Shoeless Joe & Me by Dan Gutman Page A

“how come they call you Shoeless Joe?”
    Joe grimaced. The bat was beginning to shake a little.
    â€œAh was just startin’ out in the minors.” Hegrunted. “And one day my new spikes was givin’ me blisters. They hurt so bad Ah couldn’t put ’em on. The manager wouldn’t let me sit out the game. So Ah took off my spikes and went to the outfield in my stockin’ feet. Some reporter noticed and he called me Shoeless Joe in the paper the next day. That was all it took.”
    â€œYou only did it that one time?”
    â€œSometimes you do just one dumb thing in your life and that’s all anybody remembers about you.”
    Joe was really struggling now to keep holding the bat up. His face was twisted with pain and wet with sweat. He was breathing heavily. I didn’t want to distract him anymore. Katie came out of the bathroom.
    â€œDo you have a TV in here?” I asked her.
    â€œTV?” she asked, puzzled.
    â€œTelevision.”
    â€œTelevision?”
    Suddenly I realized my stupid mistake. There was no television in 1919. Looking around the room, I didn’t even see a radio. That probably hadn’t been invented yet either. I had to think fast.
    â€œI meant, can I use the telephone,” I said abruptly.
    Joe lowered the bat with a gasp and rubbed his shoulder. He and Katie looked at each other. Joe nodded. He picked up Black Betsy in his other hand and held it out in front of him.
    I didn’t really need to use the telephone. But itwas the first thing I thought of when I realized television hadn’t been invented. I picked up the phone and held the receiver to my ear the way Katie and Joe did.
    â€œHow do you dial this thing?” I asked.
    â€œDial?” Katie asked. “What do you mean, dial?”
    Joe and Katie looked at me strangely. Oh no. I’d made another stupid mistake! Telephones must not have had dials or keypads in 1919. Now I was really in trouble. I felt like a jerk.
    â€œJust tell the operator who you want to talk to,” Katie instructed.
    â€œAin’tcha never used a telephone before?” Joe asked with a snort. “And they say Ah’m dumb!”
    â€œThe, uh…the phones in Louisville are different,” I explained lamely.
    I didn’t go any further, because a woman’s voice came on the line.
    â€œCincinnati operator,” she announced pleasantly.
    â€œHello,” I replied.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” the operator asked.
    â€œUh…”
    Joe and Katie were staring at me, like they didn’t quite know what to make of me.
    â€œDo you wish to speak with someone?” the operator asked.
    I searched my brain for a response. I had to make the call look real. If Katie and Joe found out I was a fraud, they’d probably throw me out of the room.
    That’s when I remembered that I did have to make a phone call. There was somebody in Cincinnati I wanted to speak to. I struggled to remember the name.
    â€œKozinsky,” I told the operator. “I would like to speak with Gladys Kozinsky.”

12
An Offer
    WHEN I TOLD THE OPERATOR THAT I WANTED TO SPEAK with Gladys Kozinsky, I was pretty sure she was going to tell me there was no such person. Or she would tell me she couldn’t make the connection or the number was unlisted or something. Or maybe Gladys Kozinsky wouldn’t be home. I really doubted that my great-grandmother Gladys was going to pick up the phone.
    But the operator did have a listing of one Kozinsky in Cincinnati, and I asked her to connect me. After a few seconds of clicks and scratchy noises, a boy’s muffled voice came on the line.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œUh,” I said, “is Gladys Kozinsky home?”
    â€œWho wants to know?” the boy asked.
    â€œMy name is Joe,” I told him. “Joe Stoshack.”
    The phone clattered, like it had been dropped on the floor.
    â€œGladys!” the kid hollered.