Prologue
Early morning — Friday, October 17, 2003

No, Greg Patterson was thinking to himself as he stumbled out of the corner bar down the street from his house. This isn’t happening to us. Not again.
But it was happening: his beloved Boston Red Sox, who were just five outs from clinching the American League pennant out from under the noses of the hated New York Yankees, had blown it once again. If the Yankees score in the bottom of the eleventh, he thought, I’m going to kill myself. Those bastards took my dad, and they are coming after me, too.
Greg knew he was being melodramatic, but in reality it was the furthest thought from his mind: he was drunk and wobbling in his shoes, and instead, wild thoughts were suddenly coming to him. For a scientist who had graduated from MIT, he wasn’t thinking logically. His only sane thought was getting into his armchair in time to watch Tim Wakefield begin his second inning of work. Wakefield’s personal catcher, Doug Mirabelli, had just struck out swinging to end the top of the eleventh, and Greg was out the door before he knew it.
What had gone wrong? He thought to himself as he passed several other patrons doing exactly what he was doing at that moment. The cool October air hit him and washed over him as he walked out the door, but the chill that swept over his bones didn’t faze him. He was thinking to what happened an hour ago: the Red Sox had a 4-2 lead through seven innings, and after he had gotten Alfonso Soriano to strike out, Pedro Martinez had pointed to the sky in thanks to God. It was the bullpen’s game after that, as his night was over.
But when he saw Pedro walk up the steps after Trot Nixon had popped out to Derek Jeter to end the top of the eighth with a 5-2 lead, Greg pursed his lips in anger but didn’t speak. This isn’t how the game was supposed to go.
Before the game started, Greg’s friends, armed with pitchers of beer, began to discuss the game. Greg, ever a baseball historian, knew that Pedro would only be able to go seven innings at the most.
“There is no way Petey is going more than seven tonight,” he told his friend Brandon Roy after Brandon casually asked a “what if” question, wondering the possibilities of a complete game. “This isn’t Pedro from four years ago. This is a pitcher that has been riddled with injuries and a pitcher that isn’t the same after pitch number 100. I’d be shocked if he pitched into the eighth.”
Brandon seemed content with the answer, sipping his beer as Greg and another friend, Tony LeClair, bantered back and forth over the Yankees starting lineup.
Once the game started, their attention was focused on the big screen television in the corner. A crowd was already standing around it, so the three friends stood next to a pole with a miniature counter running around it and kept a stoic vigil.
The three of them were a funny lot, as all had contrasting body types. Greg Patterson was 26 years old, fair skinned with light blond hair. His piercing blue eyes were what many of the ladies he associated with said drew them to him, but he was also of medium build, and he was certain that also had an effect on the opposite sex. He worked out regularly, as his doctor told him that a regimen of light weights along with running would keep him in shape to keep him out of his office for at least a decade. Not wanting to spend any more time in a doctor’s office than absolutely necessary, Greg joined a local gym and restricted his diet to several light meals a day. His mother, bless her heart, always invited him to her house and cooked an evening meal for him. More often than not, he accepted. He was single, but while he didn’t consider himself to be a mama’s boy, he didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t have her cooking.
Tony was two years younger than Greg and had gone to school with Greg’s sister, Jeanine. They had even played on the same Little League team, and Greg had gone to nearly every game. Tony stood out to Greg because he was a left-handed hitting and left-handed throwing first baseman, which, to Greg’s eyes at the time, was an anomaly. Most of the kids hit right-handed and threw right-handed, and Greg found this youngster to be fascinating.
Tony was a bit on the heavy side, but not incredibly fat. He carried his weight well, which was attributed to the fact that he was about six-foot-three and towered over Greg by two inches. He also had a great deal of thinning hair — completely genetic on his father’s side of the family, Tony had said — which he kept covered up with an old-school red Boston Red Sox ball cap. He also wore Virginia Tech clothes on occasion but couldn’t give a valid reason as to why he became a bandwagon jumper with the Hokies. Greg teased him unmercifully about this, especially when Virginia Tech played Boston College.
