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said too. Hendrix is a genius. I remembered she’d said what a tragedy it was that he died so young of a drug overdose in 1970. If this was 1969, Jimi Hendrix would be dead within a year.
    That’s when it hit me. There would be plenty of time to talk to Roberto Clemente. He won’t die until 1972. While I was here in 1969, I could save Jimi Hendrix’s life too!
    Wait a minute. Who was I kidding? There were thousands of people between me and the stage. There would be no way for me to get anywhere near Jimi Hendrix. And even if I could, what would I say to him: “Just say no to drugs, Jimi”? If he was addicted, he wasn’t about to stop taking drugs just because some strange kid told him they would kill him. He would laugh at me. What a dumb idea.
    Hendrix finished the song he was playing and got a standing ovation. He must have been the final act of the Woodstock Festival, because as soon as he was done, all the hippies started gathering up their stuff. People began making their way out from the stage area. Suddenly, there was a narrow open path between me and the stage.
    Hendrix was still up there, unplugging his guitar and chatting with his drummer. I thought for a second or two and made a snap decision. I had to give it a try. If I could pull it off, my mother would be so happy.
    â€œJimi!” I shouted as I pushed my way forward. “Mr. Hendrix! I need to tell you something!”
    The hippies looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn’t care. When you’re trying to save somebody’s life, you can’t worry about what people think. I was about 30 yards from the stage when somebody started shouting.
    â€œHey! That kid is trying to get at Jimi!”
    â€œNo!” I yelled. “I’m just trying to save his life!”
    â€œThe kid is crazy!” someone else shouted.
    A bunch of hippies started chasing me as I got closer to the stage.
    â€œJimi!” I yelled. “You’re gonna die!”
    â€œThat kid must be high on something!” somebody hollered. “He’s gonna kill Jimi! Stop him!”
    For a moment—when I was about ten yards from the stage—I saw Jimi look at me. Then, the next thing I knew, a bunch of hippies grabbed me and threw me to the ground in front of the stage.
    â€œHey, knock it off!” I yelled as they started kicking and punching me. “I thought you people were all about peace and love!”
    That’s when somebody picked up a big peace sign and hit me over the head with it.

8
Sunrise
    I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I WAS OUT. PROBABLY ONLY A FEW minutes. When I came to, I staggered away, thankful those peaceniks hadn’t killed me. What had I been thinking? Trying to save Jimi Hendrix from himself was probably the stupidest idea I ever came up with.
    Suddenly, a guy with stringy blond hair walked over to me and stuck his face in front of mine.
    â€œHey, man,” he said, “if life is a grapefruit, then what’s a cantaloupe?”
    â€œHow should I know?” I said, pushing the guy away.
    I cleared my head. I had to get back to the reason why I came here in the first place. Roberto Clemente. He wasn’t at Woodstock. He wasn’t anywhere near Woodstock. Something had gone terribly wrong. Something always goes wrong. Time travel is simply not an exact science.
    Think , I told myself. It was hot out. It was baseball season. Roberto Clemente had to be playing ball somewhere. The question was, where?
    The only thing I could do was follow the hippies as they started to pack up their stuff and make their way toward the exits. The field was a huge mess. There was mud and garbage everywhere. It must have rained a lot during the festival. People left behind tons of soggy clothes and blankets.
    Some people were in no rush to leave. They were hanging around, sleeping, doing yoga exercises, or tending campfires made of burning garbage. A few were running around with no clothes on. It looked