The ball was tucked into the mitt.

 I hollered loudly in excitement. You did it, Nolan!

I threw the ball back to Nolan and returned the gear to Bench who stood there grinning at me. "Those are some great new ideas. I will try them out. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," I said.

I jogged back to the dugout.

Nolan pitched three innings, striking out five batters but giving up ten hits. Ryan hadn't yet reached his full potential as a pitcher. I saw his blazing fastball, deceptive curveball, and the powerful physique that carried his height. He had incredible potential.

Today's events proved Nolan needed help and fast.

Harry Dalton, General Manager of the California Angels, was the person I called.

Post-game, we entered the Mets' clubhouse. Very comfortable. Nolan knocked and then I followed him into the training room. Mets trainer Gus March stood ready with a stack of towels. One by one, Nolan peeled the blisters from his pitching hand with a surgical knife. Every time the knife touched the exposed skin, he winced. I meticulously wiped away as much red as I could see with the towel. Nolan mumbled a weak thank you. Surrounded by blood, I was like a surgeon in the operating room. March fetched a bowl. For ten minutes, Nolan kept his hands submerged in water.

The trainer repeated the process. Then came the pickle brine. A foul-smelling green material.

"What is that mixed with?" I inquired. That looks awful.  

"Vinegar and salt," March said, as Nolan placed his hand into a jar. I flung open the door, letting the smell hit the locker room with full force, and ran. The players groaned in dissatisfaction. There was some yelling. To escape the chaos, I barricaded myself in the vacant "Manager" office. Flipping through a Major League Baseball directory, I occasionally glanced at the door. Quickly, I grabbed the phone from the desk. I manually dialed the number.

Three rings echoed in my ear, and I held my breath. A high-pitched voice announced, "California Angel's office," on the fourth.

I did my best James Earl Jones impression for her.

" I'm looking for Harry Dalton's office, please."

"Yes sir, may I ask who's calling?"

 Top Gun, that 80s film, came to mind.  

"Tom Cruise." I answered.

"One moment Mr. Cruise."

A male voice answered. "Harry Dalton speaking, Tom Cruise, huh? Heck of a last name. Let me ask you this. Did your parents name you after their favorite cruise line?"

I chuckled.

"Something along those lines. Mr. Dalton.

I have someone you might be interested in. Nolan Ryan is the player's name. Ring a bell?"

"What is this? Some kind of prank call?" In response to Dalton's annoyance, I delivered the sales pitch.

" Ryan is very real.

He is six foot two.

He throws over 100 miles per hour. He throws the ball incredibly fast. All Nolan needs is a pitching coach."

"No kidding? I recall that name. Thanks for the tip."

A scratching sound was audible. My best guess was written on a notepad.

"Thanks sir and have a great day."

I ended the call. I perceived footsteps. Gil Hodges came into the room. I ducked behind the desk for protection. Tripping, I caused the desk to clang. I stayed still. A thump echoed from the floor. I cautiously looked around the corner. Gil poured the coffee and left the office. I examined the file folders. The player's last name alphabetized the list. I grabbed the folder and left the office. I caught up with Nolan as he was leaving the training room.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

I'll just be doing some sightseeing.

Nolan's eyes shifted their focus to the file.

"What is that you're holding?"

"This?" I raised it on one side to hide his name. I will write a history report upon my return."

            The answer seemed good to Nolan. He nodded and said," I hope you get a good grade on that paper."

Stepping outside, I experienced the sun's rays beating down on my black hair. Players walked out in their shirts and shorts, bags slung over their shoulders. Nolan was one of the last to board the bus, and I jogged alongside him. He scooped me up and carried me upstairs. My thanks escaped my lips as I landed. We found seats in the middle row. The background noise included laughter and conversation. Nolan said nothing. Nolan experienced being an outcast from the team. The 1967 Mets team had a reputation for being a rough and tumble group of party animals. A ten-minute bus ride from there took us to the airport. A couple of people stared as the bus arrived. The bus doors swung open. A crowd of people had gathered around the players as they got off the bus.

Several them signed autographs. Young Tom Seaver, a star pitcher, was a fan favorite. Women were staring at him, and he received many pieces of paper at an alarming rate.

 Tom signed each document presented to him. Cheers of love for Tom and Jerry rang out. That chant was for the left-handed pitcher, Jerry Koosman.

Nobody approached Nolan after I passed him. Naturally, the star players always grab the most attention. Nolan and I pushed past the screaming fans and entered the airport.

The airport was tranquil. People strolled leisurely along the long hallway. The building had a straightforward design, highlighted by a brown stain. Nolan guided the players down the hallway. Paintings adorned the walls on both sides, alternating above each row and positioned above the windows. One of those paintings, I recall, was by Da Vinci. The collection also featured a lovely Norman Rockwell painting. My Nike tennis shoes trod on the pale blue carpet. Flight attendants chatted amongst themselves and walked away. We hurried through the checkpoint. The staff were both helpful and exceptionally polite. We made small talk back and forth. When that was done, we found our gate at the farthest end, Gate 16 and sat down to wait. The seat section filled the air with chatter. I sat on the end next to Nolan. Positioned beside me was an older lady who questioned me about my name. I smiled and gave it to her.

 "That's a pretty name," she remarked.

 I appreciate your help, ma'am. I said something in return.

And yours?

Against my expectations, she responded with "Agnes" instead of ignoring my request.

We chatted. She traveled west to celebrate her granddaughter's college graduation with family. I thanked Agnes for her help when our flight number was announced. The ticket taker awaited us. She took our tickets and tore them in half.

Stepping through the doorway, sunshine greeted us. My shoes echoed loudly in the terminal. The airplane steps were just a short distance ahead. "Oh my," I gasped. I find that hard to believe. Nolan glanced at me. "Don't they do this where you're from?"

I couldn't believe it; I shook my head.

This is quite unusual. I perceived myself talking.

I boarded the plane by climbing the steps. A brunette flight attendant greeted us by the cabin entrance. She wore a knee-high blue dress, along with a cap atop her head. The name tag displayed her name as Stacy.  

She led us half of the players to take the first class. The younger stars took the back seats. I found a seat between Nolan and Tom Seaver. Between these two fellows, I bet they had a wealth of pitching knowledge casual enough to fill a thick volume of a pitching manual. They were friends. In opposite career trends. Nolan served as a young prospect propelled throughout the minor league system. I knew him as a wild flamethrower at this point. Tom however became a respected college pitcher under the watchful eye of Red Deveraux, the longtime USC baseball coach and posted a 10-2 record as a sophomore. His rapid ascent to the majors began. The Mets gained his signing rights in a bidding war with two other teams because of his pro contract being voided by the then current Commissioner of Baseball William Eckert a year prior.

Midway through the flight, Stacy gave us postcards to write to keep us entertained. I wrote in a valid attempt at humor:

1967: Sitting next to two Hall of Famers on flight with pretty flight attendant to take care of me.

Isn't life magnificent?

Important tip for fellow time travelers: Never lose your sense of humor even in a time machine.  

