by Dan Gutman
The cab stopped at the corner of Broadway and Seventy-fourth Street, in front of a big old building. The corner of the building was rounded and it was really fancy. The cab fare was only a dollar. Dad handed the driver a five-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” I told the driver. I always wanted to say that, too. Dad shot me a look, but he couldn’t help but chuckle. It was fun throwing a few dollars around when we knew we were about to make thousands.
The cab stopped at the corner of Broadway and Seventy-fourth Street, in front of the Ansonia Hotel.
The driver hopped out of the cab and ran around to open the door for us. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he kept repeating.
“We’re here to see Mr. Ruth,” Dad told the doorman in front of the Ansonia Hotel as he slipped a dollar into his hand.
“Seventh floor, sir. Thank you, sir!”
When the elevator door opened on the seventh floor, it was like there was a New Year’s Eve party going on. The apartment door was open and people were spilling out all over the place, wandering in and out of every room. They didn’t look like baseball players. There were guys in suits and ties, women all dressed up, bums in rags, and all kinds of other people in between.
Nobody paid much attention to me and Dad. They were all talking, laughing, dancing to music that was coming out of one of those old-time record players with a huge horn attached to it. A telephone was ringing constantly, and nobody bothered picking it up. Babe Ruth was nowhere to be seen.
Dad and I walked around. The apartment was way bigger than my house back home. There must have been ten or eleven rooms. It took up the entire seventh floor of the Ansonia. None of the rooms had TV sets, but most of them had a radio that was the size of a TV set.
“Why are there pots all over the floor?” I yelled to Dad over the crowd noise.
“They’re spittoons,” Dad shouted back. “You spit tobacco juice into them.”
Sure enough, I saw some guy lean back and launch a stream of brown goop into a spittoon from ten feet away. It was an amazing shot to me, but nobody else seemed to be impressed.
We looked all over the place but couldn’t find Babe Ruth. Dad noticed a door to one of the rooms was closed. He winked at me, knocked softly on the door, and opened it.
The Babe wasn’t in there, either. Two girls were sitting on a couch. They looked up at us. One of them looked a little older than me, the other one a bit younger. They were doing their homework, it seemed. A lady, who must have been their mother, was reading in a chair.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dad said, backing out of the door. “We’re looking for Mr. Ruth.”
“Daddy’s in the kitchen, most likely,” one of the girls said.
We closed the door, looked at each other, and mouthed the word “Daddy?” to each other. I never knew Babe Ruth had kids.
It took some time, but we finally pushed our way through the throng of people jamming the hallway to get to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was the Babe, in the middle of everybody. He was in his street clothes—brown pants, tan shirt.
“Watch this!” the Babe boomed. He was chomping on a cigar, and he had a baseball bat in his hand. He held it over his head, straight up and down. Then he leaned back and put the knob end of the bat on his nose. When he had the bat balanced, he took his hands off it.
“One…two…three…four…” everybody counted.
The Babe kept balancing the bat on his nose. Soon the bat wobbled a bit, and Babe moved his head to the right to keep the bat steady. He went a little too far, and the bat wobbled the other way. It was impossible for him to balance it anymore. Before the chant reached “seven,” the bat toppled over and clonked him right on the head.
Everybody laughed, but I didn’t. I rushed over to the big man.
“Are you okay, Babe?”
Babe let out a big laugh and rubbed his head. “Solid rock!” he chortled. Most of the people had streamed away into other rooms, as if the show was over.
“Mr. Ruth,” Dad said, stepping forward, “my name is Bill Stoshack and this young man is my son, Joe. Do you remember us?”
Babe stuck out his hand to shake. It was enormous. He had big calluses on his fingers, I guess from gripping bats.
“Sure, you’re the kid I nearly ran over today on Riverside Drive! Gee, I’m sorry about that, kid. Gotta be more careful.”
“No,” I said. “That must have been somebody else.”
