Merkle’s Redemption
Merkle’s Redemption
By Roy Kachur
It’s a long time now since the day Fred Merkle didn’t touch second, but it could be a century and I’d never forget what happened.
—Johnny Evers, Chicago Cubs
I suppose when I die, they’ll put on my tombstone, “Here Lies Bonehead Merkle.”
—Fred Merkle, New York Giants
On a crisp autumn day in 1946, Fred Merkle arrived at the office of Professor Milton Friedrich in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He found the scientist’s tiny office in the Center for Transportation Studies at MIT, nestled between two chemistry labs.
The professor shook his hand. “Ah yes, the ballplayer. Come in, please have a seat.” He gestured toward a small chair barely visible among stacks of papers and books. “So, I assume you saw our ad in Popular Mechanics?”
“Yes sir, that’s why I’m here.”
“Very good. Tell me, Mr. Merkle. What is your specific interest in time travel?”
Fred shrugged. “Just curious, I guess. I really enjoyed playing ball in those days, and I’d love the chance to play again.” He thought about the Play. “Plus, I made a baserunning error, back in 1908—”
“I see.” The professor folded his hands in front of him, looking at Fred over his reading glasses. “It is very important that you do not try to change anything in the past. There could be very grave consequences if anything were to happen.”
“What do you mean, consequences?”
“Some of our volunteers have not come back.” He removed his glasses. “We carefully monitor your activity from here, but we can’t control your actions.”
“So you mean if I do something differently than the way it originally happened, I can’t come back to the present?”
“Correct. If you make a major change, it could have serious effects on the critical timepath, affecting the course of history.”
“All right,” Fred lied. “I promise I won’t change a thing. But I’d like to go back to a specific day and time, if possible.”
“Of course! You can go to any period you wish, as long as it’s within your own lifetime.” Friedrich brought out some charts from the top drawer of his desk. “What day are you interested in?”
After thirty-eight years, Fred was finally getting the opportunity to fix his mistake.
THE mistake. The most famous error in the history of baseball.
The New York Giants lost the 1908 pennant to the Chicago Cubs, because Fred forgot to step on second base.
The Merkle Boner.
“September 23rd, 1908,” he said.
* * *
Back at his hotel room, Fred had a few days to kill before he was scheduled for his “trip.” He decided to call the Crab.
He hadn’t spoken to the Crab in 38 years. He was living in Albany these days. He’d had a bum leg for most of his career, and was probably hobbling around his house with a cane by now. Who knows, maybe he was stuck in a wheelchair. Fred didn’t care.
“Hello Crab, it’s Fred Merkle.”
There was silence on the phone for half a minute. Fred was about to hang up, when he finally heard a response.
“Well whaddaya know, it’s old Bonehead. How ya doin’, Fred?” There was a devious chuckle in the voice. “Still ticked at me after all these years?”
“You can forget about that boner play, Crab—I’m gonna set the record straight once and for all.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Just you watch, Crab. I’m gonna straighten this whole thing out, and you can be sure that we win the pennant this time.” He hung up the phone.
* * *
Johnny Evers, known during his baseball career as the Crab, stared at the phone in his hand, wondering what old Bonehead Merkle could possibly be up to. Was he planning to appeal the decision to the National League President, after all these years? He couldn’t be that crazy.
But if the Giants had won that game in 1908, it sure would have changed the record books. Chicago had gone on to win the pennant and the World Series that year. Evers didn’t want Merkle to take that away from him, or from his beloved Cubs. He would have to try and figure out what Fred was up to.
After hanging up the phone, he started to put down the issue of Popular Mechanics he had been leafing through, when a tiny advertisement caught his eye: “TIME TRAVEL MACHINE—VOLUNTEERS WANTED. Dr. M. Friedrich, M.I.T.”
Now, Johnny Evers was always a sharp, intuitive second baseman. After all, his alertness about the rules had allowed him to get Merkle out that day. He was also a good judge of character. And he was generally very lucky.
Today, he happened to be in the right place at the right time. He decided to give this Dr. Friedrich a call, just to be sure.
“Same old bonehead,” he said, as he picked up the phone.
* * *
Back at MIT a few days later, Fred listened to the professor’s instructions.
“There are a few things we need to go over before we begin the experiment, Mr. Merkle. First, I am going to give you a device which you must keep on your person at all times.” He handed Fred what appeared to be a wristwatch, with two separate dials for the day, time and year. There were a number of tiny lights at the bottom, which were currently switched off.
“This timepiece is, essentially, your return ticket. The lights you see here will remain dark during your trip, if everything is proceeding normally. However, should you find yourself in a situation that may be a danger to the past, the timepiece will give you a warning signal. This will be your sign to stop what you are doing immediately, to avoid altering the critical timepath.”
