The Babe Ruth Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Settling in on the plank seat, Fraser started on the peanuts and wondered at the design flaw in the ball field before him. The baseball diamond had been imposed on the center of a rectangular piece of land, not nestled in the corner. Rather than have home plate at the tip of the classic pie-slice shape, here home plate bisected the bottom boundary of the field and faced a distorted outfield. Straightaway center field was foreshortened. Both right- and left-field foul lines ended shortly past the infield. Left-center and right-center fields would be graveyards for well-struck balls.

  Fraser closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. He felt his spirit begin to unwind. It was good to be away from the lab, its claustrophobic smells and its formulaic conversations. How was your weekend? Your test results? Plans for next weekend? Nice weather, eh? When the fans around him broke into a cheer, his eyes fluttered open. A batter was trudging back to the dugout, glaring over his shoulder at a dark-skinned, thickly built pitcher for the Bacharach Giants. The first pitch to the next batter smacked into the catcher’s mitt with such a pop that Fraser decided the pitcher must be Cannonball Dick Redding. They said he was faster than Walter Johnson.

  “Damn, they’ll let anyone in here these days.”

  Fraser swiveled toward that deep voice. Speed Cook stood at the end of the row, smiling broadly. He looked a bit heavier than last time, just as tall and imposing. His hairline was still in retreat, the remaining curls gray. “No trick to it,” Fraser said. “Just show up at the ticket booth with two bits.” Cook took his hand in a two-handed grip, then sat down next to him. Fraser nodded at the players on the field. “So this is Redding?”

  “The Cannonball his own self. Still fast, but not as fast as he used to be.”

  “True for all of us.”

  “Bad for pitchers. And for the man who pays him.” Cook gripped Fraser by the shoulder and gave a low laugh. “No justice in this world. I get balder and fatter and you get better looking. What’s going on in your world?”

  They exchanged family news, the innocuous kind. Fraser’s daughter was starting at Barnard College that fall. A society-type young man was buzzing around her, someone her mother approved of. Cook’s daughter was working at the NAACP for Doctor Du Bois, but Cook had stopped working there, weary of the great man’s pretensions. Still, he said, she’d learn a lot. He was proud that his daughter was part of the campaign for Negro rights.

  “What about your boy, Joshua?” Fraser asked. “I feel like I got to know him over in France.”

  Cook took a few peanuts from the bag Fraser offered. As he shelled one, the batter mashed one of Redding’s pitches over the left fielder’s head, a triple that brought home two runs. Cook groaned and pointed at the pitcher. “See? Not near fast enough.”

  “Joshua?”

  Cook reached for more peanuts. “Not much to say. He hasn’t really found his way, not since the war.”

  “He went through a lot over there.”

  “Sure, sure. And there’s not much for him here, not much that’s, you know, worthy.”

  Fraser nodded.

  “He’s impatient. You might call it a family trait. Just can’t find his place. Maybe another family trait. Tell you what—there’s too many people trying to put him in his place.” The batter struck out, allowing the Bacharach Giants to leave the field.

  “What’s he trying? What’s he want to do? Maybe I could help.”

  Cook gave Fraser a sardonic look. “That’s one more family trait—he doesn’t accept help real well, certainly not from old folks.” Cook sighed. “Damn fool’s spending time with a bunch of damned reds. You know, the things they say sound good to him. Sound good to me, too. Equal rights for colored. Equal opportunity. Share the wealth. No argument about any of it. But the government’s coming down hard on those reds. He needs to know better than to be around them.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m worrying about that boy. He’s almost twenty-six years old, but here I am. When I was his age . . .”

  Cook didn’t finish the sentence. After wiping his hands against each other, he asked, “Jamie, I know you didn’t come for the baseball, not when you can watch the Babe over the other side of the river. I even heard talk that Miss Eliza’s been doing business with the Babe.”

  “Wow. Word gets around.”

  “Anything about the Babe does. That man’s the goddamned second coming.”

  “He’s that good?”

