Babe & Me (7 page)

“Maybe if you spent more time—”

“When I'm with my kids, all I think about is how long until I can eat, drink, play ball, and fool around. It's just the way I am.”

As we got back in the car, I realized that I always thought of Babe Ruth as a big, happy hero. Like a cartoon character. But actually he was so much more than that.

He seemed to need so much attention and love that he'd never gotten when he was a kid, but he didn't seem to care what people thought of him. He could be totally thoughtless sometimes and other times incredibly generous. Sometimes he was rough, and other times he was as tender as a puppy. He was happy and outgoing on the outside, but in private he could be sad and emotional. He loved kids, but he couldn't love his own kids. He was like a little immature kid himself.

Babe drove back from the hospital as fast as he'd driven getting there, but more quietly. He didn't sing the whole way. He barely spoke.

“Just be thankful,” he said, “you've got a better dad than me.”

BY THE TIME BABE AND I GOT BACK TO CHICAGO, IT WAS
one o'clock. The game would be starting in half an hour. He was late for batting practice. But at least that old bucket of bolts he was driving hadn't broken down.

Babe seemed to know the streets of Chicago well. He weaved expertly around the streetcars and elevated trains. It wasn't long before we were driving up Addison Street and I could see a ballpark in the distance.

“That's Wrigley Field!” I couldn't help gushing. Babe looked at me with a what's-the-big-deal look on his face.

Wrigley Field was one of the few ballparks from Babe's time that was still standing in my time. I had never been to Chicago, but Wrigley looked even more beautiful in 1932 than it looked on TV and pictures in
the twenty-first century. Babe pulled the car right up to the front, under a big sign that read:

“That's Wrigley Field!” I gushed. Babe looked at me with a what's-the-big-deal look on his face.

WRIGLEY FIELD
HOME OF CHICAGO CUBS
.

It was a warm, clear, windy day. American flags were whipping in the breeze. Band music was coming from somewhere. Guys were selling peanuts and junky souvenirs. Fans were dashing around trying to round up last-minute tickets, even though signs said
TODAY'S GAME SOLD OUT
.

In this one spot, at the front of Wrigley Field, it didn't look like there was a Depression. People seemed to have forgotten they had no jobs, no
money. Their beloved Cubs were in the World Series. And I knew from reading my baseball books that the Cubs only won the Series two times in the entire twentieth century—in 1907 and 1908.

Lots of people were milling around outside the ballpark. All the men looked the same in their dark jackets, dark pants, and dark hats. I didn't see my dad anywhere.

“It's the Babe!” somebody yelled as Babe and I got out of the car. Instantly, the crowd swarmed toward him.

“I'll see you inside, kid,” Babe said, before the crowd enveloped him and swept him into the ballpark.

I wondered where my dad could be. He told me to meet him in front of the Wrigley Field sign before the game. I was sure of that. What if we couldn't find each other? With so many people, I wasn't sure if I could pick him out of the crowd.

My dad had the tickets Babe gave him. If I couldn't find him, I wouldn't be able to get in the ballpark. And if I couldn't get in the ballpark, I couldn't witness the called shot.

Also, if I couldn't find my dad, I realized, he would be stuck in 1932 forever. I was holding the new cards that would take us back home. And he couldn't go back without me anyway.

A newsboy was hawking his papers nearby. “Roosevelt campaigning in Chicago!” he shouted. “Read all about it! New York governor to throw out the first pitch at Game Three today!”

Suddenly I saw Dad through the crowd in the
distance. I recognized him because of the sack of baseballs he was carrying. He saw me, too, and we made our way to each other.

“You okay, Butch?”

“Yeah.”

“How's the kid in the hospital?”

“Babe made him feel better,” I replied. “Were you able to scope out the centerfield bleachers?”

“Yeah,” Dad said. “There are twenty-five rows of seats up there. I know Babe is going to hit the ball to straightaway centerfield and deep. So I'm going to ignore the first ten rows. He probably didn't hit it in the last five rows either, or reporters would have written that he nearly hit the ball out of Wrigley Field. So my hunch is the ball will land around row fifteen. That's where I'm going to be when he hits it.”

“Read all about it!” the newsboy shouted again. “New York Governor Franklin Roosevelt in Chicago today to throw out the ceremonial first pitch! See the possible future President of the United States in person!”

Dad whipped his head in the direction of the newsboy. “What did that kid say?” he asked.

“He said Franklin Roosevelt is going to throw out the first pitch of the game,” I replied.

Suddenly, Dad had a wild look in his eyes. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin and grabbed a newspaper from the newsboy's stack. Dad read the story on the front page hungrily.

“So what, Dad?”

“Don't you see, Butch?” my father said excitedly. “Franklin Roosevelt is going to win the election next month. He'll be president of the United States until the end of World War II.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“Remember we saw that article this morning about Hitler running for president of Germany? And I told you about the Holocaust—how Hitler killed all those people, including most of my family?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Nobody outside of Germany knew about the Holocaust until the end of the war. If I can get to Roosevelt and tell him what Hitler's going to do…”

Dad looked at me. There was fire in his eyes.

“I still don't get it, Dad,” I admitted.

“Butch,” he said solemnly. “I can stop the Holocaust!”

“Are you serious, Dad?”

