If Jim killed himself, it wouldn’t be John McGraw’s fault for being mean to him. It would be our fault for not saving him. And if we didn’t save Jim, Bobby was a goner. That would be my fault alone, because I was the one who had brought him to 1913 in the first place. I must admit there were times I wished Bobby Fuller would vanish off the face of the earth. But deep down inside, I didn’t want to make that happen. We had our ups and downs, but he had actually been an okay time-traveling companion. I also felt sorry for him because he was addicted to drugs. And he did save my life from that wrecking ball. We ran down Eighth Avenue to that bar where Jim had been drinking before the game. He seemed to be a regular there, so we figured he might have gone back. But when we rushed in the door, we didn’t see Jim anywhere. “Is Jim Thorpe here?” I asked the bartender breathlessly. “I kicked him out ’bout ten minutes ago,” he replied. “Drunk again.” The guy looked like he was mad.
