Shoeless Joe & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

Wilbur started coughing violently. Hedoubled over, hacking and wheezing. When he was finally able to get control of himself, he dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.
    â€œSmoking is bad for you,” I pointed out.
    â€œIt ain’t the smoking,” Wilbur replied, grinding the butt into the ground. “It’s the flu.”
    I thought about taking another picture of Wilbur but decided against it. I slipped the camera back into my pocket. As I did, my fingers brushed against my medicine bottle. I stopped.
    The flu.
    I was just getting over the flu. Wilbur had just come down with it. We had the same thing! Maybe my medicine could help Wilbur. I pulled the plastic container from my pocket.
    â€œWilbur,” I said urgently, “I want you to have this.”
    â€œTamiflu,” he said, reading the label. “What is it?”
    â€œMedicine for the flu,” I told him.
    â€œThere ain’t no medicine for the flu,” Wilbur said. “The doctor told me so. He said nothin’ does any good.”
    â€œJust take it,” I urged him. “It might make you feel better.”
    â€œCouldn’t hurt,” he said, slipping the container into his pocket.
    Gladys flounced back from the bathroom, bouncing over to me with her flirty smile.
    â€œMr. Joe Stoshack,” she bubbled, “I just had themost marvelous idea! Why don’t you come over to our house for dinner tonight? We can celebrate the Reds’ victory. I’m sure Mother won’t mind.”
    â€œThanks anyway,” I said, as her smile vanished instantly, “but I’ve got to be getting back home tonight.”
    â€œWell, maybe some other time then,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. “We’d love to see your little pictures.”
    â€œYeah,” I agreed. “Maybe some other time.”

19
Alert the Media
    AS I WATCHED THE KOZINSKYS WALK BACK TO THEIR seats, there was a roar from the crowd. Dutch Ruether, the Cincinnati pitcher, had smashed a triple with a runner on base. The Reds had scored another run. That made it 9-1.
    The game was essentially over. Many of the fans had left the ballpark. The World Series was over, as far as I was concerned. There was no point in going back to the Sox dugout. I sat in the nearest empty seat to watch the ninth inning.
    Joe led off for the Sox. Desperately, I hoped he’d get a rally going. I knew there had been times when a team came back after being eight runs behind. Maybe a miracle would happen.
    But it didn’t. Joe flied out to left. Happy Felsch flied out, too. The last hope for the White Sox was Chick Gandil, who of course was in on the fix. Hedribbled a weak grounder to second.
    The game was over. I looked up at the scoreboard:

    Pathetic. The best team in baseball had been crushed, humiliated. I sat there watching the happy Cincinnati fans make their way to the exits. Soon all that was left were crumpled candy wrappers, peanut shells, and discarded programs.
    A wave of sadness came over me. My mission had been to prevent the Black Sox Scandal and save Shoeless Joe Jackson. I had failed at both jobs.
    I was feeling sorry for myself but at the same time feeling that I had at least tried to do something good. What could I have expected, anyway? I was just a kid. Even if I was a grown-up, you can’t change history. My science teacher said so himself. I should have known better.
    A thought flashed through my mind. While I hadn’t been able to prevent the Black Sox Scandal, the scandal hadn’t happened yet ! At this point, minutes after Game 1, the world didn’t know the Series had been fixed. The world wouldn’t know about the scandal until the newspapers uncovered the story and printed it.
    I turned around in my seat trying to find the press box, where the reporters sit during games and write their articles for the next day’s paper. There was no press box. But at the other side of the field, I could