Free Jim & Me by Dan Gutman Page A

intense eyes. But he sure had a big mouth. McGraw didn’t look that old, but his hair was white. He looked like one of those guys who gets old before his time.
    At the sound of McGraw’s high-pitched voice, Jim Thorpe and the guy he was wrestling let go of each other.

    Sometimes they called McGraw “The Little Napoleon.” Sometimes they called him “Muggsy.”
    â€œThat’ll cost you a hundred bucks, Thorpe!” McGraw said as he stormed across the locker room. “How many times do I have to tell you? No boozing! No smoking! No card playing! And no wrestling!”
    â€œIt’s not his fault, Mr. McGraw,” said Tesreau. “I challenged him, sir.”
    â€œNobody asked you! And you should be ashamed of yourself, letting a man half your size beat you.”
    The players slunk off to their lockers. Finally I could get a good look at Jim Thorpe. He was much younger, but I still recognized him from when I saw him in 1931. His chest was even more muscular now. He could have been one of those ripped bodybuilders you see on muscle magazine covers.
    But I couldn’t take my eyes off McGraw. I don’t know if he was always so mean or if he just happened to be in a bad mood. But he looked like hehated everybody. There was fire in his eyes.

    Jim didn’t look like the Indians I’d seen in movies and on TV.
    I was sure McGraw was going to kick me and Bobby out of the locker room. We had no business being in there. I tried to make myself look small, fade into the woodwork. But I didn’t have to bother. McGraw seemed intent on giving his players a hard time. They cowered in fear as he stalked around the locker room, looking them over like a general inspecting his troops. He stopped in front of one guy and ripped a cigarette out of his mouth.
    â€œCigarettes line the guideposts on the path to baseball oblivion!” said McGraw.
    â€œAw, heck, Skip,” the guy said. “I can lick anyteam in the league.”
    â€œMarquard, you couldn’t lick a stamp !” spat McGraw. “That’ll cost you 50 bucks.”
    What a jerk. He walked around, insulting and fining just about everybody in the room except for Matty. Nobody argued with John McGraw. Nobody talked back. They all looked like they were terrified.
    â€œMr. McGraw?” Jim Thorpe asked quietly.
    â€œWhat?” the manager said, spinning around to see who would dare speak to him.
    â€œI was just wondering if I could get some playing time today. All I’ve been doing is pinch running and pinch hitting. I really need to get some swings and play every day to—”
    â€œNO!” shouted McGraw.
    â€œWell, why not?”
    Everybody turned to look at Jim, as if they couldn’t believe he had the nerve to question the judgment of the great John McGraw.
    â€œI brought you here to put fannies in the seats, Thorpe,” McGraw fumed. “You were the Olympic champion . Everybody was supposed to come out to the Polo Grounds to see the greatest athlete in the world . So how come our attendance is down this year, Thorpe?”
    â€œWith all due respect, sir,” Jim said, “nobody comes to see me because you don’t play me.”
    Somebody gasped. It was as quiet as a tomb.
    â€œI’m not your babysitter! I’m trying to win the pennant!” McGraw thundered. “Why should I playyou? You stink!”
    â€œHow would you know if you never play me?” Jim muttered under his breath.
    A few more guys gasped.
    â€œWhat did you say?” barked McGraw, getting right in Jim’s face.
    â€œNothin’.”
    â€œYou are the highest-paid rookie in baseball history , Thorpe!” McGraw yelled. “We’re paying you 6,000 dollars a year ! And you can’t hit a curveball! Matty only gets 9,000, and he’s won 300 games for this team. How many did you win?”
    Bobby and I glanced at each other. 6,000 dollars a year? 9,000? The average salary