           

The plane stopped. I got my bag out. Stacy told us a warm goodbye. When I entered the new airport, I took a quick detour to the newspaper section where I bought a New York Times paper for a cheap price. "How much is a movie ticket?" I asked.

 Nolan shrugged his shoulders in a non-chant way. "1.25." My mouth hit the floor. "1.25? Good Grief!"

            The airport I arrived at had a long history, including three different name changes.

We hopped in his car. His apartment building was in an old hotel. He asked the desk clerk for the keys to the apartment.  I witnessed a door emerging across the street. The desk clerk gave me a pen.

"I have a package to deliver to the California Angels office."

I placed the folder in the package, thanked the desk clerk, and hurried outside. Walked with thousands of New Yorkers coming and going to work. I reached the other side. The green door greeted me like a warm friend. I investigated the window. It was a barbershop. People were waiting in seats reading old magazines Haircuts getting clipped. I turned the knob; I closed my eyes expecting to see the barbers and the customers in chairs. Quietness greeted me. I opened my eyes. Jersey racks came within my line of vision.

I was back in the locker room.

I walked over the rack and selected the red striped jersey of the Angels. The Angels uniform had the number, 30 sewed on the back with RYAN in red letters. I wore the uniform and searched for the knob.

                                                   

Chapter 4:      YEAR 1972

I awoke to find that my bed was my new orientation. It was three times my length. Suitable for adults. My gaze fell upon my attire. I have an Angels jersey with the number 30 near my ribs. The first instance of time travel occurred while wearing the uniform. My eyes quickly dropped to the ground. Some black football cleats: I saw some black football cleats. As I picked them up, I saw Nolan's number neatly sewn into the back. I put them on. Dust had gathered on the lamp stand. Toy-filled racks leaned against the wall inside a trunk. I believe I detected something; There was a young woman standing by the stove. Her long locks flowed down her back. Streaks of purple in black hair. The leg of her jeans had small holes running down it.  Her shirt was brown. She wore a brown band of beads around her head. She had pink-tinted nails. Clothes from the hippie era. Her walk appeared familiar.

            "Excuse me, can you tell me where I am?" I asked.

The girl turned around. The girl gasped.

             John, what are you doing here?"

            She knew my name.

I assumed a defensive position. " Who are you?"

            " Don't you remember me, silly boy?" she said. "Such a chilly greeting for a friend." She gave me the tightest hug. "I am your crush."

            I looked at her face. Black hair. Blue eyes. It couldn't be....

            "Sam Mitchell? What year is it?

"Yes," she nodded. "My clothes and appearance have changed. I changed into this persona. The year is 1972. I joined the hippie movement after you left when I attended the Woodstock Festival a few years ago."

"Woodstock?  Like the drug?" I inquired.

She nodded. " Right word. Wrong Meaning. Woodstock took place as a music festival. Jimi Hendrix and Joan Baez were there. Make love, not peace is the saying." Sam smiled ruefully. "Anyway, how are you?"

            "How's Andy?"

            "Still alive and kicking. That old man just won't quit. Had lung cancer about two years ago. He is living on borrowed time now.

" So, how did you change so much?

"Dad told me not to get involved with them. Hippies. I tried to stay out of it but then a friend of mine gave me heroin. I said bye-bye country girl Sam, hello brand-new Sam. Make peace not war."

"? That's all you care about?"

"Yeah, according to the hippies, but to you I'm still the Sam who loves you. Do you want some breakfast? I am just cooking up some eggs.,"

            "Good to see you Sam. I would love some. Thanks."

            Sam served me bacon and toast. I sat on a worn-down chair.

            "What are you doing here?" I asked her.

"Ruth asked me to be a babysitter for their first child. It frees her up a little. New York has changed a lot. People nowadays are busier and less polite. I needed a change of scenery. Plus, the hippie movement is powerful out here on the West Coast. I'm visiting a new part of the country, which is wonderful."

"How's Nolan?"

"Oh, he's fine. nervous through. He got traded to the Angels last year. It's strange.

        "How so?" I said curiously.

Sam informed the speaker that Nolan had inquired Harry Dalton about how he developed the trade. Harry recounted that in the spring of 1967, an individual called the Angels' office and tasked Dalton with looking into Nolan. Dalton mentioned the caller had a peculiar last name, Cruise, resembling that of a cruise ship.

I looked down, grinning. The call had worked after all.

"Something funny."

"Tell that Dalton guy Cruise is a unique name for the times. That's why I picked it out."

"I'm sorry, are you saying what I think you are saying?"      

I nodded laughing. "Yes, I am, "I explained.

I explained that the real Tom Cruise was a movie star from my time whose birth year is 1962. Nobody knows who he is. He is a kid living in Beacon Hill, Ottawa in the country of Canada right now.

How's the country doing these days?"

 Sam rolled her eyes. I detected a change in her voice. Sarcasm and anger. " Badly I am afraid. The government is lying to us saying a lone gunman only killed that JFK and Lyndon B. Johnson made a mess by letting Vietnam continue. We have a new president in office, a Quaker raised President, first one in history. He is a real invert. He promises to end the war soon once and for all. Name is Nixon. Heard of him?

"You mean Richard Nixon? Why sure I do. Everybody knows him as the Watergate President."

I paused. Watergate happened in 1973. Too early.

            "As what? Watergate? That's a strange name."

            " Watergate is the title from fiction book I read in school this fall, written by Charles Colson." I replied.

My ability to keep history's secrets was lacking.    

            "Huh, sounds fascinating I should check that out soon."

I was aware of the hinges creaking and the door slamming.

"They are back." Sam got up.

 Nolan and Ruth appeared. Two brown paper bags were being carried by Nolan. Ruth cradled a small baby.

"Here, let me get those for you, Nolan," I offered.

"John! What are you doing here again?"

"Did I not inform you I would come?"

"Who is the baby?"

"Oh, this is Reid. Our first child." said Ruth.

I set the bags on the counter. Nolan put the groceries away in the kitchen pastry.

We sat down to eat. Nolan sat at the head of the table. They positioned me on the other end opposite him. Sam sat next to me on the left while Ruth sat on my right.

Nolan wiped his mouth and talked. "I sought for the Mets to trade me. They picked the Angels to do it.

Nolan wiped his mouth with a napkin and talked. " In December, they finally did it. They picked the Angels to do it. Harry Dalton exhibited a strong sense of generosity towards me from the very start. He gave me a phone call at my home when I arrived in Spring Training. He said aid that I would get every opportunity pitch here. That melody brought joy to my ears.

" I bet.

"It was incredibly kind of him," I volunteered. " Who were you traded for?

Nolan paused as in deep thought, then continued.

Reports indicated the Mets urgently needed a player for third base. The Mets looked at shortstop Jim Fregosi who bore an impressive resume as a former six-time All-Star and good all-round player. The Angels asked for me in return and several prospects. A six-player trade.

"How did the Angels fan base react?"

Angels fans were outraged by the trade of Jim, a beloved and influential clubhouse member. Of the original 1961 Angels, Jim was the only one left. Intense negative feelings were present.

I smiled. " The Mets just made a big mistake. And the game has changed a lot."

" You bet it has.