Brandon, on the other hand, was the total opposite of Tony. He was skinny, more wiry than muscular, had black hair and hazel eyes, and also sported a thin goatee and mustache on his chin and upper lip. While he didn’t play sports in high school, he considered himself a fanatic of baseball. He hung on Greg’s every word when it came to the Red Sox, as if he spoke the Gospel. Brandon didn’t care much for the Bruins or the Celtics, but casually followed the Patriots. He preferred to stay locked in his room on Sunday’s when the Pats were playing, usually surfing the Internet or reading political thriller novels by his favorite author, Vince Flynn, or the lawyer novels by John Grisham and Brad Meltzer. Without a doubt he was the least athletic of the three friends, but he did like to hang out and have a beer or two when there was a big game on the big screen.
In this big game, things started out well for Greg and his buddies: the Red Sox jumped out to a 3-0 lead in the top of the second inning after Nixon homered to right field and Jason Varitek scored on an error. Two innings later, Kevin Millar made it 4-0 with a leadoff solo home run. By that point, Greg was high-fiving his friends and the people around him — Boston had a comfortable lead, and it looked like it would be smooth sailing.
But this was the Yankees, and no one in that bar was counting them out.
In the bottom of the fifth, Jason Giambi led off the inning by teeing off on a Martinez fastball to cut the lead to 4-1. Two innings later, Giambi did it again, this time with two outs. Pedro then allowed an infield single and then a single to right, and by that point, fingers began to cross throughout the bar. Some put their hands together and brought them up to their faces, their lips barely touching their index fingers. They were deep in prayer, hoping that Pedro would get out of the jam.
Minutes later, they all began to exhale, as Martinez struck Soriano out. Greg led the clapping parade as Pedro walked off the mound toward the Boston dugout. He pointed to the sky, and everyone clapped even louder.
“Yes! We’re going to the World Series!” Tony said. “It’s about time, and our drought will come to an end.”
“Don’t get ahead of ourselves,” Greg cautioned before taking a small sip of beer. “We still have two innings to play.”
Tony looked at Greg askance, as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard.
“Are you kidding? We have them on the ropes!”
After another sip, Greg looked at him and asked, “Do you trust this bullpen?”
Tony grimaced. He knew Greg was right about that Red Sox bullpen; they couldn’t be counted on. The Boston bullpen had been a teeter-totter all season, and in what could be the pivotal game of the season, Greg certainly didn’t seem to want to rely on them.
A few minutes later, Manny Ramirez grounded out to third before Yankees manager Joe Torre came out to the mound and removed Jeff Nelson in favor of lefty David Wells. With David Ortiz coming to bat, Torre wanted to get the lefty-lefty matchup in place.
It didn’t work.
Ortiz went deep to make it 5-2 Boston, and at that point, Greg cracked a smile. Yeah, he thought, the bullpen should be able to handle this. Even though it went against his better judgment, he knew there was no way the bullpen could blow a three-run lead to this Yankee team. It was wishful thinking on his part, and he stifled a wince.
Two hitters later, Pedro came back out to the mound, and Tony said, “What the heck? I thought he was done?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon answered. “Maybe Grady doesn’t think the bullpen is ready yet?”
Greg’s eyes went wide for a split second, but he relaxed them before his two friends could notice. He had a feeling this would happen: Grady Little was suddenly not able to count on his bullpen, just like Greg couldn’t count on them.
Returning his attention to the television, he watched as Nick Johnson popped out to Nomar Garciaparra at shortstop for the first out.
Okay, maybe this isn’t so bad, he thought.
Then it happened: Martinez then allowed a double to Jeter, which should have been out number two but was misplayed by Nixon. Yankees center fielder Bernie Williams then singled, bringing Jeter around to make it 5-3 Boston.
“We still have a two-run lead,” Tony said over the cacophony of boos from the bar crowd. “Nothing to worry about right now.”
Little then came to the mound to take Martinez out, but after the conversation ended, the manager sauntered back to the dugout without him. That led to applause from the fans at the bar, all of whom wanted to see Pedro go as far as he could. He was their ace; certainly he would be able to close the door on New York.
Inside, Greg was seething. He didn’t want to tell Tony what he was feeling, because if he said what was on his mind, it would probably lead to a drunken fistfight between the two friends. He was ready to find Grady Little and punch him, because Greg knew that one pitch could certainly change the complexion of the game.
