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eight months earlier.
    I had waited a long time for this moment. At any second, the players could be called out to the field to start the game. This might be my only chance to talk with Ray Chapman one-on-one. I worked up my courage.
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Chapman?” I asked quietly.
    â€œYes, son?” he said, looking up at me with kindly eyes. He had no accent. I remembered that Flip said he came from Kentucky, like me.
    â€œI want to give you something,” I said. I pulled the batting helmet out of my bag and handed it to him.
    â€œWhat the heck is this contraption?”
    â€œIt’s a helmet,” I began. “This is going to be hard for me to explain; but in the game today, Mr. Chapman, you could get hit. I mean, you’re going to get hit. Hard. In the head.”
    Ray looked at the helmet, turning it over in his hands. He tapped it with his knuckles.
    â€œWhere’d you get this thing?” he asked.
    â€œI…uh, had it in my garage,” I explained.
    â€œHow do you know so much about the game today?” he asked, smile lines forming at the corners of his eyes. “Where’s your crystal ball? Are you one of those fellas who predicts the future?”
    â€œNot exactly…”
    What could I say? That I came from the future? He’d never believe the truth in a million years. A lie was more believable.
    â€œâ€¦I get hunches about things,” I continued. “I’ve got a hunch that if you wear this helmet when you’re batting today, it will save your life.”
    â€œAre you crazy, son?” he asked. “Because you sure sound crazy.”
    â€œI’m not crazy,” I explained. “I’m—”
    Ray Chapman took my batting helmet and put it on his head. It fit. He stood up and laughed.
    â€œHey, fellas!” he shouted. “Look at this!”
    Tris Speaker and some of the other Indians came over.
    â€œNice hat, Chappie!” somebody said, and they all broke up laughing.
    â€œThis young fella says it’ll protect me when I’m hitting,” said Chapman.
    â€œYou might as well wear a dress too, Chappie!” somebody said, which caused the Indians to double over.
    Ray took off the helmet and tapped it with his fingernails.
    â€œWhat’s this thing made of?” he asked.
    â€œPlastic,” I answered, instantly regretting it.
    â€œPlastic?” Ray snorted. “What’s plastic?”
    â€œIt’s this really strong stuff,” I said. “But it’s not too heavy.”
    â€œStrong?” Speaker said, grabbing a bat from Ray’s locker. “Let’s see. Toss that thing to me, Chappie.”
    Speaker got into a batting stance, and everybody stood back to give him room. Ray underhanded my batting helmet to him from about ten feet away. Speaker took a full swing.
    Crrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaccccccccckkkkkkkk.
    Pieces of my batting helmet went flying across the locker room. The Indians collapsed all over each other in hysterics.
    â€œIt don’t look so strong to me,” Speaker said.
    So much for that idea. I had blown my mission. Again.

12
The Good Old Days
    S TUPID ! T HAT’S WHAT I WAS . S TUPID !
    What was I thinking? That a player in 1920 would just willingly put on a batting helmet with no questions asked?
    I should have known better. I mean, I don’t know as much about baseball history as Flip, but I do know that athletes didn’t start wearing protective gear for a long, long time. My dad once told me that when he was a kid, hockey players didn’t wear helmets. It wasn’t considered “manly.” Baseball players didn’t even wear gloves when the game began.
    Bringing Ray Chapman a batting helmet was a dumb idea. I might as well have brought him a cell phone.
    The Indians must have thought that busting up my helmet was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. While they fell all over themselves laughing, I slinkedout of the locker room.