Then Nolan gave me a summary of what happened since I had been away.

Curt Flood, an outfielder who took on major league baseball said he didn't like the Cardinals sending him to the lowly Phillies. He also didn't like the salaries the team was paying him. Flood thought should earn some more money. Fed up with it, Curt wrote a letter to Commissioner Bowie Kuhn, in 1969 protesting his trade and asking to be a free agent. The case advanced to the Supreme Court, and the case is ongoing. I wonder what the outcome will be.

"How are the Angels treating you?"

"Great," Nolan replied. " Tom Morgan is supposed to be a good pitching coach. I am worried right now."

" Why?"

A player's strike could jeopardize my career, and I can't afford that. I just borrowed money from the bank to pay rent for a house in Anaheim. Want to join me for Spring Training?'

" Sure." I said.

Once breakfast had concluded, I aided Sam in stowing the dishes while Ruth babied Reid who was drinking from a milk bottle.

Soon, our little threesome, Nolan, Sam and I jumped into Nolan's Volkswagen Beetle and headed to our destination.

" You like the car, Nolan?" I asked. He seemed embarrassed by the car. "I borrowed it. The Angels spring training complex occupied the desert in the middle of California nowhere. I acknowledge it was odd being in my home state around 40 years in the past.

Pulling up, I was taken aback by the scene. The field was enclosed by a twisted, knotted fence, resembling a prison barrier around the prime location. But the only yellow thing visible was the protective padding atop. The scoreboard required repainting. The field appeared disordered. To the left stood Autry's Corral, an old barn with its name barely visible in faded green letters. I glanced at Nolan. His jaw dropped.

 He murmured to himself "What in the world am I doing here?"  

" This is the Angels complex?" Sam asked. "Doesn't look like it.

A guy walked toward us. A ballplayer in full Angel's uniform. In catcher's gear no less. His blue eyes searched and broke into a smile. Nolan nodded and got out.

" Hi, there, you must be Nolan Ryan," the catcher said. " Jeff Torborg is my name. I will be your catcher."

Jeff was warm and friendly. He offered to escort us into the building. Since Sam wasn't allowed to be there, I offered to go with her. Sam and I opened the fence and entered the field. We were way off base. The players were involved in running sprints in the outfield and stretching.

" what are you kid doing out here? Get out of here."

The left-fielder became upset while moving in our direction. The player had lean facial features and fierce cold blue eyes. He made several steps toward us. He grabbed me roughly by the collar. "Where did you get that jersey kid? Did you steal it?"

I swallowed. "No sir."

"Please, let him go, he don't mean no harm." Sam pleaded. "He is just a kid."

" I am a guest of somebody who plays on the Angels."

"Well, I see you are wearing a uniform. But whose jersey are you wearing?"

 

Before I could answer, a Texan voice spoke. "That would be mine, Ken." Standing with his hands on his hips, Nolan had his glove on his right hand. He towered over Ken. Under Nolan's stern gaze, Ken didn't move.

 " Are these friends of yours?"

"They are with me. Let the boy go."

Ken let me loose. The sudden impact knocked me to the ground. Nolan and Sam helped me up grabbing my arms and helped me get my bearings.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked. I nodded. I dusted myself off. Nolan turned me around so that Ken could his last name on the jersey. Ken apologized.

"Don't worry about Ken," Nolan said. "He's fine but sometimes he goes overboard. Once, he invited players, myself included, to swim in a lake at his farm. I politely declined I unknowingly dodged a bullet. It turns out the lake was full of maggots and half the players got infected. DL sidelined players for weeks. The manager was furious. Ken made it through the whole misadventure without a scratch."

"Oh wow!" I said.

 "Nolan," a white-haired man in a uniform stood at the plate yelled. " Let's do some drills."

We approached him.

Nolan nodded. "Let's see what Jimmie wants now. Jimmie Reese is our conditioning coach. He roomed with the Babe."

" You roomed with Babe Ruth? That's cool!" I marveled.

Jimmie smiled. "Babe had been missing most of the time. Booze and women couldn't get enough of him, so as a joke I ended up rooming with his suitcase instead which wasn't too terrible.

Nolan and I cracked up.

"Okay, Jimmie." Nolan said. "Where do you want us?"

Jimmie was silent for a moment. "I want all three of you to play infield positions. Take your own pick.

Nolan grabbed borrowed gloves in the dugout for Sam and me. Nolan took second base. Sam took the outfield. I took the hot corner. Jimmie seemed ancient but he could hit a ball. The mound was empty. He had a bucket full of baseballs, toss one up in the air and hit it.

"Hey Nolan, see if you can catch this! He hit a fast-hopping grounder. Nolan barely had time to move he missed it by a mile.

"Next! John! This one to you," he called.

I positioned my feet, spread out my legs for balance.

I nodded.

            Jimmie Reese hit a hard liner to third.

The white seamed object wasted no time. I willed my feet to move and leaned to the left. When I stretched, my feet reached their maximum extension. The ground received a forceful blow because of me losing my footing. Pain surged through my elbow, but I clenched my teeth. I got up and glanced down. The ball occupied my glove.

"Good effort John, try to get this!" Jimmie yelled.

The ball was propelled into a high arc. I leaped. My glove grazed the ball, initiating its downward journey. "I've got this!" Sam cried out. As I turned, I saw Sam sprinting in from left field. Despite her best efforts and quick reaction, she only managed to get her glove under the ball. She hit the ground with a loud thud. Her face twisted in displeasure. From his spot, Nolan rushed over to see how Sam was doing.

"Hey Jimmie, are you attempting to sabotage my pitcher's progress?

"Sorry, Tom," Jimmie said "My fault." He shrugged. He joined us to form a circle around Sam. Sam seemed a little bewildered. The left knee seam of her jeans ripped to shreds.

"You okay, Sam?" I asked concerned.

". Got the wind knocked out of me." I got her up. She took a step and buckled down said "Ow, ow!"

Nolan and I offered support as she hobbled toward the dugout. Gently, she put her long arms around my neck to steady me. Her hands felt as soft as a baby's. Her anguish was palpable to me. I reached for my cell phone.

"What's that?" Nolan asked.

"My cell phone," I said. "What's your home number?"         

"Cell phone? What's a cell phone?"

"An extra phone," I tried to explained.

Nolan gave it to me. I called and Ruth was on the line on the first ring. I explained the situation. The baby was asleep so she could spare an hour. When Ruth pulled up, we got her into the car. Ruth met us at the car saying "Don't worry. I'll take care of her. Ruth got a Band-Aid from the first aid kit in the car.

"I keep these for emergencies." She added. "You boys go back to work. Nolan returned to the field.

I stayed where I was for a second. It conflicted me, torn between seeing Sam hurt and my decision to follow Nolan. Ruth put her hand on my shoulder. "She'll be fine. It's only a slight cut. Go." Relief soared through my aching muscles. I grabbed Sam's hand said, "I'll be back soon."

Then I followed the Angel's latest addition back unto the tall tangled grass of the diamond. 

