by Dan Gutman
“Yeah,” he said, hesitating for a moment. “I think so.”
While Dad rushed back to the Ansonia to get Babe’s clothes, I cleaned Babe up with ice water and cloth napkins. The water must have revived him, because after a few minutes he opened his eyes.
“What inning is it?” he asked, bewildered.
“We’re still at the restaurant, Babe,” I informed him. “You passed out.”
“I’m a mess,” he grunted, pulling himself up to a sitting position next to his chair. “Where’s your dad?”
“He went to get your clothes and suitcase.”
“He’s a fine man, your dad.”
“I guess,” I replied. I couldn’t help thinking of all the times my dad hadn’t been such a fine man.
“You guess?” Ruth snorted. “You’re lucky you got a dad. Where are you from, kid?”
“Louisville, Kentucky.”
“And your dad brought you all the way to New York? Kid, when I was a boy, my dad only took me to one place—the home.”
“What home?” I asked.
“You don’t want to hear my sob story.”
“I do,” I insisted. “What home?”
“St. Mary’s. A reform school in Baltimore, where I grew up. I was only seven. Dad took me on the trolley with him one day. He dropped me off at St. Mary’s and left. It was the only home I ever had. He never visited me. Not once. Not even on my birthday.”
Babe was still sitting on the floor next to the table. The color had returned to his face and he looked like he was going to be all right. He was speaking softly now, more seriously. It was so different from the booming voice he used in a crowd of people. Babe seemed to relax when there weren’t any grown-ups around. It almost felt like I was talking with another kid.
“Why did your dad put you in reform school?” I asked.
“I was a bad kid,” he replied. “I was always getting into fights, running from the cops, refusing to go to school. My dad owned a saloon near the Baltimore docks, and I was drinking beer before I could read. One day I stole a dollar from his cash register. I used it to buy ice cream for every kid on the block. Dad caught me and beat me with a pool cue. It was probably the only attention he ever gave me. I get plenty of attention now.”
“My dad would never do anything like that.”
“Like I said, your dad is a good man. Nobody’s perfect, but he’s got a lot of good in him. I figure we should find the good in a person and try to get past the bad. Learn from the good. You don’t have to copy everything about a person. Just the good things.”
“How long were you in reform school?”
“Until I was nineteen. I never had a childhood. Guess that’s why I act like a kid sometimes.”
Babe reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black pipe. “At least some good came out of living at St. Mary’s,” he said as he stuffed the pipe with tobacco. “I learned how to play ball there.”
It occurred to me that Babe always had something in his mouth. A pipe, cigar, gum, chewing tobacco, something.
“Babe, you shouldn’t smoke,” I warned him. “It kills people.”
“Kid,” he said as he lit the pipe, “I had seven brothers and sisters. Six of them died when they were babies. My mother died when she was thirty-four. Tuberculosis. My father got kicked in the head in a fight outside his saloon and died when he was forty-six.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I could get hit in the head by a fastball tomorrow,” Babe said quietly. “I’ve seen it. I saw a man die once.”
“You did?”
“We were playing Cleveland in 1920. Their little shortstop, Ray Chapman, didn’t see a pitch coming at him. It busted his skull. He crumpled like a rag doll right in the batter’s box. I saw it with my own eyes. A few hours later, Chapman was dead. So if you don’t mind, kid, I’m gonna have a smoke.”
By that time, the waiter finally arrived and helped Babe into his seat. He seemed like his old self, maybe a little more subdued. Dad came rushing in, lugging an enormous suitcase that was plastered with stickers—BALTIMORE, DETROIT, WASHINGTON, CHICAGO—just about every big city in the country.
“You’re a good man, Pop,” Babe said when he saw Dad.
By now I had noticed that Babe never called anyone by his name. He always called me “Kid.” Dad was “Pop.” Young women were “Sister” and older ones “Mom.” Old men were “Doc.” I guess he met so many people, he gave up trying to learn anyone’s name.
“Maybe we should get you to a doctor,” Dad said.