“Are you the kid who asked me to come to his confirmation?”
“Uh, no.”
“Babe,” Dad interrupted, “Joe tried to get your autograph when you drove by Union Square Park today, and some man pulled a knife on him.”
“Oh yeah!” Babe roared. “I remember you! You’re my lucky charm, kid. That guy coulda been planning to stab me. You mighta saved my life.”
I really didn’t think Babe Ruth remembered me at all. But I didn’t care. There I was, in his apartment, talking with him! I had actually shaken hands with the great Babe Ruth! How many kids could say that? I was so happy, I didn’t care if I got to see the called shot or not.
“Babe,” Dad piped up, “seeing as how Joe saved your life and all, would you mind signing some autographs for him?”
“Sure, Pop,” Babe said. “Whatcha got in the bag? Toys for all the kiddies? Christmas ain’t for two months.”
“Not quite.”
Dad opened the sack and Babe leaned over to peer inside. He whistled when he saw all the boxes of baseballs.
“You don’t have to sign them all,” I said apologetically, which made Dad shoot me one of his angry looks.
“Hey, you didn’t have to save my life either,” Babe replied. “C’mon.”
He led us to a quiet room and shut the door behind us. Sitting down at the desk, he dumped out all the boxes of baseballs. Then he pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and signed the first ball in a smooth, flowing line. I noticed he wrote right-handed, even though he threw and batted left-handed.
As Babe picked up the next ball, I peeked at Dad. There weren’t any dollar signs flashing in his eyes or anything, but there might as well have been.
One by one, Babe picked up each ball and signed it. I would have thought he would be sick of writing his name on things for people. But he didn’t complain. He didn’t make up an excuse so he could leave. He didn’t ask for any money, the way today’s athletes do. And he didn’t stop until every single baseball had his signature on it.
One by one, Babe picked up each ball and signed it. He didn’t know it, but that bag of baseballs was now worth $375,000.
Dad collected all the balls and carefully put them back in the sack. Babe didn’t know it, but that bag of baseballs was now worth $375,000. Dad couldn’t stop thanking him.
“I promise you,” Dad said, “we will never ask you to sign anything else ever again.”
Babe didn’t seem to mind or care. “Hey, I’m starved,” he suddenly said. “You boys want to go grab some grub? Let’s get out of this dump and strap on the feedbag.”
“Isn’t this your party?” I asked, following him out of the room.
“Yeah, so what?” he replied, unconcerned. He pushed his way past anyone who stood between him and the door.
“Who are all these people?” Dad asked as we struggled to keep up with Babe.
“How should I know?” he said, grabbing a big furry racoon coat from the closet. “Let’s go.”
He was like a tornado, moving one way almost randomly and then another, sweeping up everything in his path. There was no point trying to control him. Dad grabbed the sack of baseballs and we piled into the elevator behind Babe.
It would be an adventure. I was sure of that.
9
Living Big
BABE PULLED A FLOPPY HAT FROM THE POCKET OF HIS COAT and put it on his head so it nearly covered his eyes. Still, as we rushed down Broadway behind him, people stared, pointed, and called his name. Even though he was disguised, Babe was instantly recognizable.
“I k
now a joint where nobody’ll bother us,” he said, hailing a cab.
After a few minutes, the cab pulled up to a place called Delmonico’s. Babe tossed the driver a twenty-dollar bill for a seventy-five-cent fare. I thought the driver was going to faint, he was so happy. He probably didn’t earn that much money in a week.
Delmonico’s was a really fancy restaurant, with big mirrors and chandeliers and waiters walking around in tuxedos. When the owner spotted Babe coming in the door, he rushed over and bowed like the King of England had arrived. He led us to a private room in the back that was separated from the rest of the diners.
“Will you be having the usual, Mr. Ruth?” the waiter asked.
“Yeah,” Babe agreed. “I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.”
“I’ll have the usual too,” I chimed in.