  Cook smiled. “Better than that. He pitches better than anyone else. He hits better than anyone else. Runs like a deer when he wants to and is strong as an ox. Of course, he’s an ignorant lunkhead, but he’s a genius about baseball.” When Cook reached for the peanuts again, Fraser handed him the bag. Cook smiled out at the field while popping open a shell. “I’ve seen a lot of ballplayers, but nothing like him. Can’t hardly believe he’s a white man.”

  “There’s talk about that, isn’t there?”

  “Usual stuff. Don’t see much to it myself. Man’s got thick lips is all.” Cook smiled over at Fraser. “Not that there aren’t plenty of black folks walking around acting like what they know they’re not.” Cook pointed to home plate. “Watch this guy, Pop Lloyd. He’s probably second only to the Babe right now. He doesn’t have Ruth’s power, but he hits a ton. He’s not playing for us this year, but we picked him up for this game. We’re listing him as Joe Jenkins.”

  Lloyd—or Jenkins—stepped into the batter’s box. Square-faced, with a grim demeanor, he wasn’t as big as the Babe, but his hands seemed to swallow up the bat handle. Fraser thought his hands might be as big as Cook’s. The pitcher made Lloyd swing clumsily on a pitch that dove into the dirt. Cook shook his head. “That Cyclone Joe throws a mean spitball. Then he switches over and gives ’em the gas.” They watched silently. Three pitches later, the batter rifled a line dive over second base that the shortstop missed with a lunging dive. Cook smacked his hands together with pleasure, then wagged an index finger at his friend. “You remember that—you saw Cyclone Joe take on Pop Lloyd.”

  When Cook gathered himself to stand up, Fraser quickly said, “Speed—Abe Attell.”

  Cook gave him a surprised look. “What about him?”

  “Well, you mentioned this movie, the one with the Babe in it?”

  “Sure. How’s it doing?” Cook leaned back.

  Fraser made a face. “It’s not drawing flies. But here’s the thing. Eliza ended up with Attell as one of the investors in the movie.”

  “Abe Attell? Wouldn’t’ve thought he was her cup of tea. She doesn’t even like me. Abe would give her fainting spells. How’d they get mixed up?”

  “Not on purpose, not on her part. I had no idea. You know, I sit in the lab, see patients, don’t really know her business.” Cook nodded. “You know about this investigation out in Chicago, about the World Series being fixed?” Cook grunted an acknowledgment. “We picked up the idea that maybe Attell’s tied into that business. That wouldn’t be great, not for Eliza.”

  Cook leaned back, his elbows on the bench behind them, and stroked his chin with one hand. “One of the least surprising things you could tell me about Abe Attell is that he was fixing ball games.” He nodded down at the field. “Look at those men out on that field. Every one of them’s taken money from a gambler. Tough to make a living out of baseball.”

  “Did you?”

  Cook grinned. “Nobody’s left can remember that far back. I sure can’t.”

  “So it happens in the big leagues, too?”

  “The world’s a nasty place.”

  “Do you think last year’s Series was fixed?”

  “Got no idea. I can tell you I had a real fine laugh when I saw that Charlie Comiskey, owns the White Sox, is offering twenty thousand dollars for information about fixing games!” Cook snorted. “I played with that old fox, back before time began, and what he doesn’t know about fixing games ain’t worth knowing.”

  “No kidding. Comiskey?”

  “Comiskey.”

  “Let me try something
out on you, something that worries me. Maybe, you know, there was something going on between the Babe and Attell, and maybe the movie was tied up in it somehow. And maybe it has some connection with that Chicago investigation.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes. How would that work, anyway? The Babe wasn’t even in that World Series. It was the White Sox and the Reds.”

  “I don’t know. He was in the World Series the year before, you know, with the Red Sox. This just all seems like a lot of connections. Enough to make me nervous. To make Eliza nervous.”

  Cook scratched the side of his face. He didn’t react when Pop Lloyd stole second, then took third after the catcher’s throw bounced into center field. “I tell you what. I’m supposed to be meeting with the Babe tomorrow.”

  “Really? For what?”