So as Hideki Matsui stepped into the box, Martinez was ready to throw his 118 pitch of the game. Matsui rapped it to right, where it bounced over the fence for a ground-rule double, putting Williams at third.
The entire bar groaned, and Greg groaned with them.
“This isn’t happening. This is all a dream,” he said.
“I wish it were a dream. This is just a nightmare,” Brandon said.
“They’ve got to take him out now,” Tony added. “He can’t pitch much longer. The way he’s going, we’ll lose the game here.”
“You won’t get an argument from me on that one, Tone,” Greg replied. He took a very long sip of his beer and then realized that he hadn’t eaten in quite a while. The alcohol had already grabbed a hold of him, and he had been drinking for a few hours.
If the game was going the way he thought it would go if Pedro kept pitching, he was going to need more.
Five pitches later, Greg swore as Jorge Posada slapped Pedro’s final pitch of the game to shallow center, driving in both runners to tie the score at 5-5.
“It’s a new ballgame,” Brandon said. Greg didn’t say anything, instead choosing to down the rest of his beer and walk to the bar to get another round for his friends.

***

Over the next two and a half innings, Greg drank quite a bit more beer. Up and down the Red Sox went, and so did the Yankees. He couldn’t drink any more when the Red Sox were retired in the eleventh, so he said good bye to his friends and made the short walk to his house.
He got home in time to turn the television on and sit in his chair. He didn’t even turn the light on. Aaron Boone was just stepping into the batter’s box, and the cameras focused in on Wakefield. He wound up and sent his knuckler floating toward the plate. Boone swung.
It was a high fly ball toward left field, and Greg knew immediately that it was a home run. Yet before the ball could land in the sea of screaming and utterly sadistic Yankee fans, he quickly turned the game off. He knew it was over. The Red Sox had broken his heart once again, but by turning the TV off before the ball left the field, he gave himself plausible deniability for at least a few hours. He knew he would realize it was all true in the morning.
He just sat there in stunned silence, with the darkness of his living room closing in around him. He stared at the television, trying to close his eyes so he couldn’t see what just happened.
Then, without any warning, he cried. He was so upset that he couldn’t help himself. The tears flowed freely, and he didn’t want to stop them. It was the last straw. He was tired of his team losing and playing second fiddle to the hated Yankees.
It took him a few minutes, but soon the crying ebbed and he was finally able to stand up. He walked into his kitchen and then up the stairs to his bedroom, where he quickly fumbled with his clothes and disrobed. He got into his bed naked, just looking up at the ceiling. He cursed Grady Little for leaving Pedro in too long, and cursed Aaron Boone for being his generation’s version of Bucky Dent. The tears slowly came again, and Greg didn’t want them to stop.
He wished he had a way to change what he had just seen, but knew it would be ridiculous to even try. He couldn’t go back in time and change things, even though he desperately wanted to.
Then it hit him — why not? Maybe I could do it. After all, his degree from MIT was in physics with a minor in nuclear engineering. There may be a way to solve the Red Sox’s problems with the education he secured in Cambridge, but it would take a lot of research and quite a bit of time locked away from his friends.
If it could work, he thought, then last night wouldn’t have to happen ever again.
Greg slowly smiled as the realization that he could be the savior of Red Sox Nation came to him. And as the smile came across his face, a sickening feeling came to his stomach. Seconds later, that sickening feeling rose, and without hesitation, he leaned over the side of the bed and vomited.
He rolled back into the bed and tried to wipe his mouth. Greg may have come up with the answer to the problems of Red Sox fans, but he was still sickened by what he had just seen. His last waking thought was his newest objective and of the device he would need to create in order to accomplish it.

Chapter 1
Friday, October 17, 2003

Early that afternoon, Greg awoke with a heavy hangover. His eyes fluttered open and found sunlight streaming into his bedroom through the window facing west. Looking at the clock, he groaned as the display read 1:13. He was supposed to be at work four hours ago, but he had told his boss yesterday that there was a chance he wouldn’t be in today. He picked up his cell phone and dialed his boss’ extension.
Several rings later, Ingrid Jameson, his boss’ secretary, picked up the phone.
“Hey Ingrid, its Greg.”
“Well hello sleepyhead,” she said. “Looking for Charlie?”
“Yeah. Is he in a meeting?”