Nolan was walking to the pitching mound when I joined him. On the hill, Tom Morgan, the pitching coach, met Nolan along with Jeff, the catcher. Tom had Nolan work on his delivery first.

"Hey, Nolan, you are gripping the ball too hard, let it loose." Jeff called.

"Okay," Nolan nodded.

"Let's try something," Tom said. "I'm going to stand in front of you."

"But I'm going to hit you with my leg if I don't." Nolan protested.

"You won't hit me." Tom said.

" How do you know?"

"Because I know you won't. I have all the confidence in you. Now, trust me. "

Tom positioned himself to the left of Nolan, in front of his right leg. Nolan started his delivery, tried to keep his leg from kicking out and going right into Tom. He kept the leg underneath him and delivered the pitch. The journey from the mound to the plate seems to take forever. The ball only took seconds to find its home. Missed. The ball flew to the backstop. The wind blew gently across my cap. Jeff took a mound visit.

"I've always worked hard to get the ball up there," Nolan tried to explained his methods to the catcher. "I thought that helped account for my speed."

Jeff shook his head. "No Nolan, when you rush you stride out too soon, that's why your rhythm is off balance. Your problem is you are wild high."

Jeff moved back to the area behind the plate. Nolan looked dejected, so I encouraged him.

"Hey, let me try." I offered. "Treat me exactly like you did with Nolan."

Tom put himself in my path. The tingling sensation of the steams touching my fingers was undeniable. My memory bank was scoured as I searched for a clip of a Nolan Ryan windup. Over the seams, I maintained the use of only one hand. The goal here is: Less is more. I kept my kick low and locked in that created fluid motion in my windup. The pitch found its way into Jeff's waiting mitt. Perfect strike. Down Main Street.

Nolan copied me and was throwing balls that Jeff could catch in no-time.

Goal: New Windup

Problem solved.

I smiled.

Nolan grinned back.

" Thank you, Tom, Jeff and especially you John." He said. " Thanks a lot.

" No problem, happy to help." I said.

"We should focus on pitching during specific counts." When its 3 and 2 on the batter. What do you throw him?" Tom waited for an answer.

" Curveball."

"What? Curveball? You don't need it. Trust your fastball."

" If I do that, then they will call me a thrower."

Tom shook his head chuckled at his pitcher's stubbornness. 

Ruth and Sam glanced my way, grinning leaning on the fence. Ruth let out a big "YAHOO!"

The six of us, the coach, the pitcher, the catcher, the stay-at-home parent, the hippie girl not saying a single word watching Nolan Ryan turn into a workout with Tom Morgan on Spring Training one hot day in 1972. As the sun rose higher and glowed in the sky, I realized I was a living witness to history. History in the making. And it only just began.

Tom said pitching enough for today. Nolan turned to me.

" Would you like to run with me?"

" Sure." I said.

Nolan turned and walked to the left field corner. There were Angel players standing around in the outfield. Nolan and I joined them.

"Hey Nolan, want to race?" Ken Berry asked.

"I'm always up for a challenge. John will join us."

"Okay, the goal is to run from foul pole to foul pole." Ken said.

Nolan nodded.

Standing in formation, the players lined up. I dug my heels in. I noticed the yellow foul pole that was noticeable against the blue painted outfield wall. My hand remained on the grass until I received the information.

" Go!" someone yelled.

I took off. Nolan was a little ahead of me. I sensed the wind blowing across my face. The heels of my sleets made a series of thump sounds. I groaned from the effort; my ribs were hurting. The breathing labored. I reached the pole several paces behind Nolan. I took a long breath.

" You alright there, rookie?" a player asked.

I nodded.

Nolan put his hand on my shoulder.

" You're sweaty, take a break."

I shook my head.

" One more race, from here to there. That's it."

"One more. Then that's it. I don't want you to die from heat stroke. We have been out here since eight this morning." 

I did one more run to the opposite pole. I beat Nolan by half a step.

" Not bad for a rookie," Ken said.

" Thanks," I said.

Then Nolan looked up in the stands. The stands were nearly empty save a man sitting on the middle row behind home plate.

" Hey, you want to join us?" Ken asked.

" No, you guys go ahead. I'll catch up with you later."

" Who is that Nolan?" I asked.

" Reporter who wants to talk to me. I promised him a scoop."

Nolan jogged in the directions of the stands.

I walked over to Sam and Ruth. We got in the car. Ruth pulled up to the trailer. We proceeded in a line, one after the other. I proceeded to the kitchen once Sam and Ruth had settled on the coach.

" Hey, John," Sam called. " What are you doing?"

I poured water from the sink.

"Getting a drink. Be right there in a minute."

I took a sip. The bedroom door that I had entered just hours ago now lay in front of me. The door turning green at any second was something I was halfway expecting. It didn't. I backed away and walked into the kitchen.

I put the glass down. Here we go. Better now than never.

I drew a deep breath.

"Ruth, Sam, I have a confession to make. I'm from the future."

"Wait, you're kidding right?" Sam said.

"Are you crazy?" Ruth said.

"Let me prove it to you."

"You don't have proof," Sam said.

"Actually, I do Samantha," I replied, trying to keep my voice even.

I had used her given name to show I was serious. Apparently, the ruse worked.

Her expression changed.

" Show us," said Ruth suspiciously.

" Do you notice anything different about me from our last visit?

" You look the same.... you haven't...." Sam gasped.

I concluded her thought on her behalf. "My age has remained unchanged."

"You had the same age as me, I mean." Sam said.

" I did. I am a time-traveler. Father Time made you older while I stay the same."

"Why are you here?" Ruth said.

My dad held Nolan Ryan as his favorite player. While watching an Angel's game with him, I unexpectedly traveled back to 1965."

"In theory, if time travel is real? What do you think of time?" Sam asked me watching me closely.

I wasted no time in giving her an honest reply. "What do I think? I think Father Time is a freezing old man to tell you the truth who can give you a history lesson you can't learn in a middle school classroom. The world has changed a lot since 1965."

"How so?" Sam asked.

"Well, take you for example Sam. You are now what, 17? You used to be a simple smiling country girl. Now I think you are a very bitter and angry teenager."

"Excuse me," Sam rose. "What did you say?"

" Yeah, and I think makes sense because kids are thrilled and carefree while adults seem to be more judgmental and critical of others. My best guess is when you are an adult, your experiences form life, your bias while a kid is so innocent and so pure and full of dreams. Adults seem to envy us kids just as much as we envy the adults."

Sam and Ruth sat there taking in all in.

I actually wonder about growing up. I added for good measure.

Sam and Ruth said nothing.

"My goal when I came here was to meet and watch Nolan Ryan play out his career.. I'll rest for a nap.

"Please don't leave me again, John," Sam spoke.

"I give you my word, I will be taking a nap."

Stepping out of the den, I reached for the bedroom door and opened it. Nothing. I shut the door. I walked to the bed, removed the cleats, and settled down. As I closed my eyes, I noticed the door turn green. My mouth formed into the words Wait, but I never had a chance. 

I was wide awake. I experienced a downward descent through a room's doorway. Carpet covers the floor, hangers hang on the rack.

I stood upright. The door closed silently behind me.