I always wanted to say, “I’ll have the usual.” Babe laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Bring out your best steaks for my guests,” he instructed the waiter.
“I’ll have a beer to go with mine,” Dad said.
“Beer?” Babe stared at Dad with an astonished look on his face. “Where have you been, Pop? Ain’tcha never heard of Prohibition? Alcohol’s been illegal since 1920.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Dad said, embarrassed.
Babe roared with laughter. “A pitcher of beer for me and my friend,” he told the waiter, “and a soda pop for the boy.” Then he turned to us and whispered, “I don’t like rules. Never did.”
In seconds, the waiter brought out our drinks. We all clinked glasses. “To the Cubs,” Dad toasted. “May you demolish them in four straight.”
“Here’s mud in your eye,” Babe said before draining his whole glass in one gulp. “You look like a ballplayer, Pop. Ever play the game?”
“Only in high school,” Dad replied. “I’m a machinist, currently between jobs.”
“You and everybody else.” Babe sighed. “Don’t worry, Pop. The Depression will be over soon. I got a hunch Hoover’s gonna find a way to beat this thing.”
Dad glanced over at me. He had told me that Franklin Roosevelt would beat President Hoover in the 1932 election, and it would be many years before America would come out of the Depression.
“Me, I gotta find a way to beat them Cubbies.”
“When do you leave for Chicago?” Dad asked.
“Tonight,” Babe replied. “Our train leaves from Grand Central at midnight.”
I snuck a peek at Dad. He glanced at his watch. If we were going to witness the called shot, we had to get on that train. We both knew it.
It wasn’t long before a waiter brought out an enormous platter of food. He put steaks in front of me and Dad and then placed a semicircle of plates before the Babe.
A thick steak with a border of lamb chops around it. A whole roast chicken. A mountain of mashed potatoes. Corn. Peas. Spinach. Bread. I couldn’t believe any human being would be able to eat that much food.
“Dig in, boys.”
My steak was delicious, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t take my eyes off Babe. He ate like a starving animal that had just made a kill. He tore at the food, ripping it apart with his knife and fork and shoveling it into his mouth. At the same time he was swallowing one mouthful, he was filling his fork with the next one, barely stopping to chew.
He emptied the entire ketchup bottle onto his plate. Food and gravy dribbled down his chin. He didn’t seem to care. I was fascinated.
“Can we get some seconds over here, for crying out loud?” he bellowed when his plates were empty. More food arrived in short order, and he attacked it with nearly as much enthusiasm as he did the first helping.
Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly handle another bite, he asked, “Hey kid, you eatin’ that?” I told him I was finished, and he scooped what was left of the steak off my plate like a hawk diving for its prey. In seconds, he had devoured it.
“Some dessert, Mr. Ruth?” asked a waiter, who was clearing off our empty plates.
“Apple pie à la mode, my good man,” Babe said, “and don’t scrimp on the mode!”
Dad and I each had a sliver of pie, but Babe finished most of it himself. Then he washed everything down with another pitcher of beer.
It was an awesome performance. If someone had been there watching Leonardo da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa, I thought, it must have been something like this. I felt like I should give him a standing ovation.
“That hit the spot!” Babe said, satisfied, as he wiped his mouth with the corner of the tablecloth.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle. The label said BICARBONATE OF SODA. Babe didn’t put the white powder into a glass of water, as I expected. Instead, he just dug out a heaping spoonful of the stuff and shoved it in his mouth dry. He let it settle in his stomach for a few seconds, then let out a belch that—I swear—rattled the stained-glass window behind me. He followed that with the loudest fart I’d ever heard.
“Hey, who cut the cheese?” Babe chuckled, and then roared at his own joke.
“Y’know, Babe,” Dad said, “you might think about losing a few pounds. Dieting a little. That extra weight is going to slow you down as you get older.”