  “I want to sign him up to play exhibition games against us in October. He’s one hell of a draw, and the thing is, Babe always needs money. We got that in common. I can see what I can find out about him and Attell.”

  Fraser thought for a minute. This was definitely another coincidence, but that’s why he came to see Speed, looking for such a connection. “Yeah,” he said, “that’d be great.”

  Cook sat up and smiled at Fraser. “All right then. You might want to keep Miss Eliza away from that Attell. He’s a mean piece of business.”

  * * *

  The two of them had been nearly an hour at a small table in Smitty’s Five and Dime on Eleventh Avenue, a murky longshoreman’s joint that didn’t draw race lines. After they’d put away three boilermakers each, Cook gave up on the idea of outdrinking the Babe. Truth be told, Cook wasn’t feeling so terrific. Not drunk, not like that, but something hairy and ill tempered had moved in behind his forehead. Ruth showed no effects other than a relentless appetite. He was on his second corned beef sandwich and a mountain of potato salad. Flecks of mayonnaise and mustard dotted his tie and lapels. His table manners were enthusiastic.

  Cook took no offense when the Babe was obviously bored by Cook’s tales of pro ball back in the eighties. After all, Ruth was reinventing baseball, creating something splashier, more thrilling, his home runs jolting whole ballparks full of people. To Ruth, Cook’s stories were like tales of wars fought with stone axes.

  Cook had measured himself against the Babe, the way he did with all large men. They were about the same height. Cook carried more weight now, a good deal more, but he had no idea how the man hit the ball so far. It had to be something about timing and leverage. When Cook played ball, a few times he came up against someone so good that he had to accept that the other guy was just better. Not because he’d figured something out, or he practiced harder, or wanted it more. The guy was just better. It still pissed him off.

  Cook had no reason to resent Ruth. Signing him up for the barnstorming games had been easy. Cook pointed out that the Yankees were paying him $129 for each game he played. Then he offered $2,000 for six games, more than double what the Yanks were paying. Even if Babe couldn’t do the numbers in his head, he knew it was a good offer.

  It was a gamble for Cook, but he liked the odds. The other players—white and black—would come a lot cheaper. Cook planned to line up six ballparks, four in the city and two in New Jersey. Fans would flock to watch the Bacharach Giants square off against Babe Ruth and his All-Stars, a miniature race war played out on the baseball diamond. Whites would come to see the Negroes slapped down, put back in their place. Colored fans would look for vindication, the vicarious thrill of beating white men. And everyone would come to see the Babe clobber a homer, maybe two. Cook would make sure the Bacharach pitchers gave him only pitches that he could belt out of the park. As long as the game didn’t trigger a real race war, Cook should do fine, especially on the side bets. Games like these, there wasn’t much risk in betting on them.

  The Babe belched—low, long, and unrepentant. He smiled and chewed the last of his sandwich. He finished his beer and held up his mug. “Another?”

  Cook waved one finger at the bartender. “I’ll sit this one out,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

  Babe shrugged. Why would he mind? “Funny how the world goes here in New York. You know that movie I made? That deal was with a broad. Can you beat that? And here I am making a deal with a nigger, and you’re sitting there buying the drinks and got the money to do it. I’m telling you, it’s something else.”

  Cook wasn’t real interested in the Babe’s experience of wonder, but he welcomed the opening to talk about Eliza Fraser’s movie. “That movie . . . You know, I heard that Abe Attell was part of it somehow. Leastways, that’s the word around.”

  The Babe smiled benignly at the bartender who delivered his boilermaker. He poured the shot into the beer mug and drank off half of it. His expression darkened and his brow gathered in disgust. “Little Fucking Hebrew.”

  “Movies have never been Abe’s line, not that I knew. He’s more into gambling. You know, fixing the World Series, that sort of thing.”

  The Babe smiled. “I hope those bastards out in Chicago string him up. Little fucking son of a bitch.”

  “What do you hear about Chicago, the grand jury and all?”

  “What do I know?” Ruth wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. “We weren’t even in the Series last year.” The Babe’s belch this time was more modest, hardly worth the effort.