“Not at all. In fact, he didn’t even make it today. He called and left a message and said something about a hangover,” Ingrid said with a slight laugh.
Greg smiled to himself. He found it ironic that his boss was probably in bed with a wet washcloth on his forehead, popping aspirin like they were Pez.
He said good bye to Ingrid and then forced himself to get out of bed. He avoided his own vomit — luckily he had thrown up on a shirt that he had thrown on the floor a few days earlier — and made his way into the bathroom. Turning the knob that controlled the water pressure in his shower, he waited until it was perfect enough to stand under without scalding himself and then dunked his head under the stream.
Following his shower, Greg toweled off and got into some comfortable clothes. He wouldn’t need to get into anything restricting, as he had no plans to go anywhere today; he was still drunk and he wasn’t going to go driving. Going over to his computer, he opened his e-mail program and soon saw several messages from several of his friends flood in — all of whom happened to be Yankee fans.
Greg grimaced as he saw the subject lines scroll onto his screen. None were sent in a taunting fashion, and he could see that those friends were all making sure he was okay. The subjects ranged from “Did you die?” to “If you don’t respond by Sunday, I’m calling 9-1-1.” It touched Greg that those friends were concerned with his well being, even though they would normally be dancing a two-step on the grave of the Red Sox by now, but at the same time he cursed them for the team they rooted for.
He went through every single one of them, reading them and chuckling to himself. Then he came to one that really piqued his interest:
“Greg, sorry that your Red Sox lost last night. Things happen for a reason, and yeah, I know you’re tired of hearing it, but you’ll have to wait until next year. Maybe if someone had a time machine, they could go back and hog-tie Grady to the dugout floor and pulled Pedro when he had the chance! Keep your chin up, and I’ll talk to you later on. Charlie.”
The e-mail opened Greg’s eyes wide. He suddenly recalled his idea, the one he had just before he fell asleep. A time machine, if he could build one, would be the perfect tool to go back and change the outcome of last night’s game. He had no idea how he would change it — that was something that would take some research, and he had the brains to complete the task — but now the idea was running wild in his head. The only way he would be able to get the idea out of his head would be to see it through to its completion.
Trying to breathe, Greg exhaled slowly as he read the message again. A time machine…
Greg stood up as he thought about it a little bit more. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded: time machines only existed in the movies and in fictional stories. This was reality, and time machines existed only in the deep recesses of one’s imagination. Scowling, Greg knew his thoughts were of utter insanity.
But then again, if he were to somehow do this, he would change the fortunes of not only the Boston Red Sox, but the entire fan base.
He got up quickly and reached for his research books. He knew that inside them would be the answer to his dilemma, and he hoped that he would be able to find the answer as quick as he could. The quicker he discovered the answer, he thought, he would be able to get this project underway.

***

Greg read for hours. His eyes greedily took in the information, and he soon had his ideas out on paper, like an author outlining a novel. He knew what he would need: a construct to travel through time, as well as a great deal of machinery and technical schemata to make the time machine work. It was an incredible endeavor, one that he hoped would succeed.
While he was doing this research, he also needed to figure out to what period of time he would go back to. As he was reading and saw that his plan would come to fruition, he knew that only going back a few days was just the beginning. Greg knew that if he were successful, he could do other things with the time machine.
And then it really hit him — why not go back and make sure something that had haunted the Red Sox for nearly 84 years never happened in the first place?
Greg dropped his notes and rushed over to his bookcase and grabbed several books from the shelves. Bringing them back to his desk, he opened the first one, a heavy hardcover book, and flipped to the section that contained information on the year 1919. He sat there for several hours, pouring through the volume like it was the easiest read he ever had. Greg already knew the facts surrounding the event he was researching, but as one of his college professors always said, refreshing one’s mind to the facts was always helpful.
Grabbing a beer from his fridge, he opened it and took a long sip. Sitting back down, he looked over the book again and took another sip.
Then his eyes passed over one piece of information, a piece of information that he had never known before, and then spit his beer over his computer monitor.
“What the?!” he exclaimed.
He stared at the book and immediately reached for his phone. His fingers flew over the keypad, dialing the ten numbers in under five seconds. The phone rang several times, and he was hoping Tony’s answering machine didn’t pick up. He needed to speak with him pretty darn quick.
