Babe & Me (6 page)

“
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.”

“So?”

“Butch, I'm going to catch that ball!”

“Catch it?”

“Yeah! I'll position you down low in the stands so you can see if Babe calls the shot or not. Then, in the fifth inning, I'll go to deep centerfield and grab the ball when it lands! I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner!”

“You're a genius, Dad!”

“Butch, do you have any idea how much the ball Babe Ruth hit for his called-shot homer will be worth someday?”

“Thousands?”

“More,” Dad continued. “Remember when Mark McGwire hit seventy home runs in one season? Do you remember how much money the guy who caught number seventy sold it for?”

“A million dollars or something like that?”

“
Three
million bucks!” Dad exclaimed.

“You've
got
to catch that ball, Dad!” I said.

“I'm gonna catch that ball.”

We settled into our seats and thought about what we would do if we had three million dollars. A newsboy came around selling papers, and Dad bought one. He was skimming the pages when he suddenly stopped at a page. His hands started shaking, which made the paper rustle. His breathing was heavy. I was afraid all the excitement about catching the called-shot ball had caused him to have a heart attack or something.

“What is it, Dad?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I looked to see what he was reading in the paper.

I knew a little bit about Adolf Hitler. I knew he was the dictator of Nazi Germany during World War II. He tried to take over the world, and he killed millions of innocent people in concentration camps. It was called the Holocaust. But I didn't
know what that had to do with my dad or why he was reacting so strongly.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“You're too young.”

“I am not,” I protested. “I'm thirteen.”

Dad sighed. He put down the newspaper and looked at me.

“Have you ever wondered,” he asked me, “why you don't have a lot of cousins or uncles or aunts on my side of the family?”

“I guess your parents and grandparents didn't have many kids.”

“My grandparents had eleven children, Joe,” Dad explained, “six boys and five girls.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were killed,” Dad said quietly. “Ten of them.”

“By the Nazis?”

“My grandparents lived in Lodz, in central Poland near Warsaw,” Dad explained. “A quiet little city. It must have been one crazy house, with all thirteen of them living together. The Nazis invaded Poland in September of 1939. Little by little they started rounding people up. In 1944, they took my grandparents away. The children, too. Only my father escaped, by hiding under the house. The Nazis sent the rest of the family to Treblinka, a concentration camp. They were all killed. In the gas chambers. My dad somehow made it to America. I don't know how exactly. It was never something he would talk much about.”

My father exhaled deeply, like he had been holding that story in for a long time. The thought crossed my mind that maybe that was why my dad was so angry all the time. He had never gotten over what happened to his family.

He was sobbing quietly, and put his hand to his face to wipe his eyes. I put my arm around him.

“I always felt a little guilty,” he admitted.

“Guilty? It wasn't your fault, Dad. You couldn't do anything about it. You weren't even born yet.”

“I know,” he said. “I felt guilty that the rest of the family died and I had the chance to live.”

“Does Mom know all this?” I asked.

“I tried to explain,” he replied. “I guess it's hard to understand unless it happened to your own family.”

Dad crumpled up the newspaper and threw it on the floor. Then he stared out the window silently. The farms were gone now. There were buildings out there. Cars. People. We were at the outskirts of Chicago.

“Dad?” I asked after a few minutes had gone by.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we can do something about it.”

“About what?”

“The Holocaust,” I said. “We're in 1932. If Adolf Hitler is just running for president of Germany now, that means he hasn't taken power yet. World War II hasn't begun. Maybe we can do something to stop him.”

“Don't be silly,” Dad said. “What could we possi
bly do? We're in Chicago, not Germany. Even if we were in Germany, there would be nothing we could do.”

“La Salle Street Station!” the conductor suddenly announced. “Chicago, Illinois! Home of the future world champion Chicago Cubs!”

As the train slowed down and pulled into the station, I could see crowds of people standing on the platform. At first, I thought they were waiting to get on the train. But when the train stopped, the people didn't board it. They just stood there.

“We want Babe!” they were chanting. “We want Babe!”

How did they know this was the Yankee train? I wondered. How did everybody always know Babe was there the instant he showed up? As we hustled off the train, Dad said the engineers probably telegraphed ahead to let them know the great Babe Ruth was on board.

