The year was 2057. The place, Yankee Stadium, home to the tradition-rich New York Yankees. It was a breezy, cloud-free, mid-June day and the stadium was filled with fans donning NY insignia caps, and various player jerseys. Leonard Weaver, star pitcher for the Chicago White Sox was mired in a slump that threatened his career. He was on the mound warming up for the Yankee order and realizing this outing could mean the difference between a major league uniform and minor league bus travel. The season before, he won the American League Rookie-of-the-Year award with the league’s most wins. Since then, every start since Spring Training resulted in an early exit and an ERA well over nine. His mental condition was at an all-time low, and he couldn’t find the plate if he had a GPS.

As he juggled the rosin, he sized up the Yankees’ leadoff hitter. He spiked the bag, adjusted his sweat-stained brim, and received the signals from the catcher. After agreeing on a fastball, he rocked into his motion and fired the ball toward the plate. The batter swung and hit a line drive that screamed toward his head. His reflexes allowed him to spin away but not before being grazed on the right side of his temple, taking him to the dirt mound.

Blackness overtook his vision as he succumbed to the unconscious. Moments later he came to, and found players hovering over him that he did not recognize.

“Back up, give him air,” barked the manager, as he knelt down to get a better look. He was wearing a Sox cap, but with a different logo and wearing a thick flannel, baggy uniform. Leonard looked around and noticed all of the players clad in the same attire.

“You alright, kid?” asked the skipper, between spits of his chew.

“Uh…yeah…I guess,” Leonard answered, fighting the effects of the liner.

“Get him up. Kid, I hope you’re okay. We used five pitchers yesterday, so we need innings out of you.”

The third baseman lifted him up as the manager gave him a pep talk. The umpire broke up the huddle and when the players returned to their positions, Leonard was taken aback of the vision of the original Yankee Stadium, adorned by the white wrap-around façade lining the roof.

‘The uniforms, the stadium…I know where I am, but when?’ Leonard pondered, as he slowly acclimated to his new surroundings. There wasn’t time to mentally reason with this sudden supernatural experience, so he massaged the ball in his hands while continuing his survey of the towering steel column lined stadium around him.

Leonard surveyed the bleachers beyond the outfield wall and noticed the outfielders were positioned at the warning track. He turned around and quickly realized the source of the defensive strategy was Babe Ruth. Leonard gawked wide-eyed and mouth agape at the portly legend prancing proudly toward the plate with a sinister smile directed towards him. Leonard was so nervous his right leg began twitching like a woodpecker working a roof eave.

‘I’m about to face Babe Ruth. What has happened to me?’ he wondered, as he gained the catcher’s signal. Leonard wound up and fired the ball inside that backed the Bambino off the plate a few steps. The Babe peered back at Leonard and then rendered a sneer as if to welcome more of the same. The next pitch was a fastball that caught the outside corner for strike one, looking. Babe shook his head, tapped dirt off his cleats and whistled toward the Yankee dugout for effect. Leonard peered over his glove and nodded at the catcher’s next pitch selection. Another fastball followed and the Babe got a hold of it but pulled it foul into the right field upper deck seats. The count was now 1-2 and Leonard drew a deep sigh, thankful the last pitch was a mistake that didn’t hurt. The Babe smiled while waving his bat over the plate in intimidation. The catcher called for a curveball and Leonard anxiously obliged. He wound up and tossed an 85 mile-an-hour pitch that buckled Babe’s legs as it crossed the plate. Strike three as a howl came from the Yankee dugout at the nastiness of the pitch. Ruth shook his bat and headed towards the dugout, but not without a promise of revenge his next turn at bat. Leonard watched the larger than life legend walk away while mentally questioning his own sanity.