“I see.”
“The timepiece will also allow you to return to the present,” the professor continued. “You’ll notice the parallel displays, one with today’s date and time, and the other set for 1908. When you are ready to come back, simply press the three small buttons you see here simultaneously, and you will return to this room. It’s very simple to use.”
Fred nodded, taking it all in.
“Are you ready, Mr. Merkle?”
“Yes, sir. Let’s go.”
Fred stepped into the time machine, and closed the door.
The machine hummed hypnotically, and Fred began to lose track of time in the pitch darkness. He began to worry that it wasn’t working, when the hum was suddenly replaced by the cheering of a tremendous crowd of people. He heard the crack of a baseball bat, and the darkness quickly dissipated as he found himself standing on the infield of the Polo Grounds, a line drive heading straight for his head.
* * *
Dr. Friedrich and his assistant monitored Fred’s trip by watching the dials and displays on the console next to the machine. They determined that the transport was a success–both the temporal and physical displacements were right on target. As they confirmed that all was well, there was a knock at the door to the laboratory. Friedrich went out to the next room to answer the door.
It was a small, scrawny-looking old man, dressed in a tattered Chicago Cubs uniform. He held a cane in one hand, and a baseball glove in the other.
“Come right in,” said Friedrich. “We’ll get started in just a few minutes. Now, the date you were interested in?”
“September 23rd, 1908,” said Johnny Evers.
* * *
As soon as he realized that a baseball was coming at his head, Fred instinctively raised his left hand to protect his face. The crowd cheered as he caught the ball in his glove, making the first out of the inning. After he caught the ball, he stood there for a few moments, feeling like he had just woken up in the middle of a dream. When he finally began to adjust to his surroundings, he took a look at the scoreboard to see what inning it was. It was only the top of the second, and neither team had scored a run yet.
He played the rest of the game to the fullest degree of his athletic ability, and enjoyed every moment of it. Soon he realized that his body was no longer that of an old man. He was truly nineteen years old again.
As the game progressed, Fred looked around at his former colleagues, on his own team as well as on the Cubs.
There was John McGraw, his old manager. One of the greatest of all time, a real fighter.
Christy Matthewson, long-time pitcher for the Giants, and one of the true gentlemen of baseball. He also was quite possibly the greatest pitcher in history.
For the Cubs, there was Joe Tinker, the shortstop. Frank Chance, the first baseman.
And then there was the Crab.
Johnny Evers, the little second baseman for the Cubs, was part of that famous double play combination “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” They were such a fixture in baseball that a poem would be written about them in 1910, which was almost as well known as “Casey at the Bat.”
And Fred Merkle hated him.
He hated him because Evers was the reason the Giants had lost this game. Not because Fred had forgotten to step on second. That sort of thing happened all the time in those days. It was not a question of the rules. It was simply the fact that Evers was a sore loser.
Fred hated him because Evers was the reason he would have to live with the name Bonehead for the rest of his life.
* * *
By the time there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, the sound of the crowd was deafening. The fans could barely control their excitement as they cheered the two teams, locked in a 1-1 tie. With Moose McCormick the runner at first base, Fred got up to the plate, preparing to execute the sequence of events that would clear his name for all time.
On the first pitch from Jack Pfiester, Fred hit a long single to right field, advancing McCormick to third base. It happened just like it did the first time. After he was safe at first, he looked at the timepiece on his wrist. One of the tiny lights was glowing slightly. However the thing worked, it must have known that something significant was about to happen.
He took a look towards third base. There was McCormick, crouched over the bag, eager to come home and score the winning run.
Second base was empty, beckoning Fred to reach it on the next play.
At home plate, Al Bridwell came up to bat, the game clearly weighing on his shoulders. All he needed was a clean single, and the winning run would come home. Merkle took a lead off of first base, and Bridwell glared at him to get back to the bag.
As he spun back toward first, Fred noticed something strange about Evers, who was in his usual second-base fielding position. For the last few innings, Evers was constantly watching him. Even from the dugout, Fred would catch Evers staring at him from second base, as if monitoring his every move. And now, as Fred stood on first, he noticed something odd.
Was that a wristwatch he was wearing?
Fred called time-out to the first base umpire, pretending to tie his shoe. As he did so, he took a closer look at Evers.
On his wrist was the exact same timepiece that Fred was wearing.
Merkle could hardly believe it. Evers must have somehow tracked Fred down after their phone call, and followed him to Boston. “What do you think you’re doing, Evers?” he called to the second baseman.