Locker room.

Only this time, I sensed a change. Guilt came over me.

 Because I knew I had broken a promise. Twice.

I sat on the stool and sobbed.

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                         Chapter 5: 1973:

For my next entrance, time threw me a curveball for once. A surprising spot. I began with a strong start, extending my arms for balance against the looming white wall. My feet lost all feeling. I inhaled. I detected music nearby. The music is loud. My clothes caught my eye, and I smiled. I was wearing the Angels uniform this time and walking on pavement.  At the far end of the court, I was in the gym standing by the hoops. Mirrors reflected my surprised expression. I saw a long wooden rack glued to the wall. I think this gym may have once been a dance studio. The paint was flaking off. I concluded the gym had seen better days.

 The music intensified as I neared the double doors and pushed them open. I found myself in a spacious room. Enigmatic. A man in loud clothing stood with his back to me, wearing headphones. I peered over his shoulder. He was playing music from a small device. He was a DJ.

 The music had a distinctive rhythmic style, its beat echoing the back-and-forth motion of a tennis ball. With every beat, the dancers swayed their hips from side to side. I must have been in a DJ booth, watching the action unfold below. A giant, basketball-sized, flashing object was the room's only light source, its multicolored beams blinding me as they splashed across the gym floor like a movie projector. Dancers of all genders wore long hair. Many wore glasses and colorful clothing. Several were shouting and drinking from red cups. I gazed at the scene with wide eyes.

A blonde girl near the DJ booth caught my eye, her eyes widening in alarm as she sipped from her cup. The girl looked at me. To her male companion, the mystery girl whispered. The stairs leading to the booth, a blonde woman neared.

"Hey, what you are doing up here?"

For the first time in my time-travel career, I got attacked by someone. The blow turned me to face my attacker, the DJ.

"Sorry sir," I stammered. I searched for help. The girl ran up and down the stairs two or three times. Her outfit comprised long pants, a matching glittery shirt and jacket. She wore enormous, round glasses of a strange, hard-to-define hue.

Who was this girl?

The booth slammed into me. My back was in agony. My pleas received no attention; I looked into his eyes. Nothing was visible to me. Pitch black.

Sunglasses, I thought.

The DJ made a move to punch me. I shut my eyes wanting for the impact, only it never came. The hands released me. I heard some thumping and some yelling. The hands that grabbed me were tender. I opened my eyes.

It was the girl.

She smiled.

The girl helped me up.

The DJ got up, red blood forming from a cut on his mouth.

" You know this kid Mitchell?"

Mitchell? No way.... I glanced from one to the other, thinking to myself.

She took off the rounded sunglasses. Blue eyes.

"Yes," the girl answered him. "He's, my friend."

"Your friend? He looks like he could be your son."

"He's my friend point taken alright, now back off or I'll punch you again Michael. You understand me?" Sam got inches in his face. Michael the DJ backed down.

Sam took my hand.

"Get out of here," she yelled.

I followed Sam down the stairs and through the maze of bodies dancing to music. Then I had a thought.

"Wait, Sam, I have an idea." I said.

"John, don't. These people are dangerous!" She yelled.

I ignored her warnings. Baseball cap in place, I strode confidently onto the brightly lit stage. I glanced at Michael, the DJ, and yelled, "Play a song!"

The stage pulsed with the rhythm, its light matching the beat of the music resonating through me. As soon as the music began, I broke into my John Travolta moves. My left hand rose, relaxed above my head. I pointed upward and then spread my legs. The crowd roared, "Ah Ah Ah Oh!" The crowd intimidated me. Several women even collapsed. Completely absorbed in the dance, I moved freely.

I wiggled and tapped my left foot. I need to hear more cheering. As I moved to the music, a realization dawned on me.  

 

DJ Michael's music had a harder beat than I was accustomed to. This song is perfect for dancing. I'm sure the dance teacher could have created amazing choreography with those rhythms. The song lyrics were suggestive, flirting with the line between playful teasing and outright explicitness. That's understandable, given the sexual revolution of the 1960s. The lyrics subtly stretched the boundaries of imagery in their songs. The hidden message was all about pushing boundaries. An Elvis Presley quote came to mind. I could barely move my pinky. A faster, crazier rock sound emerged, its lyrics reflecting the frenetic pace of a culture that my own would soon supersede. My history teacher used to say that everything is interconnected.    

Before I could make any more moves, Sam pulled me off the stage. She was acting more like my mother than my friend. The crowd gave me an ovation. 

Sam jammed all her weight into the door. Fresh air greeted me. I caught my breath. The door slammed behind us.

"You realize they have killed you? And what was that dance, that weird finger motion with your hands?"

 "Oh that was from some movie called Saturday Night Fever.
"Good," she sounded worried.

" I don't want to see. I'm afraid. The world has seen enough changes."

I saw her face clearly despite the cloudy daylight. That Sam, in 1973, was unique. Her baby fat had disappeared, making her face thinner. There was something striking about her eyes. A sorrowful emptiness lingered beneath their lively exterior. Her enthusiasm for life appeared to have faded a long time ago. Sam painted her lips with bold red lipstick and applied eyeliner. She maintained her athletic and fit physique. She looked in character except for the white shoes. Perhaps she's wearing her nicest shoes for a date.

"Sam? Is it you?" I said.

"You were in a lot trouble," Sam searched my face any cuts or bruises. "You are safe now." 

"Thanks Sam." I said, giving her a hug.

"What was that place?"

"Don't worry. They opened a disco music club after their last visit. Where do you want to go?
            "I thought you had a date with that guy?" I said.

Sam shrugged. "He's a d****e. Kind of idiot anyway. Not a serious date at all. Besides you are more important to me."

I pointed to the stadium across the street. Angel Stadium loomed in the distance.

"I want to go there." I explained. "To see Nolan Ryan pitch his second no-hitter and I'm very late. It's toward the end of the game. I have to see it."

"Very well," Sam hailed a taxi. Sam and I climbed in the cab."

 " How did the world change so much? The world appeared promising. Now, it is on the decline.

Why?" I asked.

Sam looked out the window. "The world changed." She sighed.

 

A straightforward response. A meaning that is complicated. I spent my entire journey contemplating those words. The taxi got us there in no time. Sam paid and we walked together to the stadium entrance.

            The ticket taker was prepared for guests. I guessed he was a high schooler; he looked young and wore braces. A tender touch to his mouth betrayed his nervousness.

Sam leaned down and whispered to me.

"I'm the adult here. Let me do the talking."

He greeted us warmly.

"Listen," Sam began "this is uh.... my son. We are friends of Nolan Ryan."

            "Nolan Ryan? He left passes for two people."

            "Two? I thought just one." Sam frowned. "You sure?"

            " Got a note here. For John Massey and Sam Mitchell. That would be you two?"

            "Yes, please."

The attendant barked some orders on a radio, the guard led them to the locker room. Sam stayed outside.

"You go," she said. "I'll meet you afterwards. I'll be watching you behind home plate, now go on."
She kneeled to my size, and I gave her a final big hug for good measure.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," I said.

"That's alright, John. Now go or you'll miss the game."