“
11
Dumb Luck
BY THE TIME OUR CAB GOT TO GRAND CENTRAL, IT WAS A few minutes before midnight. It looked like we were going to miss the train to Chicago. If Babe never made it to Game Three, the history of baseball would be changed forever. The called shot would never happen. And it would be my fault.
But as soon as Babe entered the station, it was like the rest of the world stopped.
“Mister Ruth! Mister Ruth!” an African-American porter called, “the Yankees are waiting for you!”
“They’d better wait!” Babe boomed. “Without me, they don’t stand a chance against the Cubs!”
The quiet, serious Babe who had confided in me about his miserable childhood on the docks of Baltimore was suddenly gone. Like a light switch flipped on, in public he was the jovial, obnoxious Babe. He was in great spirits again, showing no signs of being sick.
The porter grabbed Babe’s suitcase, and we followed him through the station. It occurred to me for the first time that all the black people I’d seen in 1932 were porters or cleaning ladies or people who did some menial job. And I knew there were no black players in the major leagues.
As we rushed through the train station, people swarmed around Babe as usual, calling his name and asking for autographs. This time he reluctantly turned down these requests, explaining that he had to catch a train so he could beat “them bums in Chicago.”
The porter led us through the station to a huge train that was belching smoke and soot. On the side of the train it said TWENTIETH CENTURY LIMITED. A bunch of women spotted Babe and grabbed him to pose for a photo with them.
“Ruth!” shouted an angry-looking man standing in front of the train. “Where were you? Out carousing?”
“Who’s that guy?” I asked my dad.
“Must be Joe McCarthy,” he whispered back, “the Yankee manager.”
“Don’t get hot under the collar, Skip,” Babe said casually as he stepped past McCarthy onto the train, “I’m here, ain’t I?”
“All aboard!” a conductor shouted, holding a megaphone to his mouth. “All aboard for Chicago!”
“Ruth!” McCarthy demanded, putting his arm in front of us as we tried to follow Babe up the steps. “Who’s this guy? Who’s the kid?”
The porter led us through the station to a huge train that was belching smoke and soot. A bunch of women grabbed Babe to pose for a photo with them.
“Don’t get in a tizzy, Skip. These boys are friends of mine.”
“They ain’t gettin’ on this train!” McCarthy said angrily.
“Well,” Babe said, stepping back down to the platform, “if they ain’t gettin’ on this train, I ain’t gettin’ on this train either!”
He didn’t say it in exactly those words. Babe and McCarthy added about one curse word for every regular word they used. McCarthy looked at Babe with disgust. “Oh, get on the train, you fat slob!” he finally said. “I’ve had it up to here with you.”
Babe laughed. Dad and I piled in behind him. With the Babe finally on board, the train immediately lurched forward. It would take all night and most of Friday to travel eight hundred miles from New York to Chicago. If we had been on a jet, I knew, the trip would have taken less than two hours. But in 1932, there were no jets to take.
The last three cars of the train, Babe told us, were reserved for the Yankees. One car was the dining car. A second car had rows of seats like a regular train. The third car was
the sleeper. That’s where Babe led us.
The sleeper car was basically a bunch of tiny enclosed rooms, just big enough for one person to sleep in. They were stacked on top of one another, like bunk beds. Veteran players like Babe got the lower berths while the younger players had to climb up to the top ones.
Those beds looked inviting. It was past midnight and I hadn’t slept in I don’t know how long. But who could sleep? I was too revved up. I was on my way to Chicago! With the great Babe Ruth! And the New York Yankees! To see Game Three of the 1932 World Series!
“Lemme introduce you boys to the fellas,” Babe said, tossing his suitcase into his little berth.
He led us to the dining car, which was like a tiny restaurant on wheels. There was a little counter where a guy was making sandwiches. All the tables were bolted to the floor so they wouldn’t slide around.
Guys were sprawled all over the place, some of them in jackets and ties and others sitting there in their underwear. Some were eating a late dinner. Some were playing cards or reading newspapers.