“Dieting?” Babe laughed. “Dieting is for guys who hit singles. You gotta eat big if you wanna hit big. And, boys, I swing big with everything I’ve got. I hit big or I miss big. I like to live as big as I can.”
A waiter came in. He put the check on the table and left. All the food we had eaten only came to twenty-five dollars. Babe peeled off a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table like it was a quarter.
The waiter didn’t rush to come and get the money, and Babe didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to leave. I figured it would be a good time to pick his brain—find out if he was planning to call his shot.
“So,” I said casually, “do you have any plans for Game Three? Like, specific plans?”
“Yeah, I got a plan,” Babe said. I leaned forward in my seat. Maybe he was going to tell me he would call his shot.
“My plan is to murder them Cubbies.”
“I mean, do you plan to hit one out of the park, Babe?”
“Kid,” Babe said, “I always plan to hit one out of the park.”
“I mean, on one particular pitch?”
“On every pitch,” Babe replied.
Well, I had found out one thing, anyway. The called shot was not something Babe Ruth cooked up in advance. If he was going to do it, it would be a spontaneous thing.
“Is it hot in here?” Babe asked.
As we talked, I had noticed that droplets of sweat were appearing on Babe’s forehead. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face with it. He seemed to be breathing heavily, and suddenly he looked very tired. His face was getting more pale every second.
“Boys,” Babe said suddenly, holding the edge of the table, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Then his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. He toppled off his chair and hit the floor like an elephant that had been shot.
10
Playing with History
BABE RUTH HIT BIG, AND HE MISSED BIG, AND HE LIVED big. And I can tell you this from personal experience—Babe Ruth also puked big.
When the Babe’s body hit the restaurant floor with a thud, Dad and I looked at each other, speechless. We had expected to have an interesting adventure when we traveled back to 1932. But neither of us were counting on an adventure that involved Babe Ruth lying unconscious underneath our table.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What should we do, Dad?” I asked, more than slightly worried. The waiters, for a change, were nowhere to be seen.
“Turn him on his side,” Dad instructed. “We don’t want him to choke on his own vomit.”
I got down on the floor and started shoving against Babe’s shoulder. It was like trying to push a truck out of a snowdrift. When Dad saw me struggling,
he joined me on the floor. Finally we were able to roll the big man over. He didn’t wake up, but I could hear his labored breathing. At least he was alive.
“We have to clean him up and get him over to Grand Central,” I told Dad, “or he won’t make that midnight train to Chicago for Game Three.”
I picked up Babe’s limp hand to check his watch. It was just after eleven o’clock.
“Wait a minute,” Dad said, thinking things over. “Game Three is in the history books, right? We know he got to Chicago. We know he hit that famous homer. Even if we do nothing, we know he’s gonna get to the game somehow. Maybe we shouldn’t play with history and risk messing things up. Maybe we should just leave him be.”
“But, Dad, we already played with history. Maybe we messed history up by having dinner with him and letting him eat so much. Besides, look at him!”
The Babe was curled up in a ball on the floor, looking as dead as roadkill. He was making grunting noises. He was in no shape to sit up, much less hit a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball.
“You’re right,” Dad agreed. “This could all be our fault. If we don’t help him, he might never even hit the called shot. Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You stay here and keep an eye on him. I’ll go over to his apartment and get him some clean clothes. When I get back, we’ll dress him and get him to Grand Central.”
“Okay!” I agreed.
Dad and I looked at each other for a moment. There was a little twinkle in his eye. I’m not sure, but I kind of had the feeling that he was thinking exactly what I was thinking—this is cool!
Sure, Babe Ruth had passed out right in front of us and we might have messed up one of the most famous moments in sports history. But Dad and I were together, and for the first time in a long time I was actually enjoying being with him.
“You know, I was thinking,” Dad said, “when this thing is all over and we get home…”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe we could bottle Babe’s barf. Sell it for a fortune.”
“You’re joking, right, Dad?”