The locker room looked just like the one I'd left behind. He opened the door. I walked down a long hallway. I located the Angels' dugout. I searched for Nolan. Lost in thought, he was sitting on the very edge of the bench. I was sitting next to him. The player near me schooled hours in atrocious baseball behavior. Honestly, I wouldn't have accepted it.

"It is bad luck to sit and talk to a pitcher while he is pitching a no-hitter." The player said.

A sarcastic smile played on my lips as I answered. He's pitching a no-hitter, so it doesn't matter.

He was too stunned to speak.

Nolan's face was vacant of expression and trying to breathe. Sweat ran down his brow. Nolan smiled and nodded and lifted a finger to his lips. I smiled back and watched the game with him. The uniforms on the field were gray w the name of Detroit in black letters on the front.

The dugout seemed cramped with all twenty-five players. The pitchers had their own area. The infielders had their own part. They watched the game from the railing. A lot of unfamiliar faces were present on this team.

I was watching the game when the manager of the team approached me. 

"Are you the new batboy?" he asked briskly.

"No, I'm a friend of Nolan's."

"The batboy is sick. They carried him off the field the last inning. Take position at first base."

Batboy? Man, this was neat.

" Yes sir." I replied eagerly.

The manager tossed me a helmet and a glove, and I ran out of the dugout. As I ran around home plate, I glanced at the scoreboard and the big red A in the distance.

Angels 6. Tigers 0 Bottom of the 8th inning.

The stadium was full to the brim. The crowd was into the game. Sam was behind home plate with Ruth beside her. She smiled and waved. In return, I waved back.

I knelt close to the first baseman. The first baseman caught my attention. Norm Cash. Norm was a Texan, like Nolan. He formed a deadly two-punch power hitter duo with Al Kaline during the 1960s and 70s. The crack of a bat startled me awake, interrupting my thoughts. The ball was flying toward me. A swift wind likely lifted it into the stands. I watched Norm tracked the ball running.

I looked around my surroundings. The 1973 Tigers had a powerful group of players at each position. I couldn't believe that Nolan could put a stop to them. What a lineup. I recalled the names of the Tiger infield players. Golden-haired Mickey Stanley was the shortstop. Then I shifted my attention to the outfielders because they were a major source of the team's power bats.

 In left was Willie Horton who finished his career with 828 stolen bases. In the center was the aging Al Kaline. I recall he was a victim of osteomyelitis as a child which after surgery where a bone removed from his leg.

The surgery, however, led to scarring and permanent deformity in his left foot, and despite all those obstacles, he ended up in the Hall of Fame. Jim Northrup reigned in right. They nicknamed him "Gray Fox" for his premature gray hair.  

My alert eyes scanned the crowds for a second. The crowd were on the edge of their seats. I couldn't blame them. Who wouldn't want to witness a no hitter? I noticed a lot of the same style of clothes I had seen at the club earlier. In his children's book, Dallas QB Troy Aikman who grew up in the 1970s era remarked he was called Ears simply because he was one of the first to have his haircut over his ears. 

Well, Troy is right. Short hair was not the style back in the 70s era.

The announcer boomed the name of the next batter. I sat in my chair ready.

The batter at the plate fouled off a pitch that flew into the stands. Cash took off running. Directly in his line of sight, in the first row, there was a little boy, nine or ten years old sitting in his seat enjoying the game between two adults. He had a baseball cap and popcorn in his hand. Norm without warning took the boy's cap and adjusted the cap backwards, putting it on the fan's head. The boy stared at him in shock.

Norm dipped his hand into the bag of popcorn, grabbed a handful, and said "Thanks kid." The kid started at him open-mouthed. I laughed.
I laughed as I told Norm, "You're such a clown." Norm smiled before trotting back to his position.

The inning passed with no more incidents. Another bat boy came to relieve my position. A player handed me fresh balls.

"Give these to the umpire the next inning." The player explained.

Shortly after, the umpire returned to the field. I gave the balls to the umpire. Nolan came out of the dugout to pitch the 9^th and final inning. Nolan made quick outs of the first two batters. Norm Cash came up to the plate. Norm dug in and took a few swings with his bat. I noticed the bat he held his hands was unusually white and slightly longer than an average bat.

Nolan yelled "Hey, Ron, what's he got?" pointing at Norm. Ron was the umpire. He took off his mask and gave Norm a stern talking to. "What is that anyway?" 

"It's a table leg I took from a table in the locker room.' Norm explained.," You can't use that up here. "The umpire said sternly. Norm shrugged, "Why not? I won't hurt him, anyway." He argued.

 I looked at Nolan who had a big grin across his face stretched a mile wide. Norm tossed away the table leg. I jogged to the plate and gave him a real bat. Nolan's smile disappeared as he went into his fluid motion windup. Norm's prediction came true. He couldn't hit Nolan with anything. Norm popped up to the shortstop who caught it on the run. I raised my arms in celebration and yelled " Yahoo!" 

  Nolan was shaking the catcher's hand. Then I lost sight of him as he got mobbed by his teammates. In that instant, I halted and absorbed the moment. I tried to find Sam and Ruth. I started eye contact with Sam and then raised my fist. Sam copied me. I smiled.

I followed the team down the steps into the locker accommodation. There was a lot of cheering. They sprayed champagne. I got some sprayed on me. A photographer from the newspaper grabbed Nolan. The photo guy set Nolan near his locker and got a picture of Nolan holding the ball from his no hitter.   

After the picture flashed Nolan's smiling face, I ran up to him and shook his hand.

            "Congrats on two no hitters!"

            " Thanks." Nolan said humbly. "I'm glad it's all over."

            I hung out in the locker room for longer. Then I went outside. Sam and Ruth were waiting for me.

" How's Reid?" I asked.

" Oh, he's fine. He's with a babysitter."

Nolan got dressed and met us outside. We climbed into leather seats of the Beatle and checked into a buffet place where they had an all you eat special. I told Nolan about Norm and the kid. He smiled.

"Norm is a character," Nolan said wiping his mouth with a napkin. "He is a party person who known around the league for pulling pranks. One time, I heard he called members of his team saying that they were going fishing at a farm nearby. Be there about five o'clock. Sure enough, they get down there. There was neither boat nor a soul in sight. Norm sat down for breakfast after they gave up. Norm simply asked how was the fishing trip? The whole adventure had been a prank pulled by Norm."

I thought that was funny.

 "Are you going to stick with baseball?"

"I plan to." Nolan replied. "I'm going to stick with it. Tom Morgan has helped me a lot. My thanks are owed to him."

By brief glancing, I observed the view outside the restaurant window. One of the best moments ever was eating in a restaurant with Nolan Ryan after his second no-hitter, making it a strong contender for the favorite moment of all time award. I spent my evening eating chicken tenders and fries. After the meal, I hung around some. Across the street, a glowing door appeared to me. Bidding the Ryans farewell, I quickly headed for the door.

 Turning the knob, I went through. Darkness covered me from head to toe. Then the light came on. I was in the locker room again. I sat on a nearby stool to catch my breath and turned the knob again.