It was stuffy. There was no air-conditioning. Most of the guys were smoking, and the smoke hung in the air like fog. The train was chugging along now, its wheels clacking on the rails.
“Hey, Flop Ears, how’s tricks?” Babe said to a guy who, I had to admit, did have kind of floppy ears. “Chicken Neck, you son of a gun!” he said to another guy, “what’s buzzin’, cousin?” To a third he asked, “We gonna beat them Cubbies, Horse Nose?”
Babe greeted all the Yankees with his personal nicknames for them. I didn’t catch all of them, but I did remember “Wop,” “Rubber Belly,” “Duck Eye,” and “Barney Google.” They all greeted Babe—and me—good-naturedly. They called Babe “Jidge,” I guess because his real name was George.
Dad was in awe, just staring. He’s been a Yankee fan since he was a kid. I’d never seen him so excited. He was able to recognize most of the players, even though they were out of uniform.
“See that skinny guy?” he whispered to me. “That’s Frank Crosetti. Third baseman. And that tall guy? That’s Bill Dickey, the Hall of Fame catcher. He’s from Louisiana. And there’s Tony Lazzeri. Second base. He had epilepsy. And there’s Earle Combs…Joe Sewell…Lefty Gomez…”
“Which one is Lou Gehrig?” I asked. I had heard a lot about Gehrig, because he played more than two thousand games in a row and owned the record for consecutive games until Cal Ripken Jr. broke it in the 1990s. Gehrig would have played even longer, but he got this terrible disease called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. It’s a disease that affects the spinal nerves and muscles. It forced him to retire right away. After he died, ALS came to be called Lou Gehrig’s disease.
“I don’t see Gehrig,” Dad replied, looking around.
The players didn’t pay much attention to Dad and me. I figured they were surrounded by fans all the time and considered their time on the train as their one chance to be together as a team. Babe sat at a table with a bunch of guys who were telling jokes and laughing. Dad and I sat down at another table and Dad ordered two pieces of pie.
We had been moving for only a few minutes when a kid came through the dining car. He was carrying a big tray filled with gum, chocolate, jelly beans—just about every kind of candy I could think of. He was selling them for pennies and nickels. But Babe peeled another one of those hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and bought the kid’s whole tray. Then he started tossing the candies to everyone in the car.
Somebody produced a ukulele and handed it to Babe. He got up on his chair, sat on the counter, and began to strum. He actually knew how to play the thing. Soon he was singing “Oh! Susannah” in a deep voice that was surprisingly good. Some of the other Yankees joined in when Babe played “Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair” and “The Sidewalks of New York.”
At around one o’clock some of the players got up to leave. “Come on, you party poopers!” Babe called to them. “Are you tired already?”
“Yeah,” Lazzeri said, “tired of listening to your rotten singing, Jidge! You can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I’m going to hit the hay.”
It occurred to me how tired I was. My head felt heavy, like I could fall asleep in a second if I tried. Dad and I didn’t have a sleeper, and there was no way we were going to fit into Babe’s.
“Aren’t you tired, Babe?” I asked when he came around to see how we were doing. “Maybe you should get a good night’s sleep so you’ll be rested for Game Three.”
“Heck, no,” Babe replied. “I can sleep for five months after we win the Series.” He joined a card game with some of the Yankees who liked to stay up late.
Dad and I got up and went into the next car, where there were seats we could sleep on. There was just one guy in there, sitting a few rows in front of us. He was writing something on a pad of paper. I curled up against Dad the best I could. It was uncomfortable, but at least it was quieter than the dining car.
Just before I fell asleep, the guy who was sitting in front of us got up and came over. He was holding a coat.
“Excuse me,” he said nervously. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I thought your boy might be able to use this as a cover.”
“Thanks!” Dad said.
“Nice guy,” I muttered to Dad after the guy walked away.
“Do you know who that man was, Butch?”
“No, who?” I asked.
“Lou Gehrig.”