Babe could have ignored the chants and hidden in the sleeper car until the crowd broke up. Nobody would have minded. But as soon as he heard the cheering, he poked his head out the window. That only made the crowd cheer louder.

“Does anybody have tickets for Game Five?” Babe bellowed to the crowd out the window.

“Yeah!” a few people answered.

“That's too bad.” Babe laughed. “Because there ain't gonna
be
no Game Five! Your Cubbies are gonna lose in four straight! Get the picture?”

He laughed his hearty laugh, and amazingly, so
did the crowd. They didn't seem to care that he was putting down their team. They were just grateful that the great Babe Ruth had spoken to them.

The manager of the Yankees, Joe McCarthy, hustled the team through the crowd. The other players gathered around Babe to shield him from autograph seekers or anyone who might want to harm him. The police held the fans back, but Dad and I managed to follow the Yankees inside the train station.

“Listen!” McCarthy hollered to the team. “Your luggage is being delivered straight to the Edgewater Hotel. You can grab taxis over there. Game time is one-thirty tomorrow. I expect you
all
to be at Wrigley Field by noon for batting practice. No horsing around tonight, or else. Did you hear that, Ruth? None of your guff.
Noon
. That means
you
.”

“Yes, sir!” Babe said, giving McCarthy a snappy, exaggerated salute.

The Yankees broke up and scattered in all different directions. We lost sight of Babe immediately.

It was dark out. Dad hailed a cab and we took it to the hotel where the Yankees were staying—the Edgewater. The guy behind the front desk told us the hotel was all booked up because of the World Series, but Dad slipped him a ten-dollar bill and suddenly the guy was able to find a room for us.

The room was nice. I started to complain that it didn't have a TV, but Dad reminded me that television hadn't even been invented yet. I turned on a big radio, though.
The Lone Ranger
was on.

Dad didn't want to hang around the room all night, so we took a walk outside. We found a little coffee shop and had some hamburgers, then Dad got me an ice cream cone to go.

Chicago is on Lake Michigan, and we found ourselves walking along the lake. Dad told me his plan was to get to Wrigley Field during batting practice the next day, so he could scout out the centerfield bleachers and find the best place to catch Ruth's called shot. After the game, we would have to go back home right away because Mom would be waiting.

“Still have our tickets home?” Dad asked as we sat on a bench looking at Lake Michigan.

“Right here,” I said, pulling out my unopened pack of baseball cards.

“I'm not that bad a dad, am I, Butch?” he asked suddenly.

“Best one I ever had,” I replied, and gave him a punch on the shoulder.

Even though I'd slept a lot on the train from New York, I was still pretty tired, so we went back to the hotel. As I closed my eyes, I was hoping Babe Ruth was getting a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be one of the biggest days of his life.

And mine.

WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, I COULDN'T HIDE
my excitement. The newspaper slipped under the door confirmed it was Saturday, October 1, 1932—the date of the called shot.

“Ready?” Dad asked after he'd showered and dressed.

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

We decided to go out and get some breakfast, then head over to Wrigley Field. But as we stepped through the front door of the hotel, somebody tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey, you boys want to grab some grub? I'm starved.”

Dad and I turned around. It was Babe. He had his collar turned up and his hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Uh…well…”

Dad and I looked at each other. We were hungry, but after what happened in the restaurant Thursday, neither of us really wanted to share another meal with Babe. We just wanted to get him to Wrigley Field in time for the game.

We didn't have to make up an excuse, because a man limped over to Babe and pulled on his sleeve. Babe ignored the guy, and asked us again if we wanted to go out to eat.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Ruth,” the man said, “but my son may be dying.”

That got Babe's attention. He looked at the man. The man was wearing an old, tattered gray coat. There were holes in it. He had a sad, sad face, like life had really worn him down.

“My boy's been listening to the games on the radio,” the man told Babe. “He's your biggest fan. Can you spare a bat, a ball, an autograph, Babe? Anything from you would mean so much to him.”

“Where do you live?” Babe asked.

“In Joliet,” the man replied, “about an hour from here.”

Babe looked at his watch, then at the man.

“Let's go.”

“Where?”

“To Joliet,” Babe said. “To see your kid.”

“Babe, you don't have time!” Dad protested. “You have to be at Wrigley Field at noon!”

“I'll be there,” Babe assured him. “You boys want to tag along?”