“Come on, answer the phone!” Greg said. “I know you’re home, you don’t have a life!”
Then he heard a click as Tony’s phone came off the cradle.
“Hello?” the weak voice said.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping all day long.”
“Yeah, I have. I didn’t get out of the bar until closing time, then I went home and had a few more. You get home okay?”
“Yep. And I got about 12 hours of sleep or so. I’ve been doing some research the past few hours. Tell me something — did you ever hear that the White Sox offered Shoeless Joe Jackson to the Red Sox for Babe Ruth in 1919?”
There was silence on the other end for just a few seconds, but Tony offered a slow “no” as he digested what Greg had said.
“It’s true. I just read it in Red Sox Century.”
Greg listened to the silence on the other end of the phone. He could tell that Tony was processing this new nugget of information.
“So are you trying to tell me that the Babe didn’t have to go to the Yankees at all?”
“Yes. Of course, we would probably be stuck in the same predicament: even if the deal was made, Jackson would have been banned anyway for his knowledge of the fix, and Ruth would have went on to prosper in Chicago.”
“But it would have been Chicago, not the Bronx, and it would be the White Sox with 26 world titles, going on 27 next week.”
“You think they’ll beat the Marlins?”
“They should. Florida’s pitching is too young to beat the Yankees. Josh Beckett is a kid. You should know that, you’re the baseball expert.”
“We’ll see. I can tell you I won’t be watching it. Watching the Yankees win another title would be another kick to the stones. Yankee fans would be impossible to stand this winter.”
“They are already impossible to stand; adding a world championship to it would just make them even more conceited.”
“Yeah, but just think: if we can get some quality pitching this off-season to help take the weight off Pedro, then we can make a run for the title.”
“Right, but anyway, Joe Jackson could have been a Red Sox and Babe Ruth didn’t have to wear pinstripes. Damn that Harry Frazee!”
“Look, you know just as much as I do that he had no choice to sell Ruth to the Yankees. The colonels had the money, Charlie Comiskey didn’t, and Commy had so many problems going into 1920 that it wouldn’t have made sense to deal with the White Sox in the first place.”
“So what’s the point of waking me up, Greg? You woke me up to tell me that we had a chance to get Joe Jackson, but that it wouldn’t have mattered anyway? Are you cracking up, buddy?”
Greg knew he wasn’t cracking up, but he cracked a smile anyway.
“No, I’m not. Listen: I’ve come up with a way to save the Red Sox. You may think I’m crazy for saying this, but I’m going to build a time machine.”
Greg waited for Tony’s response, knowing that Tony may think the idea to be ridiculous.
But then again, Tony had been known to do some pretty corny things, himself.
“That’s sweet, dude! Let me know when you’re done with it; I’d love to come along for the ride,” he said. “Are you going to use a DeLorean? Those are hard to find nowadays.”
Greg stifled a snicker: it came as no surprise to him that Tony would use that lame Back To The Future reference.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m trying to figure all that out. I’ll let you know when I’m finished with it, but keep it under your hat for right now. What are you doing tonight?”
“Probably watching the Celtics game, since the Bruins aren’t playing yet. In fact,” Tony paused, “the Celtics are on now. They’re at the Knicks tonight, and they’ll probably lose. But still, I’m a diehard fan, unlike some people I know.”
Tony sighed.
“I wonder what would have happened if Len and Reggie didn’t die. We would probably be up to 26 titles, ourselves. Oh well. Talk to you later, bud.”
He hung up and Greg followed suit. Greg looked at the book again and pursed his lips. If only the White Sox didn’t throw the World Series to the Reds, he thought, then the Red Sox wouldn’t be in this situation.
Then the idea hit him, and a wide grin stretched his face. He was so excited about what he was thinking about that he forgot about the troubles of last night’s game. Could two of the worst scandals in baseball history be linked together?
Greg hoped that if everything went according to plan, the troubles of the past 84 years — not just the last 24 hours — would be erased. He grabbed the remote control and turned the Celtics game on, then leaned back and gulped down his beer. The remnants of his hangover disappeared, and he smiled as he watched the C’s and the Knicks.
That smile didn’t last for long, as the Celtics ended up losing, 89-86.

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