  “Yeah,” Cook said, trying to seem casual, “but you were there the year before, when you guys beat the Cubs.”

  The Babe’s eyes stopped scanning the bar and fixed back on Cook. “You saying something?”

  Cook shrugged, suddenly wondering if the Babe’s routine might be an act. “You hear stuff, maybe it’s malarkey, from people who may know something or may not. Some of it’s just logic, I guess. With all the trouble around the Series in ’18—you know, the players going on strike, fighting over money, the war, the gamblers.”

  The Babe kept his gaze steady on Cook. “What about the gamblers?”

  “Well, there’s your business partner, Attell. He must’ve been hanging around the Series, both teams. And I’ve heard about that train ride from Chicago to Boston, the overnight train with both teams on it. That’s a long time on a train, Chicago to Boston. Hard for guys not to talk to each other, play some cards, have a few laughs, you know? And you’ve always got those gamblers in your underwear, helping with the cards and the dice, shooting the breeze—you know how it is. I was just thinking, if the players were trying to figure out how to get paid more, well, sometimes gamblers and ballplayers can figure that out, you know? Help each other out. At least that used to happen back in my day.”

  “I don’t remember about that train trip.”

  Cook smiled. “That’s a long ride to forget.”

  “Sometimes I’m forgetful.” The Babe pointed to his half-empty beer mug and smiled. “I drink a lot, you know.”

  Cook leaned forward on his elbows and smiled. “That’s good, Babe. That’s real good. Nothing good comes from answering questions like that.” Cook knew that was sound advice, advice that most people couldn’t follow. Most people talked too goddamned much. Maybe the Babe didn’t, which would mean he definitely was smarter than Cook had expected.

  Chapter 4

  “Brother Briggs is speaking tonight, up in Harlem. Going to talk about Negro armed resistance. We should go.” Cecil Washington’s narrow face wore an earnest expression under the flat light at Childs’ cafeteria. This branch was downtown, not far from Wall Street. At midmorning, amid the hubbub of the financial center, Childs’ was a refuge for the confused and forlorn. A few customers, most unshaven, sat at single tables, quietly bearing the burden of another day of having nowhere better to be. At a table against the back wall, Cecil and Joshua Cook nursed cups of coffee and smoked. Since coming home from the war, they had moved from harsh French cigarettes to Lucky Strikes, but still preferred their coffee hot, strong, and with a heavy dose of cream. Childs’ coffee usually failed on the first two counts.

  Cecil was an ea
rnest man. As a soldier in Joshua’s platoon, that earnestness was worth its weight in gold. No matter what the big talk was now among black folks about their army regiment, how the ferocious Harlem Hellfighters won the war all by themselves, not everyone in it was a two-fisted hero. Cecil though, now, he was. Joshua had counted on him over in France, counted on him every day, and he was never disappointed. Back home, Cecil had become an earnest black revolutionary. He earnestly believed in the need for Negro armed resistance against their white oppressors. In peacetime, Cecil’s earnestness could wear a body out.

  “You don’t need to go hear that man,” Joshua said, stubbing out a butt. He was smoking more than he could afford. He could hear his mother fussing how his clothes stank of tobacco. “I can give you his speech right here, right now. So can you. We need to fight the white masters and get our hind ends back to Africa.”

  “Don’t be like that. Don’t give me that I’ve-seen-it-all routine. Sure, we know Brother Briggs’s message, but you need to be refreshed on it, let it steep into you. Feel it deep in your bones. Need that on a regular basis.”

  “Like going to church on Sunday?” Joshua allowed himself a grin and reached for his cigarettes.

  “See!” Cecil pointed a long finger at him. “You’re doing it. Making fun of it. We got to stand up for ourselves, stand up for our brothers and sisters. Stand up for the African Blood Brotherhood.”

  “I don’t know, Cecil.” He exhaled his first puff, the one that felt best and you paid most attention to. “I need a movement that’ll fight for my right to sit down, sit down like all those bosses sit down. That’s the movement black folks need. More sitting down.”