Free Ted & Me by Dan Gutman

bet he would sit out that last game rather than risk dipping below an official .400 batting average. His agent would insist on it. The players in 1941 didn’t even have agents. They hardly made any money, anyway.
    But as we turned right on 3rd Street around the perimeter of the park, it was obvious that Ted was struggling with his decision about the next day.
    â€œIt’s gonna be tough,” he told me. “Unless I have a great day, I blow it. One of the other guys on the team figured it out for me. If I go 1 for 3, or 2 for 6, my average doesn’t get rounded up to .400. I finish up at .399.”
    Ted went on to tell me everything he would be up against the next day. The game would be at Shibe Park, which was a terrible field for hitters in September. Shadows from the stands made it so the pitcher was in the sun while home plate was in shadow. So the hitter didn’t get a good view of the ball. And thepitcher’s mound was 20 inches high, one of the highest in baseball.
    Furthermore, Ted told me, he was not a fast runner, so he hardly ever got any cheap infield hits. He had to hit the ball hard to get it past the infield for every hit and hope he didn’t hit it right at an infielder.
    Finally, he told me that over the last ten days of the season, his average had been dropping almost a point a day. Since September 10th, he had only been averaging .270.
    I had to be very careful here, I realized. He had given me a lot of reasons why he should sit out the doubleheader but only one reason why he should play: his pride.
    I knew that Ted Williams was going to finish the season with a .406 batting average, and I knew what he was going to do in each at-bat. It was in the history books.
    But I remembered what my mother had said: What if I stepped on a twig and changed history for the worse ? What if I did something, or said something, that made Ted decide not to play the last day of the season? It would change everything. He would finish the season batting .3995535. That’s still an incredible accomplishment. But it’s not an honest .400. And it would be my fault.
    I couldn’t put myself in Ted Williams’s shoes, of course, but I had an idea of what he was going through. There had been nights I would lie in bed with my eyes open trying to decide what I shoulddo or what choice I should make. I remember when my next-door neighbor Miss Young paid me to throw out all the junk in her attic and I’d found a valuable Honus Wagner baseball card in there. I really struggled over whether I should keep the card for myself or give it back to Miss Young.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re gonna do?” I asked Ted as we turned right at the next corner, which was Walnut Street.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “It’s been a long season, and I’m tired. Maybe I’ll sit it out tomorrow.”
    Uh-oh. This wasn’t good. Maybe I had already said something that changed his mind. Maybe I had already changed history. I had to do something.
    We were walking back uptown now. As we crossed 4th Street, I decided to tell him what I knew: if he played the next day, he would not only hit .400, but he would even beat .400. If he thought I was crazy and called the cops, well, that was the chance I had to take.
    â€œMr. Williams,” I finally said. “I really think you should play tomorrow.”
    â€œWhy, Junior?” he asked.
    I took a deep breath.
    â€œYou’re gonna go 6 for 8 in the doubleheader,” I told him. “You’re gonna raise your average to .406.”
    Ted stopped walking.
    â€œYou sound pretty confident for a kid,” he told me. “How come you’re so sure of yourself?”
    â€œI just have a feeling, that’s all,” I replied.“Sometimes I feel like I can see the future. It’s sort of like a sixth sense.”
    We crossed 5th Street and then 6th. Ted wasn’t talking anymore. He was deep in thought.
    The park