 

Me and the doorways were becoming quite an annoying habit.

 

  Chapter 6:

1977

Beyond the doorway lay a sidewalk and a tall building opposite. I walked on the grass. Chaos reigned before me. Chatter filled the air as the various people walked along the sidewalk, some of them going north or south. They came from diverse backgrounds. Some men in shiny business suits had shoes that thumped loudly on the ground. Long-haired hippies took deep drags of their cigarettes, filling the air with smoke. Something unpleasant. Sporting my new haircut, I seemed out of place, like a marine surrounded by civilians. I joined the southbound crowd.  

 Compared to the 60s, 70s fashion was more flamboyant and striking. Long sideburns are a common sight. Every young person I saw on the street looked uncertain.

Long-haired people crowded the sidewalk, smoking. The girls dyed their hair two clashing colors, reflecting their feelings of worthlessness. Hurt and resentment shone from those empty eyes. It horrified me. Skirt lengths shortened. Kennedy's assassination cast a pall over the world. From the ashes of a devastated world, a quest for peace and understanding begins, occasionally leading to ill-fated discoveries. Mom described the 70s as a wild time. I now believe her.

I stopped at a traffic light. Then I went across. I was in a busy part of a vast city. The sun beat down on me. Sweat drenched me within minutes, running down from under my soaked cap. I saw someone tall holding hands with a woman far away. There were two little boys with them. They were walking toward me. I saw the face of the man.

"Nolan!"

Nolan offered a smile, Ruth a wave, and I subsequently joined them on the pavement.

"May I inquire as to my current location?" I submitted a question.

The City of Los Angeles. Ruth responded.

The year was the subject of my inquiry. The year of 1977.

What are you doing in Los Angeles? I inquired.

"Engaging in tourist activities. You pop up during random moments." Nolan stated.

I laughed.

"That's my job," I said.

We proceeded around the corner. A nearby structure exhibited characteristics of Chinese architectural design. The theater's facade featured double doors, and its roof possessed an outward curve. Red stanchions cordon off the area outside the entrance. Two large men acted as guards at the entrance.

I asked about the place.

"The proper name is Mann's Chinese Theatre." Nolan stated.

"Let's see what's playing today."

I walked up to the double-doors and knocked. 

"Can I help you?" A young redhead worked at the theater.

"We were wondering what's playing today?" I asked.

 She contemplated the matter for a short time. We have multiple options available today. The Saturday night gathering with a feverish atmosphere. Annie Hall, the movie. Today's film selections include *Smokey and the Bandit*. A studio released a new film today. The premiere is underway." 

"Which movie?

"The low-budget space opera, Star Wars."

Silence.

Were you referring to Star Wars? I inquired with amazement.

"Yes I did."

"I love Star Wars!" I yelled with excitement.

She rolled her eyes.

When does the premiere take place?

"Right around the corner."

She came out and pointed at the red pole.

"Thanks so much," I said, turning to Nolan. May I please have a pen and paper?

" I can get you in there."

We went straight to the rope dividing the areas. The burly guard glanced in Nolan's direction.

"My friend would like to attend the premiere of the movie.

One of them nodded. "Of course, Mr. Ryan. Right this way."

He unhitched the line and my feet hit the blazing red carpet.    

            They put the carpet out without fanfare that frequented the tube. I only saw a couple of camera men taking photos. The place lacked activity. Eerie quiet. No crowd. No people begging for autographs, no yelling or screaming. It was so quiet I could hear the click of the camera as it took one pic. People were walking by, going about their lives in a no-hum fashion I realized, that I, John Massey of Baytown, California was the only person in attendance at the movie premiere along with the Ryan clan.  

Further in, I noticed only a couple of photographers, their cameras clicking rhythmically, capturing images of the bustling cast and crew. I found that quite intriguing, a fascinating tidbit of information. Star Wars is huge in my time; you can see its influence in everything from blockbuster movies to everyday conversations. To the dismay of many, Star Wars garnered little interest in 1977. Amidst the blinding flashes of cameras, the real-life Star Wars cast stood and smiled, their faces illuminated by the bright lights.

A youthful-looking brown-haired Harrison Ford, dressed in a sleek black suit, stood with his hands in his pockets. Beside him, Mark Hamill donned a navy blue suit. Carrie Fisher shimmered in a dazzling white dress. George Lucas, with a distinct beard that was not as gray as recent photos, accompanied Carrie. The wall displayed the iconic Star Wars logo in giant yellow letters.

 

Amidst the flash of cameras, I approached Harrison Ford, who was the closest person in reach.
"Pardon me, Mr. Ford?"

" Move away kid, you got no business here." Someone put a hand on my arm.

 "Wait a minute Stan, he's the only person here. He's a kid," Harrison held up his hand.
To make eye contact, Harrison knelt down in front of me.

"Ignore Stan. What's your name kid?" said Harrison Ford.

I meekly told him.

"Welcome to the premiere. My name is Harrison."

"Thanks Mr. Ford. Can I have a pic and autograph please sir?"

I handed my pen and notepad to Harrison. He signed his name and returned the pad to me.

"Thank you Mr. Ford."

Then Harrison got me a photo with the cast and George Lucas. Carrie and George were on either side of me. I said cheese for the camera, then asked Carrie for her autograph. She complied. I also got George and Mark's. I confidently approached the photographer with the credentials.  

"Do you know that people expect this movie to be a box office hit?"

The guy called Stan snorted. "Oh yeah," he laughed. "Yeah right. Nobody likes Science Fiction these days. Those times are gone."

"Do you want to learn something new?"

"Sure." The man snorted.

"Harrison Ford will continue to be a major box office draw in Hollywood."

What makes you say that?

"His later film role include Indiana Jones in, and later, the bounty hunter Rick Deckard."

The press guy rolled his eyes. "Get real kid."

"Someday, you'll regret what you said." A knowing smile touched my lips.

I left the premiere feeling fantastic. To ensure photo delivery, Nolan gave the photographer his address.

We walked a couple of miles south of the boulevard. Los Angeles was a bit more crowded. I suppose there will be heavy traffic later. Small towns foster more communication among people. However, a major advantage of big cities is their abundance of activities. The square building was a diner-style breakfast place, reminiscent of a modern-day Snake and Bake. Booths lined up the windows. A teenage boy wearing oversized glasses took our order. Hash browns, bacon, and pancakes were on my order.

As we chatted halfway through our meal, the door creaked open, letting in a burst of cool air. A young man in faded jeans and a crisp blue shirt strolled in, followed by a dark-haired young lady exuding a floral perfume. Her radiant smile lit up the room as her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The shuffling of their footsteps echoed as they made their way to the counter, causing the young boy behind it to gasp. I strained to catch their names as they placed an order, the tantalizing aroma of freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Balancing my pad, I weaved through tables towards them. The gentle clinking of cutlery against plates filled the air as the young lady poked at her meal, her eyes meeting mine with a curious gleam.

She smiled and spoke. " Hi kid, my name is Karen Carpenter. This is my brother Richard."