“I've got to get to Roosevelt,” Dad replied, ignoring my question and marching toward the front gate of Wrigley Field.

“But, Dad,” I said, running to keep up with him, “you said it's impossible to change history.”

“I've got to
try!
”

He gave me my ticket and handed the ticket taker his stub. We pushed through the turnstile.

“What about catching Babe's called shot?” I asked Dad. “I thought that was so important to you. What about the three million dollars?”

“This is more important, Butch.”

I never thought I'd hear my dad say
anything
was more important than money.

Inside the Wrigley Field gate, the smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts hit me. Our seats, Babe had told us, were on the first base side, a few rows
behind the Yankee dugout. Dad and I circled the inside of the ballpark until we found the right section.

When the huge green expanse of the outfield came into our view, Dad and I both stopped for a moment and looked at each other with wonder in our eyes.

We were at Wrigley Field, we realized. Not just Wrigley Field, but Wrigley Field in 1932. Not just Wrigley Field in 1932, but Wrigley Field on the day in 1932 when Babe Ruth was going to hit the most famous and controversial homer in baseball history. I had waited a long time for my dad to take me to a big league game. I couldn't have asked for a better one.

“How cool is this?” Dad asked.

“Way cool,” I replied.

I had seen Wrigley Field on TV plenty of times. But something was different. It took me a few seconds to figure it out—the famous ivy that covers the outfield walls was missing. The walls were brick. The ivy must not have been planted until after 1932.

Also, there was no ring of lights around the ballpark. Wrigley Field, I remembered, was the last ballpark to have night games. The scoreboard was much smaller, too. I could see there were people sitting inside it, fussing with the big numbers they would put up on the board by hand. On top of the scoreboard were two cute characters that must
have been the symbol of Wrigley's gum a long time ago—Doublemint and Spearmint.

Otherwise, the ballpark looked pretty much the same as it would seventy years later. The box seats were close enough to the field that you could hear the players talking. People were sitting with binoculars on the roofs of the buildings across the street, just like they do in the twenty-first century.

Down on the field, the Yankees and Cubs were flipping baseballs back and forth, hitting fungoes, scooping up grounders. I could hardly believe they could catch the ball with those tiny gloves they were wearing.

Dad and I could have just soaked in the atmosphere all day, but he suddenly remembered why he was there and led me to our seats.

“Is Governor Roosevelt here yet?” Dad asked a kid selling cotton candy. The kid shrugged.

We scanned the stands until we spotted a box of seats in the front row on the third base side. There was red, white, and blue bunting hanging over the wall. The seats were empty.

“That must be where Roosevelt will be sitting,” Dad said. “He's not here yet.”

No sooner had he said that when a buzz spread through the crowd. I looked around to see what had happened.

“Is Roosevelt here?” I asked Dad.

“No,” he replied. “Babe is.”

Down by the Yankee dugout, Babe had just stepped onto the field. He hadn't hit a homer or
done anything spectacular. He just stepped onto the field.

All the people in the ballpark stopped what they were doing to watch. The Cubs stopped playing catch along the foul lines. Even the vendors stopped selling their peanuts to get a good look at the Babe. The only people who didn't stop were the photographers, who were falling all over one another trying to snap Babe's picture. They had these huge cameras, about the size of a wastebasket. When Ruth and Lou Gehrig chatted together for a moment, flashbulbs started popping like the Fourth of July.

When Ruth and Gehrig chatted together for a moment, flashbulbs started popping like the Fourth of July.

In his uniform, Babe looked even bigger than he did in street clothes. Even though he was fat, he moved gracefully. He picked up his bat—bigger and blacker than the others—and whipped it around like a toothpick. Dad had told me that Babe used to call his bat “Big Bertha.” He swung so smoothly, so effortlessly. His shoulders must have been incredibly strong.

“Just keep 'em under five runs,” Babe shouted to one of the Yankee pitchers. “I'll take care of the rest.”

Batting practice was over, but the Babe was the Babe. He stepped up to the plate and one of the Yankees rushed out to the mound to throw him some pitches. The first one bounced in the dirt, but Babe crushed the next one, sending it soaring over the rightfield wall.

“
Oooooooooh!
” moaned the crowd.

“You ain't seen nothin' yet!” Babe yelled to the Cubs' bench. Then he socked another one over the wall.

“Don't worry about how you guys are gonna get back to New York,” Babe hollered, “'cause we're gonna wrap this thing up right here! You bums are dead meat.”

The next pitch came in and Babe took a rip at it, smashing it against the centerfield wall. He missed the next one entirely, and looked at his bat in amazement, as if there must be a hole in it. Then he deposited the next eight pitches in a row over the fence. A few of them sailed out of Wrigley Field. The wind was blowing out toward Lake Michigan, which really made the ball carry.

“I'd play for half my salary if I could hit in this rinky-dink dump all the time!” Babe chuckled, before jogging back to the Yankee dugout.

It was nearly game time, and Roosevelt still hadn't shown up. Maybe he couldn't make it, I thought. Maybe he got stuck in traffic or something. Maybe he changed his mind and decided not to come.

Another buzz went through the crowd, not nearly so loud as the one that greeted Babe. Dad and I scanned the seats until we saw a group of about ten men coming down the third-base side toward the box seats.

“It's Roosevelt!” Dad called, rising from his seat with the sack of baseballs.