I bolted upright. Gehrig was about to leave the car, probably to go to sleep.
“Mr. Gehrig! Mr. Gehrig!” I called, getting up quickly. He stopped and turned around. It was Lou Gehrig! I recognized his face from photos. He looked younger than Babe, with thick, wavy hair and dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. He was wearing a white, button-down shirt.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Gehrig?”
“Sure, son.”
I had Dad bring over one of the balls from his sack. Lou Gehrig signed it on the opposite side from where Babe had already signed it.
“Thanks!” Dad and I gushed when he handed me back the ball.
“Don’t mention it.”
He looked younger than Babe, with thick, wavy hair and dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. It was Lou Gehrig!
I didn’t know what to say, but I wanted to keep talking with Lou Gehrig. “What were you writing in your pad?” I asked.
“Joe!” Dad said sternly, “that’s personal!”
“It’s okay,” Gehrig said, holding out his pad, a little embarrassed. “A letter to my mom,” he admitted bashfully.
“Why weren’t you in the dining car with the other players?” I asked him.
“I don’t go in much for carousing with the boys and spending a lot of money,” he said quietly. “I want to save it for when I’m old and gray.”
I stole a look at Dad. We both knew that Lou Gehrig would never be old and gray. I didn’t know what else to say. Neither did Gehrig. He seemed almost painfully shy. There was an awkward silence.
“Well, good luck in Game Three tomorrow, Mr. Gehrig,” Dad said.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, then he disappeared into the sleeper car.
Dad admired the signed baseball. I knew that a ball signed by both Babe and Lou was worth a fortune, maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“When did he get sick, Dad?” I asked.
“Nineteen thirty-nine,” my father replied somberly. “Just seven years from now. Nine years from now, he’s going to die. He has no idea. Nobody does.”
“Maybe we can do something?”
“There’s nothing we can do to help him,” Dad explained. “Seventy years from now they still won’t have a cure for Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Of all the guys for that to happen to,” I said, shaking my head. “Why did it have to be such a nice guy like Lou Gehrig?”
“You can try as hard as you want,” Dad said. “Be as good as you can be. But a lot of what happens in the world is plain dumb luck.”
“Scranton, Pennsylvania!” the co
nductor announced as the train slowed to a stop.
I leaned my head against Lou Gehrig’s coat, thinking to myself that I would never complain about any silly little problems I had again. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.
12
A Secret Revealed
“NEXT STOP, LA SALLE STREET STATION, CHICAGO, Illinois!”
When I woke up, Dad was staring out the window, a sort of dreamy look on his face.
“What time is it?” I mumbled.
“About five o’clock. You slept almost the whole day.”
“I guess I’m jet-legged from traveling seventy years through time.”
“Do you see anything unusual out there, Butch?”
“No,” I said, looking out the window. “Just a bunch of farms.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “A bunch of farms. No McDonald’s or Burger Kings. No shopping malls. No housing developments. I was just thinking that someday this beautiful country will be paved over.”
It didn’t mean that much to me. I had never known anything other than a world of McDonald’s and Burger Kings and malls and housing developments. Looking out the window, I had to admit the world was prettier back then.
“Do you think he’ll do it?” I asked my dad.
“Do what, Butch?”
“Call his shot.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’ll be there to see it if he does, won’t we?”
“Tell me again when he’s going to hit it, Dad.”
“It will be in the fifth inning,” he told me. “The score will be four-four. There will be one out. Nobody on base. The count will be two balls and two strikes. That’s the pitch when Babe will hit the most famous homer in baseball history.”
The hair on my arms, I realized, was standing up. I had goose pimples.
Suddenly Dad looked at me, with excitement in his eyes.
“Butch!” he exclaimed, “I just had a brainstorm!”
“What is it?”
“We’ll be the only ones in Wrigley Field who will know Babe is going to hit the homer, right? We know exactly when he’s going to hit it, and I know pretty much where he’s going to hit it—deep to straightaway centerfield.”