The Game That Time And Iowa Forgot

My name is Gideon Clarke, and, like my father before me, I have on more than one occasion been physically ejected from the offices of the Chicago Cubs Baseball Club, which are located at Wrigley Field, 1060 West Addison, in Chicago.

My father's unfortunate dealings with the Chicago Cubs began with his making polite requests for information concerning the 1908 baseball season: player records, box scores, nothing out of the ordinary. At first, the Cubs' public relations people were most cooperative. However, the information they provided was not what my father wanted to hear. His letters became more pointed, critical, accusatory, downright insulting to the point of incoherence. The final letter from the Chicago Cubs Baseball Club—their stationery has a small picture of Wrigley Field at the top—is dated Oct. 7, 1945 and states clearly: "We consider the matter closed and would appreciate it if you did not contact us again."

After that my father began to make personal visits to the Cub offices.

My father's quest began in 1943. I was born in 1945 and grew up in a home where the atmosphere was one of vague unease. My father's problem was this: He was in possession of information concerning the Chicago Cubs, our hometown of Onamata, Iowa, and a baseball league known as the Iowa Baseball Confederacy, information that he knew to be true and accurate but that no one else in the world would acknowledge. He knew history books were untrue, that baseball records were falsified, that people of otherwise unblemished character told him bold-faced lies when he inquired about their knowledge of, and involvement with, the Iowa Baseball Confederacy.

My father also believed that there are cracks in time and that little snippets of the past, like small, historical mice, gnaw holes in the lath and plaster and wallpaper of what used to be, then scamper madly across the present, causing eyes to shift and ears to perk to their tiny footfalls. To most people they are only a gray blur and a miniature tattoo of sound quickly gone and forgotten. There are, however, some of us who see and hear more than they were ever meant to. My father was one of those, as am I.

His example taught me well, for no matter how futile his efforts seemed, he would not be moved from his goals, just as I shall not be moved from mine. I will pursue the elusive dream of the Iowa Baseball Confederacy until it is finally acknowledged that the Chicago Cubs traveled to Iowa in the summer of 1908 and engaged in a baseball game against the Iowa Baseball Confederacy All-Stars.

Gideon Clarke's obsession with slipping through a crack in time into the past—to July 4, 1908, to be exact—ultimately leads him to take a midnight walk along a mysterious railroad spur outside Onamata. Gideon is accompanied by a friend, Stan, a nondescript minor league ballplayer. Through some cosmic sleight of hand as they travel along the railroad track, they also travel back from 1978 to 1908 and wind up at a baseball diamond outside the village of Big Inning, which was the original name of Onamata. They find, of course, that Gideon's father had been right all along.

The morning burns in a golden haze. July 4, 1908, will be clear and warm in Big Inning; the dew is almost gone, promising a scorching afternoon. The humidity is low, the air full of summer fragrances: ripening corn, mellow earth, dandelions, red and white clover. I breathe deeply.

The baseball field in daylight is even more remarkable than we had imagined. The infield looks as if it has been tended with a flour sifter. There isn't a pebble, a clod of dirt, a weed, a mound or a depression of any kind. The earthen surface is fine, soft dust, warming in the midmorning heat. The grass is smooth, fresh-cut, one perfect green blanket.

"Better than any big league park I've ever been in," I say to Stan.