“I do!” I said, raising my hand like I was in school.

“You go, Butch,” Dad said. “I'll meet you later, in front of the Wrigley Field sign.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Come on,” Babe said, wrapping his big arms around me and the guy whose son was sick. “Let's hit the road.”

Babe dashed into the street, with me and the sick kid's dad right behind. There were no taxicabs waiting at the curb. Babe didn't stand around waiting for one to show up. He just ran into the middle of the street and held up his hand so the next car would have to stop or run him over. A car screeched to a halt just before hitting him. There was a family inside.

“How much you want for your car?” Babe asked the driver.

“Huh?”

“That's Babe Ruth!” a kid in the back seat shrieked.

“Your car,” Babe said urgently. “Will you sell it to me for five hundred bucks?”

“Sure!” the driver said happily. He and his family scampered out of the car. Babe peeled off five hundreds from his wallet and gave them to the guy. We piled into the car, Babe in the driver's seat, the sick kid's dad next to him, and me in the back. Babe hit the gas and we roared off, leaving the family standing on the street counting the money.

He pushed the gas pedal to the floor the whole time. He went right through all the lights, whether they were green or red. The rules of the road were for other people. I was sure this was going to be the last day of my life.

“Hang on!” Babe said. Then he started singing “The Sidewalks of New York” again as we screeched down the street.

“Where's the seat belt?” I yelled as Babe careened around the corner, tossing me around like a Ping-Pong ball.

“The what?”

“Forget it,” I replied. I guessed they didn't have seat belts in 1932. If we got into an accident in this
old tin can, it occurred to me, we would probably all die. The dashboard was made of steel. There were no headrests. Something told me the car was not equipped with antilock brakes or air bags.

The sick kid's dad told Babe what roads he should take to get to the hospital where his kid was staying.

“What's your name?” Babe asked the guy.

“Decker,” the guy replied. “Harry Decker.”

“Pleased to meetcha, Pop.”

Babe turned so he could shake hands with Decker. While they were shaking hands, the car bumped up on a curb and headed straight for a little hot dog stand on the sidewalk.

“Watch out!” I screamed.

Babe swiveled the wheel and missed taking out the hot dog stand by about three inches. The guy selling hot dogs dove out of the way to save his life.

“Nice slide!” Babe roared. “The Cubs oughta sign that guy up!”

Me and Decker failed to see the humor. The hot dog guy had survived Babe's driving. I wasn't sure we would.

“‘East side, west side, all around the town…'” Babe sang.

“Slow down!” Decker ordered as Babe gunned the car through the streets of Chicago.

“Can't,” Babe hollered back. “Gotta get back to Wrigley Field in time for the game.”

“Babe, this is a one-way street!” I screamed.
Cars were veering out of our way left and right to avoid hitting us.

“I'm only goin' one way!” Babe replied with a laugh.

“Watch out for that car!” Decker shouted, putting his hands in front of his eyes.

“What car?” Babe asked.

“The one you nearly slammed into!” I shouted.

A lady was crossing the street about a block ahead of us. She didn't seem to realize how fast Babe was driving and didn't make an effort to hurry.

“Get a load of that sweet patootie!” Babe whistled. “She is one red-hot mama! Hey beautiful!”

“Keep your eyes on the road!” I shrieked as the lady scampered out of the way.

I was sure this was going to be the last day of my life. Just like Babe hit big, missed big, and ate big, he drove big too. He was fearless. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor all the time. He didn't even seem to realize he could tap it gently when he wanted to go slower. He went right through all the lights, whether they were green or red. The rules of the road were for other people, not Babe Ruth. And he just kept on singing, as if he were taking a drive in the country.

“Babe, they're going to take away your driver's license!” I complained after he took a corner so fast the car nearly turned over.

“They can't,” he replied. “They took it away five years ago.”

Finally we got beyond the city limits. The build
ings got smaller, until there were hardly any buildings at all. We were in farm country. Babe was going about seventy miles an hour, but at least we weren't in danger of mowing down pedestrians. I unclenched my fists. My fingernails had made little white lines on the palms of my hands.

That's when we heard the siren.

“!@#$%in' !@#$%!” Babe spat, as he slowed the car down and pulled off to the side of the road. “A cop. Now we're gonna be late."

The police car pulled up behind us, and the officer walked over to the driver's side. He was holding a pad and pen. Babe took off his hat.