I racked my brain trying to remember the name. Karen and Richard, who form the duo The Carpenters. They were some of the 1970s' biggest stars. I remember listening to Mom's records, and Karen's beautiful, angelic voice, singing with a touch of melancholy, is something I'll always cherish. Richard, her brother, was a talented pianist, and together they created perfect harmony. I read that Karen was a talented drummer who began playing in high school. Four years later, at 32, she passed away.

"Can I ask for an autograph?" I asked.

Her signature was clear and legible. She gave the paper to her brother, who also signed it.

With a word of thanks, I went back to my seat. I have finished eating. Then, we departed from the restaurant. My gratitude for attending a Hollywood movie premiere was conveyed to Nolan.

Pausing on the pavement, I dashed across the street.

"Will I see you in the next decade, the 1980s?" I asked, a wide grin on my face.  

Nolan laughed and shrugged, as if to said, "Whatever." My joke had me laughed as I dashed around the corner, grabbing the doorknob of the room I'd entered hours earlier. The door slammed behind me. The light illuminated. Once more, the locker room came into view.

I took the jersey with Ryan's name on it. The new uniform strangely combined white and bright orange, with "Astros" emblazoned across the chest. A smile touched my lips. The piece was a quintessential product of the 1980s, elegantly mirroring the decade's distinctive character.

I wonder what this decade will bring. I reflected.

My arm in an Astros uniform sleeve, I reached for the handle. A flash of bright light blinded me, and I continued walking.

                       1983: Chapter 7:

As darkness fell, music blared from everywhere. I looked around. I was in a tiny room. Motionless stacks of tapes sat on the shelves before me. While browsing, I heard Michael Jackson's distinctive high-pitched voice singing in the background. As I neared the counter, I noticed a young man with a bushy mustache wearing headphones.

"What year is this?"

"1983."

1983 was the year Flashdance and Footloose were released. I looked to my right. People strolled past.

"Where am I?"

"Dude, you're in a mall. Where are you from?"

I forgot malls were a big deal in the 80s. And hey, has anyone mentioned you rock a mullet like MacGyver?"

I stepped into the bright sunshine. The floor was scorching! My sandals were killing my feet. As I kept walking, I noticed lots of stores crammed in little spaces. Everything sparkled. I took the escalator down, blown away by all the people and their crazy hair. The Mullets and more. Both men and women wore a variety of clothing, some professional, like the Oxford shirts reminiscent of polio shirts from my youth. Ralph Lauren, I believe, made these. Brightly colored shirts, yellow and pink, were worn by women, paired with high-waisted jeans or baggy pants that showed off their long legs. I hopped off the escalator and hurried outside. Noticing a nearby trash can, I took a quick peek inside. The date on today's newspaper was April 2, 1983. Karen Carpenter's death at 32 left me speechless; the headline was shocking.

Then I heard my name.

I rotated. Nolan sat in a car parked at the curb in front of me.

Please join me. I'm on the way to the stadium." Nolan said.

I entered the car and Nolan sped up, taking us to the game. Nolan proceeded several blocks before turning left at the traffic signal next to Kirby Drive.

Nolan showed that the stadium is located here. In the distance: Its immense dome obscuring the street, the stadium was a dominant presence. Waving: Waving us through, the guard ushered us across the deserted parking lot. Nolan parked by the corner, close to the door, and exited his vehicle. We went through a door and down a long hallway. Our shoes clicked on the floor, echoing naturally off the bare walls.

I need to prepare myself. "Nolan disappeared through the nearby double doors," I hurried to the door and turned the handle. I stared in astonishment, my jaw agape. Sunlight streamed through small holes in the ceiling of the enclosed space.

A voice cried, "The celling is something else!"

I glanced around and noticed a tall Astros pitcher grinning at me in amusement.

"Yeah. It is."

Nolan appeared, in full Astros uniform.

"John, this is J. R. Richard. The greatest strikeout pitcher I've ever seen."

I shook hands with the pitcher. I recalled hearing about him. Despite being a star high school basketball player, he rejected numerous scholarships to play baseball instead. He toiled in the minors for years, his wild pitching a persistent obstacle, until his 1975 call-up to the majors. The 6'8" right-handed pitcher threw a blazing fastball exceeding 100 mph, complemented by an effective curveball. As the wild 1970s transitioned into the tech-driven 1980s, Nolan Ryan and J.R. Richard formed a dominant pitching duo for the latter half of the decade.

I approached the bullpen door and opened it.

I closed my eyes once more. I seemed light as a feather, suspended in midair. The action made someone think of an astronaut orbiting in space. I landed on a hard surface. My eyes snapped open in agony. I was browsing through some uniforms that were right in front of me. I recognized the locker room.

"That was quite an entrance," I reflected.

My gaze lifted to the blue lettering on the pristine white jersey. Elegant cursive lettering spells out "Rangers" across the front.

Nolan Ryan's final game jersey. The adventure is almost over. I put on my uniform.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Year 1993

I heard a loud pop in the distance. Then the light brightened. Ahead, I saw the tracks and a brightly lit baseball field. I climbed the narrow ramp to the railing, joining the other ballplayers in identical uniforms as they watched the pitcher. Even older, with fine lines etched around his eyes, I recognized Nolan instantly. He wound up and threw the pitch. The second ball. His graying hair was shown when he took off his cap.
At the kingdom, we witness the match-up between lefty first baseman Dan Howitt and Nolan Ryan. Nolan inhaled deeply before speaking.

The sound of cracking! A tiny white ball soared into the center field bleachers, almost reaching the stadium's dome.

As the batter circled the bases, Nolan shook his head. It then dawned on me I was witnessing Nolan's last game of a long career. Nolan smiled at me, and I gave him a thumbs-up.

The following batter was Dave Magadan. Nolan fell behind again, starting with the count to 2-0. Nolan paused before delivering his last pitch.

Strike One! The umpired called it. Nolan cradled his arm, then threw another pitch. This one was a ball. A white-haired uniformed man started up the steps. Then Nolan shook his head and pointed at me.

"It seems like he wants you to take him out." The manager said.

I ascended the steps and swiftly reached the mound. Nolan got a big grin on his face. "I did. Since you've spent so much time with me, I thought you'd be the one to take the ball from me.

"It's an honor, thanks." I said.

We walked off the field together stride for stride. Nolan received many congratulations and high fives as he walked in. Nolan headed to the pitchers' side of the dugout. He grabbed a large frame and he said. " I was keeping this for you."

The framed picture was of me and the Star Wars cast at the movie premiere. 

Nolan requested a pen and ball, then autographed the ball's sweet spot.

"What's your dad's name?" Nolan required.

"Gary." I answered.

"Here's a ball for your dad."

He handed me the ball. He wrote TO MY BIGGEST FAN, GARY, NOLAN RYAN.

I gasped, mumbled my thanks, and hugged Nolan.

"Knowing you has been a true pleasure."

I gave a nod. With a baseball under one arm and a Star Wars poster under the other, I walked down the dugout ramp. In the darkness, I groped for the doorknob and flung the door open. A sudden bright light blinded me, then vanished. I headed back to the locker room. I removed my jersey, hung it up, and then turned off the lights. The room fell into darkness.

THE END