Jim & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

so much. Maybe he couldn’t control himself. This explained a lot.
    I looked at Bobby’s arms to see if there were any needle marks on them. He didn’t have any, but I know that junkies can be very clever. They know how to shoot themselves up in different parts of their body without leaving marks. That was in the movie too.
    My first impulse was to throw the syringe and bottles away so Bobby couldn’t use them. But no, that would be wrong. If he’s addicted to the stuff, who knows what might happen if he couldn’t get it? I decided to play it cool and not say a word. Pretend I didn’t know Bobby was a drug addict. When we got back home, I’d ask my mom what I could do to get Bobby some help. She’s a nurse and knows about treatment programs for people who havesubstance-abuse problems.
    â€œUuuuuuuh!” Bobby mumbled, stretching out his arms.
    Quickly, I jammed the stuff into his backpack and zipped it closed.
    â€œAre you okay, man?” I asked Bobby. “Do you need to be by yourself for a while?”
    â€œWhere are we?” Bobby asked.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said, “but something tells me Jim Thorpe is around here somewhere.”
    Â 
    The hill we were standing on looked like it would be a good place to watch a ball game without paying admission. You couldn’t see the whole field, but you could see leftfield, centerfield, and the area around second base. In fact, there were a few people with picnic baskets spreading out blankets and setting up lawn chairs. They were dressed a lot like us in their old-fashioned clothes.
    Bobby and I walked over to an older couple, who were fanning themselves and eating.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said. “Where are we?”
    â€œWhaddaya mean, where are we?” the man snapped. “You dumb or somethin’?”
    â€œPerhaps they’re from out of town, dear,” the lady said.
    â€œYes,” I explained, “we’re from Louisville, Kentucky.”
    â€œWelcome to New York,” the lady said, shaking our hands. “This is Coogan’s Bluff.”
    I’d never heard of Coogan’s Bluff. Neither had Bobby, by the look on his face.
    â€œTold you they were dumb,” her husband remarked.
    â€œIt’s right outside the Polo Grounds.” The lady pointed to the field. “You know, where the Giants play.”
    â€œIs there a game today?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yes!” the lady replied.
    â€œThe Giants?” Bobby said. “The Giants play in San Francisco. And you say we’re dumb!”
    â€œWho ya callin’ dumb?” the man said, jumping to his feet and putting up his dukes.
    I pulled Bobby aside and whispered that the Giants used to play in New York. They moved to San Francisco in the late 1950s, the same time the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to Los Angeles.
    â€œPlease excuse my friend,” I told the couple. “He’s, uh…learning disabled.”
    â€œHe’s what ?” said the guy. “I should disable his face ! What’s that you got? A fancy purse?”
    â€œIt’s a backpack,” Bobby said.
    â€œLooks like a purse to me.”
    Bobby was itching to fight the guy, but I pulled him away. We crossed the bluff and started walking down a long staircase toward the ballpark, passing two signs marking the intersection of 157th Street and Eighth Avenue. The streets were mostly empty. There were a few cars parked on the block, those old-time cars you see in silent movies.
    â€œWhy do they call it the Polo Grounds?” Bobby asked me.
    â€œI don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe they used to play polo here.”
    There was a garbage can on the corner. I reached into it.
    â€œStoshack, what are you doing?” Bobby shouted. “Don’t be a pig, man! You don’t know what’s in there. That’s disgusting!”
    â€œI’m looking for a newspaper,” I explained, and soon I found