I stopped by the hospital one Saturday afternoon to sit with my grandfather, Ray. He had been in a coma for three days, and at 102 years old, he wasn’t expected to live much longer. His vitals were poor, and his heart had slowed to a near crawl.

When I arrived, his room was empty of visitors and his eyes were closed, so I pulled up a chair and turned on a Cubs game. I had no expectation he’d come out of the coma, but he was a lifelong baseball fan – maybe, somehow, he could still hear the game.

I sat there for about an hour. The Cubs were staging a comeback in the eighth inning, tying the game after being down 4–1. Grandpa Ray and I had gone to many ballgames together and watched twice as many on TV, usually at a bar.

He was a walking encyclopedia of Cubs history. A fan since 1929, he’d witnessed nearly a century of heartbreak. He often talked fondly about going to games with his father, an Italian immigrant who worked on the armory in Joliet. Ray’s favorite player that year was Rogers Hornsby, who had been traded from the Boston Braves for an eye-popping $200,000 (around $3.7 million today) and five players.

Ray was still talking about that 1929 season on his hundredth birthday—how Hornsby hit .380 with 39 home runs and 149 RBIs, scoring 156 runs and winning the MVP. But he always got quiet when recalling how the Cubs lost the World Series to the Philadelphia A’s in just five games.

As I sat watching, the Cubs loaded the bases with one out. Veteran Justin Turner stepped up, only to hit into a weak double play. I groaned, and then, from the hospital bed, I heard, “Dammit!”

I turned. Ray was awake, eyes glued to the game.

“Grandpa!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I’ve been awake all day, Bobby,” he said with a snicker. “Just didn’t want anyone to know.”

We talked for a while, still watching the game, which went into extra innings. The Cubs won in the bottom of the 11th with a walk-off homer by Dansby Swanson.

I turned off the TV and poured Ray a glass of water. He asked me to face him as he had something to get off his chest. He sipped, spilling a bit on his shirt, then handed the cup back.

“I’m not going to live much longer, Bobby,” he said. “Certainly not past the end of the week. And there’s something I never told anyone.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously.

“I played for the Cubs. In 1940.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Look it up,” he said. “But not under my name. Look for a pitcher named Julio Bonetti.”

“Why would you use a different name, Grandpa?”

“Long story. I just hope I’ve got time to tell it.”

“I’m all ears.”

He smiled and launched into the tale.

“The real Julio Bonetti was a relief pitcher for the Browns from ’37 to ’39. Not a great one. That winter, the Cubs bought his contract. They needed bullpen help.

“Julio moved into our neighborhood. I was a big, 20-year-old kid – could throw hard, but had no control. Julio showed me a few pitches and helped me harness my fastball. Before long, I was a decent pitcher.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Dead serious. But here’s the crazy part: just after the 1940 season began, Julio came over with bad news. His mother had died in Italy. He had to go home. But he was terrified because if he didn’t report to Wrigley that day, the Cubs would cut him.”

Ray paused to cough, and I handed him his water again. He sipped, spilled more, and continued.

“My mother – your great-grandmother – was in the kitchen, half-listening. Suddenly she said, ‘I might have a solution.’

“Dad and Julio were speaking Italian and didn’t catch it. She repeated herself louder. ‘You ever notice how much Julio and Ray look alike?’

“‘We’re Italian, Sophia,’ my dad muttered. ‘They think we all look alike.’

“‘Ray can pitch, can’t he?’

“‘Sure, but what’s that got to do with—’

“She smiled. ‘Let Ray take Julio’s place. Just for a bit. Maybe he’ll do well enough to hold the spot until Julio gets back.’

“Dad thought she was crazy. Julio looked unsure. But as they talked, they started warming to the idea. I didn’t know what to say as I didn’t think they were serious.

“But they were. Next morning, Julio left to handle his family affairs. I took the bus to Wrigley with Mom and Dad. Reported to the clubhouse with Julio’s papers. Somehow, I made it through. Manager Gabby Hartnett didn’t notice. I guess he didn’t care much for bullpen guys.

“The first day, I sat unnoticed. The next, I got the call in the sixth inning. We were up 4–3. Hartnett handed me the ball, looked at me oddly, maybe I looked too young. Then he walked off.

“I was terrified.”

“You’re making this up,” I said.

“I swear, Bobby. I pitched 1 1/3 innings. Gave up four walks and three hits. My ERA was 20.25.”

“Wow.”

“They cut me the next day. Wouldn’t even let me sit on the bench. I watched the game from the stands with my folks.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

He grinned. “Would you brag about a 20.25 ERA?”

“Fair point.”

“I felt bad. Julio never made it back to Italy because of the war. Never returned to the majors. I always felt partly responsible.”

Aunt Marlene and her daughter arrived a half-hour later, and I left. I was still smiling to myself when I got the call: Grandpa had passed.

I debated whether to write this or keep it secret. But in the end, he made it to the big leagues. And not many can say that.

I looked up Julio Bonetti. Turns out, he died of a heart attack at 40. Life’s funny. Baseball is stranger.