Lou Gehrig walked past Babe en route to the dust glazed plate without looking at Leonard.  Leonard’s eyes shifted between the Iron Horse and the scuffed baseball that appeared to feel heavier than the baseball used in his time. He looked back at the fielders behind him and over at first base where Earle Combs was bouncing around about six feet off. He hadn’t noticed a runner on base when he faced Ruth and nobody said anything about the windup. He worked from the stretch against Gehrig with a notion for a pickoff. He looked over his shoulder at the first baseman, who was now anticipating a possible throw over. He then turned his attention at the catcher who called for another curveball. Leonard figured Combs was expecting a throw over, so he went to the plate. Gehrig guessed fastball but recovered enough to foul off his nasty curve. Again from the stretch, Leonard bore down on Gehrig only to quickly throw over to first to nail Combs a foot off the bag. Inning over, as Leonard walked slowly off the mound looking and spinning around like tumbleweed.

He took a seat on the bench accepting commendations on his first inning performance. Herb Pennock, his counterpart in pinstripes, was on the mound taking his warmup pitches. Leonard took this time to take in all this time travel adventure had to offer, from the posts that supported the dugout roof to the mass of humanity in the stands that wore fedoras, bonnets, and smoking cigarettes. He would face Gehrig the next trip to the mound but for now he felt like a fan with the best seat in the house.

Leonard took the hill the bottom half of the second inning and Gehrig hit a liner into the gap between left and center field for a standup double. He quickly recovered to get the next three batters without Gehrig advancing to third. He would get the next four batters out easily and in the bottom of the fourth, up came Babe, with damaging intentions focused on Leonard. He kicked dirt off his spikes, took a few practice swings with his 34-ounce club and stepped in. Leonard’s focus was on the catcher’s signal, which called for a fastball inside. Leonard agreed and went into his windup. His high leg kick made for a slingshot affect motion as the ball cannonballed off his right hand. The pitch was inside as planned but the Babe turned on it perfectly and made contact that brought the fans out of their seats. The ball skyrocketed off his bat and on its way out of the ballpark only to be held in by the façade, as it caromed off and landed harmlessly in right field. Several Sox players on the field removed their caps in awe of the pitch that Ruth destroyed. Babe shuffled around the bases laughing at the jawing from the infielders and bellowed a “take that” towards Leonard as he crossed home plate. Leonard’s only visual emotion was his chin sunken to his chest. Yankees 1, White Sox 0. He would get Gehrig to ground out and end the inning with a strike out of Meusel. He sailed along the next few innings, only giving up a triple to Combs, and a walk to Lazzeri, but managed to keep the Yankees from scoring.

So far, the only hits Leonard gave up were to three Hall-of-Famer’s in the lineup that later became known as Murderers’ Row. But it was Ruth whom he created an instant rivalry bond with. It was that certain look Babe flashed that Leonard knew he had more than gotten his attention.

Two runs were scored by the Sox’ batsmen in the top half of the sixth and “The Sultan of Swat” led off the bottom half. He strutted to the plate with a smirk, that Leonard matched with a smile in anticipation of the matchup.

Babe stepped in, making idle chatter with the ump while Leonard adjusted his cap. Fastball called, fastball thrown and Ruth got all of it again. This time, the ball screamed off his bat without much altitude. The right field wall kept it from being a round-tripper. The ball hit the wall so hard, the bleacher fans felt the impact. The right fielder got to it quickly and relayed it back to the infield to hold Ruth to a single. Gehrig strolled up next but Leonard’s focus was still on Ruth, who was howling on base and pointing to the wall he had just assaulted. Gehrig took advantage of Leonard’s preoccupation and singled up the middle to center, moving Ruth to second. Leonard got the next three batsmen to avoid further damage.

The game remained 2-1 White Sox until the bottom of the ninth, when Leonard’s new legendary rival took his place at the plate with two out and no one on. Ruth waved his club over the plate like a matador enticing a bull. Leonard drew a deep breath to calm his competitive nerves.