Evers looked over towards first. He knew Fred was on to him. “We won this game fair and square, Merkle. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna change that, not if I can help it.”
“Play ball!” the umpire called.
* * *
The game continued.
Jack Pfiester delivered the first pitch to Bridwell. Ball One.
Bridwell stepped out of the box, taking a few practice swings.
Merkle called back to Evers. “This was our game, Johnny. The run scored, and we won fair and square. The rule was never enforced in those days, and you know it.”
“Fred, you can’t change the past. If you try, I’m going to stop you.”
Pfiester threw again. A fastball, right over the plate. Bridwell swung and made contact. Merkle was already moving before the ball was hit.
Bridwell’s shot was a clean single to center field. Moose McCormick left third base and started toward home plate, while Merkle made a beeline to second. He passed by Evers, who was practically standing inside the baseline. Evers knew he had to stop Fred from stepping on second base, but he couldn’t block his path because the umpire would call interference.
In the split second before Merkle stepped on second, Evers pressed a button on the wristwatch. Suddenly, there was silence on the field. He looked over toward second to see what had happened.
Fred was jumping up and down on second base, practically screaming with elation. “That’s it, Crab! Game’s over!”
Evers looked towards home. Moose McCormick was poised in mid-air over home plate, his right foot inches away from it, his arms stretched out in a frozen running position. Looking to his left, Evers saw Al Bridwell in a similar position over first base, having just touched the bag with his left foot. His face was contorted by a a grimace of athletic effort, suspended in time as a result of what Evers had done.
“I don’t think so, Fred.” Evers said. He looked toward the outfield for the ball. It was suspended in the air, having stopped in mid-bounce before it could reach Solly Hofman, the center fielder. “It’s not over, yet.”
Fred remained standing on second base, trying to figure out what had happened. He looked around the field at the other players, all of them in suspended animation. The crowd in the stands, unmoving but frozen in excitement as they cheered the game winning play.
Evers must have been given a different wristwatch by Professor Friedrich. One that could stop time.
Fred stayed put on second base. He was unwilling to take a chance on what Evers might do if he stepped away from the bag.
“This is how it should have happened in the first place, Johnny,” he said. “I know, it was a close game that either of us could have won. But what kind of a sore loser tries to win a game on a stupid technicality? You never earned this victory. It was nothing but a fluke.”
Evers slowly approached Merkle at second base, giving a quick glance to the baseball that hung suspended in mid-air above the outfield.
“You say that because you lost, Fred. Why can’t you just admit your mistake and move on? You can’t change the past.My God, this was almost forty years ago! Haven’t you come to grips with it yet?”
Fred kept an eye on him as he approached, but stayed put on second base.
“That’s where you’re wrong, John. I’ve already changed the past. I just need you to press that button so we can get things moving again.”
Evers came to stand three feet away from second base. He crossed his arms in front of him, and grinned at Merkle.
“No.”
Merkle was getting pissed. “John, I want to tell you what it’s like to be me. To be Bonehead Merkle, the laughingstock of baseball. Listen closely, because you may hear something that matters to you more than this precious game.”
“I’m listening, Fred.”
“Good. Do you know what it’s like to walk out onto a baseball field and have every fan laugh at you, in every game, every time you step up to the plate?”
Evers shrugged.
“Do you know what it’s like to be blamed for mistakes you didn’t even make? I could never do things other players did without attracting attention. Little slips that would be excused in other players were burned into me by the crowds. If any play I was concerned with went wrong, I was the fellow who got the blame, no matter where the thing went off the line.”
He paused for a moment, shaking his head regretfully.
“Do you know what it’s like to be called a bonehead every day of your life?”
Evers smiled. “Yes. Because I know you, and you’re a bonehead.”
“Go to hell.”
In a fit of desperation, Fred left the base and charged into Evers, knocking his legs from under him. They both crashed onto the infield, sending up a cloud of dust as Evers tried to figure out what had hit him. Before Evers could get the wind back into his lungs, Merkle began pummeling him with his fists, mainly in the area of the face.
Stunned from the knock-down, Evers could barely defend himself from the blows. He eventually managed to get his hands up in front of him, but Merkle figured out how to navigate around them and kept punching. Blood sprayed from Evers as the blows found their mark.
“Fred, Fred! Goddammit, give me a chance here!”
Merkle began to lose steam, and the blows slowed down. Evers managed to grab one of Fred’s fists, eventually stopping him. They sat in silence for a few moments, trying to recover from the whole situation.
Finally, Evers spoke. “You feel better now?”
Merkle took a deep breath. “A little.”