“Lemme see your driver's license,” he said gruffly.

“Nice day for a drive, huh, officer?” Babe said cheerfully.

The cop looked at Babe and did a double take.

“Y-you're Babe Ruth!” he said, awed.

“Yes, sir!” Babe replied. “Is there something wrong, officer?”

“N-no, Babe,” the policeman said, holding out his pad. “Can I have your autograph?”

Babe signed the pad and handed it back. While the officer stared at his autograph, speechless, Babe said good-bye and hit the gas. I turned around to look out the back window as we peeled away. The cop was still staring at the autograph until he was too far away to see anymore.

We got a little lost, but eventually we found the hospital. Instead of looking for a parking place, Babe just pulled up to the front of the hospital with a screech. There were
no parking
signs all over.

“Hey!” a guard shouted. “You can't park there, mister!”

“I just did,” Babe replied simply.

When the guard realized whom he was speaking to, his mouth dropped open. We all hopped out of the car and the guard rushed to open the door for Babe.

“What's your kid's name?” Babe asked Decker as we approached the information desk.

“Matthew Decker.”

“We're here to see Matthew Decker,” Babe told the lady behind the desk. Her mouth dropped open, just like the guard's did. She couldn't get any words out, but she did manage to point to a hallway. Babe rushed off in that direction.

Decker found the room his son was in, and he opened the door quietly. The boy was sleeping. He looked like he was around my age or maybe a little older. I couldn't tell what was wrong with him. There were no tubes going into him, and he wasn't hooked up to any machines. But he had bruises on his face and he looked like he was in bad shape. Babe tiptoed to the boy's bedside and pulled up a chair.

“He fell off a horse last week,” Decker said softly. “Landed on his head. The doctors aren't sure he's gonna make it.”

“I've landed on my head a few times myself,” Babe replied, glancing at me.

“Matt,” his dad whispered in the boy's ear, “I have a surprise for you.”

Babe leaned over Matthew's bed and held the boy's hand. He opened his eyes.

“Hiya, kid!” Babe said.

“Babe Ruth!” he croaked.

“In the flesh, kid. Say, you look like you're a pretty good ballplayer. You rest up good, and pretty soon you'll be outta this joint, ridin' horses again, playin' ball, and havin' fun with your friends.”

“Is the World Series over?” Matthew asked.

“We won the first two games,” Babe explained. “Game Three is this afternoon. YTmow, kid, I feel hitterish today. Maybe I'll knock a homer for you.”

“You will?” Matthew asked. “For me? You promise?”

“I can't promise.” Babe chuckled. “But I'll try. I'll make a deal with you. I'll try to hit a homer if you try to get better.”

“I
will!”
Matthew exclaimed.

“In that case, I just might hit a couple,” Babe said.

A bat, glove, and ball were on the windowsill, along with some of Matthew's other things. Babe went over and picked up the baseball gear.

“It's not polite to go writing on stuff that doesn't belong to you,” Babe said, reaching into his jacket, “but I hope you won't mind if I sign my name on these.”

“I don't mind,” Matthew said happily.

Babe autographed the bat, ball, and glove. Matthew's dad couldn't stop repeating “thank you.” I thought Matthew was going to leap out of the bed and start dancing, magically cured.

“I'll make a deal with you,” Babe told the kid. “I'll try to hit a homer if you try to get better.”

“We better get going or I won't be hitting nothin',” Babe told the Deckers.

“Bye, Babe,” Matthew said.

“So long, kid.”

When we got out into the hallway, Babe leaned heavily against the wall and began to cry. His shoulders bobbed up and down and big tears slid down his cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes with it.

“It's okay, Babe,” I said, comforting him. “You made him feel better.”

“It's not that,” Babe said, blowing his nose. “You're so lucky you got a good dad, kid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That guy came all the way to the hotel to get an autograph for his sick kid. Your dad brought you all the way from Kentucky. I never took my little girls anywhere. I've been a lousy father to them. Just like my dad was a lousy father to me.”

“I'm sure you're a great father,” I assured him. “You love kids. Every boy in the world probably wishes you were his father.”

“Signing an autograph for a kid in the hospital and saying good-bye after five minutes is easy,” he said sadly. “Being a dad to a kid every day, that's what's so tough.”