Ray & Me (5 page)

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“C'mere.”

She grabbed my hand again and dragged me across the room. People were stumbling all over themselves, laughing crazily and staggering around in a stupor.

“What's going on here?” I asked Addie. “Why is everybody so drunk?”

“Don't ya have Prohibition in Louisville?” Addie asked me. “Hootch is against the law, y'know. We ain't had a legal drink in months. It's only a matter of time before the cops shut this joint down. We're enjoying it while we can.”

I learned about Prohibition in Social Studies. For years, alcohol was illegal in the United States. If the police showed up at this place, I'd be in big trouble.

As Addie pulled me across the room, I almost crashed into a guy who was weaving around with a lamp shade on his head.

“Look, I just need to find Carl Mays,” I told Addie. “Is he here?”

“Nah, he ain't here,” she replied.

“But you know who he is?” I asked.

“Sure I do,” Addie said. “He's that pitcher with the Yankees.”

“Why did you laugh when I asked if he was here?” I said.

“Carl is such a killjoy,” she told me. “I don't think he ever let a sip of booze pass his lips, even when it
was
legal.”

Something didn't make sense. This place was a speakeasy, one of those illegal bars. But Carl Mays
didn't drink. I wondered why I ended up in a place like this. Finally, Addie pulled me over to a booth where some people were sitting.

“Carl Mays ain't here,” she said, “but one of his teammates is. He came over from the Red Sox too. He's only been with the team for a few months, but he's pretty popular. He's sitting right over there.”

I recognized that guy.

I
T WAS
B
ABE
R
UTH
!

Babe freaking Ruth!

I was paralyzed. I couldn't breathe. Babe Ruth was sitting right in front of me!

Of course! I should have known. The Red Sox sold Babe to the Yankees after the 1919 season. So he started his career with New York in 1920. That meant that he was probably on the field at the moment Ray Chapman was hit.

I shouldn't have been so shocked to see the Babe. We had met before. In fact, I'd met him
twice
. The first time was when I went back to see Jackie Robinson in 1947 and bumped into Babe sitting in the stands at the World Series. Another time I went back to 1932 to see with my own eyes whether or not Babe really called his famous “Called Shot” home run.

But those are stories for another day.

I couldn't help but stare at him. Babe wasn't fat, the way he was in 1932. And he wasn't old and dying, the way he was in 1947. He looked like a big kid, lean and muscular. You could almost call him handsome.

Babe didn't notice me staring at him. He had a lot of distractions. There were two ladies sitting on his knees, a beer in each of his hands, and a plate of spaghetti on the table in front of him. Oh, yeah, and a cigar in his mouth. I don't know how he managed to eat, drink, smoke, and joke with the girls all at the same time; but he seemed to be managing. The girls were laughing, the spaghetti and beer were disappearing like they were being dumped into a bottomless pit, and thick clouds of smoke billowed every time he took a puff on the cigar. My eyes teared, and I reminded myself that it was only recently that smoking was banned in most indoor spaces.

“How's about I hit a homer for each of you pretty girls today?” Babe suggested.

“That would be swell, Babe!” they agreed, and collapsed into giggles.

Babe Ruth was like the sun—everything revolved around him. A waiter came over and refilled his glasses the instant they were empty.

Addie, who had brought me over to the table, had flitted off to talk to somebody else. I guess she figured Babe would take me to Carl Mays.

“Say, here's a riddle for you dolls,” Babe said. “Why is it faster to run from first base to second than it is to run from second base to third?”

“Gee whiz, Babe, I dunno!” one of the girls said, giggling.

“Because there's a short stop in the middle,” I said.

The girls didn't laugh. Babe didn't say anything. They all just looked at me.

Oops. I wished there was a hole in the floor I could jump into.

But then, Babe busted out laughing.

“That's right!” he said, pounding the table with his fist. “Hey, what's your name, kid?”

“Stosh,” I told him, “Joe Stoshack. I'm a big fan, Babe.”

“You don't look so big to me!” he said, roaring at his own joke. Then he tilted his head back and half of his beer vanished, like he didn't even need to swallow.

“Gee, Babe, maybe you shouldn't be drinking so much,” I suggested gently.

“Who are you, my mother?” Babe said. “Drinking helps me hit homers!”

“Howdya figger that, Babe?” asked one of the girls.

“Well, I hit 29 homers last year for Boston,” Babe said. “That's the most ever. And since I moved to New York, I drink a lot more beer. Well, I got 42 homers right now, and the season ain't over yet. So I figger it must be the beer.”

The girls cackled, and Babe threw back his head, draining the other glass. I was about to ask him
about Carl Mays, but there was a commotion at the other end of the club. Babe stood up to see what it was. The girls hopped off his lap and scurried away, like it was the end of their shift.

“Hey, Harry!” Babe yelled. “Come on over here!”

This had to be my lucky day! Harry Houdini, the guy who I had just seen hanging upside down, was walking toward us.

Houdini was a short man with graying hair and strange-looking eyes. Even though he was fully dressed, you could see he had thick muscles on his arms and legs.

Babe greeted Houdini warmly and introduced me as his new friend.