Ruth swung and missed at the first pitch fastball on the outside corner. Next pitch, fastball inside, ball one. Next pitch was thrown dead red and down the pipe. Ruth swung as if trying to create a natural disaster and almost screwed himself into the ground at the missed attempt. Strike two. Babe stepped out with a hand on his hip, sizing up Leonard as if he was setting up a billiards shot. He stood there for theatrical effect only for the umpire to reel him back in the box. Leonard massaged the baseball in his glove inches from his face with eyes focused on the catcher’s glove. He went into a full windup and threw his bread and butter; the nasty, ooh-aah curve. Babe’s eyes widened at the delivery and stepped into the pitch only to drop to his knees at the movement and offered a feeble, desperate swing. Strike three, swinging, as Ruth used the bat as a crutch to reorient himself. The embarrassing moment did little to dent Ruth‘s swagger, who gave Leonard a nod of respect before retiring to the dugout.

Game over, as the team met Leonard at the mound to offer their congratulations. There were plenty of back slaps and handshakes around amid the chatter of “attaboy” from coaches. The team made their way to the clubhouse via the visitor’s bullpen. Leonard was the last to leave the field and took a detour to a seat on the dugout bench to reflect on the two hours of baseball fantasy he had just experienced. He sat and looked out on the stadium while the ground crew tended to the field.

He sat for about twenty minutes mentally reliving and critiquing his pitching performance with a heavy emphasis on his battles with Ruth. He scanned the field in reflection and wonder when his attention shifted over at the Yankee dugout where Ruth was stepping back onto the field. Babe was still in uniform with bat in hand, walking slowly toward Leonard. Leonard watched as Ruth’s towering shadow preceded him. Babe climbed down into the dugout and took a seat beside Leonard.

“You pitched a good game, kid. You’ve got good stuff.”

“Thanks, Babe. You really put a hurting on a few of the baseballs I threw.”

“You know, that ball would still be going if the roof didn’t stop it,” Babe snickered.

“You don’t have to remind me, Babe.”

“You’ve got a heck of a curveball, also. How come I’ve never heard of you?”

Leonard shrugged without an answer.

“Why are you still out here? The game ended almost a half hour ago.”

“Well, Babe, I have…well, what about you? I could ask the same question of you?”

“Kid, this is my house, don’t you know? I built this place. Besides, every now and then I come out after a game to wind down.”

“I see. Babe, you were the best ever.”

“Were? Watch your mouth. You make it seem like I played long ago. I’m in my prime, Bub.”

“Uh, I mean are the best. It was just a slip of the tongue. I meant are.”

“Hey kid, you got me twice. I got you twice. What say we have one more duel? Right now. Just you and me. No fans, no umps, no teammates. One pitch over the plate to settle things. All or nothing, homerun or swing and miss. Whattaya say?”

Leonard studied Babe’s cheeky face with anticipating eyes. The thought of Ruth calling him out was beyond any baseball dream he could ever imagine. He fixed a gaze on Ruth’s stone eyes and slowly nodded.

“Well, let’s go then,” said Babe, pointing the way with his bat. Leonard rose and trotted out to the mound, swinging the cobwebs out of his pitching arm. The Babe tapped on the plate and called out to Leonard. “Fire when ready, kid. Give me your best stuff.”

Leonard smiled back and paused a moment to absorb the intimate showdown with Ruth. He then whirled into his motion and fired a fastball that he put something extra onto. The Babe made contact and drilled it right back at Leonard. The ball grazed his head, spiraling him to the ground.

“Leonard. Leonard…you okay?” called the third baseman, rushing over to him.

Stunned and disoriented, Leonard shook his head to gather his faculties. He got to his knees and noticed he wasn’t back in 1927 anymore. His time trip had ended as it begun, with a line drive toward the mound. After careful monitoring from team staff, he took a few warm-up pitches before he was cleared to go.

Leonard drew a deep sigh, his glove covering the reflective smile in memory of his blast-from-the-past experience and he muttered to himself, “If I could beat Murderers’ Row, I can beat any team.”

***

Jon Moray has been writing short stories for over a decade, and his work has appeared in many online and print markets. When not working and being a devoted family man, he enjoys sports, music, the ocean, and SCI-FI/Fantasy media. Read more of his work at moraywrites.com.