Evers dabbed at the blood below his left eye. “Well, that makes one of us.” He happened to catch a glimpse of Fred’s left arm, and noticed something interesting.
“Well, whaddaya know,” he said. “Looks like you managed to make a mess of your ticket back home.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Your timepiece is broken.”
Fred looked down at his wrist. The face of the timepiece was destroyed, its glass shattered and dials crushed. The lights no longer blinked.
Fred looked around the stadium. The crowd and the players were still in suspended animation. McCormick remained poised over home plate, a millisecond away from scoring the winning run.
“Well, I guess that means only one of us can go back,” said Fred. He grabbed Evers’ left arm and snatched the watch off his wrist. Evers barely reacted—he was still groggy from Merkle’s pummeling.
Fred stood up slowly. “Listen, Johnny. I’m going to get back on second base and get this over with.” He headed for the bag.
“Wait a minute,” Evers called.
Merkle kept on going. “Don’t try to stop me, John.”
“Oh, I’m not going to stop you. I just want to tell you something.” He remained seated in the infield, still in considerable pain after their confrontation. “Before you step on that base, think about what’s going to happen. If there’s not going to be a Merkle Boner, do you think anybody will remember you?”
Fred paused. “Well, sure they will. I wasn’t a bad ballplayer, John.”
“Fred, let’s face it. Your mistake immortalized you. Because you committed the most famous error in the history of baseball, your name will live on forever. You can’t deny that. Now, if you try to change it, I can guarantee you that no one will give a damn who Fred Merkle was. Is that what you want?”
Fred was silent as he reached second base, stopping just inches in front of it. He stared longingly at the base, hoping for a clear answer to the question. He took another look around the Polo Grounds as it used to be, its multitude of fans surrounding the field. The Y-shaped support columns stood in their full glory, glaring at him like crucifixes.
He took a step forward, touching the base gingerly with his right foot. He pivoted towards Evers, then got on the bag with both feet. It felt good to him.
He looked at his wrist. The timepiece was still functioning, its lights blinking to indicate an imminent turning point in time. The button to start time moving again was big and green, it’s color beckoning.
He put his finger on the button, and thought about what it would be like to be forgotten. To be nothing more than a name and a set of numbers in a baseball statistics book. He also thought about being able to live out the rest of his life in peace, knowing that he had corrected the crucial mistake of his career.
Finally, he made his decision.
* * *
Back in Professor Friedrich’s office, Johnny Evers wrapped up his post-transport interview. His Cubs uniform was covered in reddish-brown dust from the infield.
Friedrich took notes as he posed the last few questions to Evers. “So, you’re saying that Mr. Merkle elected to remain in the past, but he made no attempts to alter history that you’re aware of?”
“That’s right. After he broke his timepiece, he knew that only one of us could return. He thought it was only fair that it should be me.”
“I see.” He made one last mark in his notebook, then put down his pencil and stood up.
“Congratulations, Mr. Evers. You’re the first person to complete a temporal transport and return successfully to the point of origin.” He shook Johnny’s hand.
“Thank you, I think.” Evers got up to leave, reaching for his cane. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“That’s all for now, Mr. Evers. If anything comes up, we’ll contact you.”
* * *
As he left the Center for Transportation Studies, Evers noticed a man struggling to climb the stairs to the building’s main entrance. As he got closer, he thought he saw an old baseball uniform under the man’s large overcoat. The baggy clothes hung loosely over what might once have been a hulking frame.
When he got close enough, Evers recognized the unmistakable face of the Babe. He had heard that Ruth was ill, but had no idea how frail he had become.
“Babe! Well, I’ll be damned! What brings you up here to Massachusetts?”
The Babe squinted at Evers. “Is that you, Crab?” He noticed the Cubs uniform. “Guess you heard about this Friedrich fellow, too. Can you believe it? Time travel!”
“Gonna relive your glory days, eh Babe?”
“No, it’s not just that. I want another shot at breaking the home run record.”
“Aw, come on, Babe! You hit sixty home runs in a season, seven-fourteen lifetime! Wasn’t that good enough?”
“Well, it’s the closest I got to overtaking Merkle. This time, I think I can do it.” He climbed a few more steps, then turned back to Evers.
“Can you believe it? Sixty-two home runs in a season, and seven-fifteen in a lifetime. By a bonehead!”
Evers watched him go. The Babe continued up the stairs, a shadow of his former self. He entered the building, and disappeared into the past.
Roy Kachur is a writer of historical fiction, sci-fi and fantasy. In his day job, he works in the media industry as a cyber security architect. Besides baseball and writing, he is also interested in virtual reality and immersive technology for media and entertainment. His next project is a historical novel about the early days of Coney Island. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons.
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