“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,” Houdini said mysteriously, gripping my hand in a death grip that lasted just a bit too long. He was weirding me out.

“Whatcha drinkin', Harry?” asked Babe.

“I never touch alcohol,” Houdini replied.

“Ya don't have to touch it to drink it!” Babe hollered. “Hey, I gotta take a leak. Do that thing you do with the needles, Harry. The kid'll love it.”

Babe left, and Houdini pulled a handful of sewing needles out of his pocket. Why anybody would carry around a pocketful of sewing needles is a mystery to me.
Everything
about this guy was a mystery to me.

What happened next was even stranger. Houdini took the needles and popped them into his mouth, like peanuts! Then, he started chewing them! Truly
weird. But wait, it gets even weirder.

Houdini picked up a glass of water from the table and guzzled it, as if he was washing down the needles. Then as he looked me in the eye, he pulled a ball of thread out of his pocket. He popped that in his mouth and swallowed it too.

But what happened next was
really
unbelievable. Houdini reached into his mouth and pulled out the thread. That's not the unbelievable part. The unbelievable part was that the thread came out in a line—with all those needles attached to it! He had threaded the needles while they were in his
mouth
!

Houdini could do some weird stuff.
Library of Congress

It was
amazing
!

When he was done, Houdini looked at me with an eerie smile and asked if I had seen him “hanging around” outside.

“Yeah,” I said. “How did you get out of that straitjacket?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he told me. Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “But between you and me, I dislocated my shoulder.”

“On
purpose
?” I asked.

“But of course,” he replied, and looked at me as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do.

I told Houdini that I had dislocated my shoulder too when I fell down after getting hit by a baseball. He said that after you dislocate your shoulder once, it's easier to do again.

Just talking about stuff like that was creeping me out. Houdini seemed like an alien from outer space who was trying to blend in with the earthlings but wasn't quite pulling it off.

He took a tiny key out of his pocket and slipped it into my hand.

“A souvenir of our meeting,” he said. “It will open virtually any lock known to man. You never know when it might come in handy. I hide it in my mouth.”

Cool. I thanked him as I slipped the key in my back pocket. Babe came back from the bathroom with a new cigar in his hand. Houdini asked him what time it was.

“Time for another beer!” Babe bellowed.

“Don't you have a game at three thirty?” asked Houdini.

Babe stopped, stared, let out a curse, and quickly grabbed my hand.

“You're right!” he said. “Let's go, kid! We gotta get to the Polo Grounds fast!”

“We?” I asked.

“If anybody asks why I'm late, you're gonna tell 'em I was visiting you in the hospital. Because you're a sick kid and you're dying, okay?”

“But I'm not dying,” I protested.

“You're
gonna
be if Hug finds out I was drinking. Let's go!”

Hug? Who's Hug?

There was no time for questions. Babe grabbed a bag from under the table and ran for the door like he was trying to stretch a single into a double. I grabbed my bag with the batting helmet in it and ran after him.

B
ABE
R
UTH DID SOMETHING
I
HAD NEVER SEEN ANOTHER
human being do. He changed clothes while he was running!

It was
amazing
. While we were hustling through the nightclub, Babe somehow tore off his pants and shirt and tossed them aside. Then he reached into the bag he was carrying, took out his Yankees uniform, and put it on—
while
he was hopping around, dodging waiters and various drunks! I don't know how he did it.

And the strange thing was that the people in the club weren't particularly shocked. They acted like that sort of thing went on all the time.

“Hurry up!” he yelled to me as if it was my fault he would be late. “We gotta get to the Polo Grounds!” I could barely keep up with him, and I didn't have to change my clothes.

When we got outside, Babe looked around frantically for a taxi, but there wasn't one on the street. Suddenly, two kids on bikes came pedaling around the corner. Babe jumped in front of them, and they hit their brakes so they wouldn't crash into him.

“It's Babe Ruth!” one of the kids shouted.

“Hey, kids, how much for the bicycles?” asked Babe.

“Huh?” the kids said.

“Here,” Babe said, pulling a $20 bill out of his pocket. “We need those bikes.”

The kids were still in shock, but they got off their bikes and took the twenty like they had just won the lottery. In 1920, twenty dollars was probably like a thousand.

“Y'know how to ride a bicycle?” Babe asked me.

“Well, sure…”

“Then let's go!”

Back when I visited him in 1932, Babe Ruth drove me to Wrigley Field in Chicago. I almost died. Well, he rode a bicycle the same way—like a maniac. He took off and started pedaling furiously, weaving around street vendors, potholes, and garbage cans. Little old ladies were diving out of his way. Cars were honking at him, and I wasn't sure if it was because the drivers recognized Babe Ruth or because some nut on a bike had just cut them off.

I was pedaling as hard as I could to keep up. My heart was racing. I wished I had put on the batting helmet I'd brought for Ray Chapman. If I fell and hit
my head on the street, there was probably no doctor in 1920 who could help me.

Babe took off and started pedaling furiously.
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY

Like I said, I had been to New York a few times now, so it wasn't completely new and different to me. I barely looked at the old-time streetlights, cars, and signs as we zipped by them. Besides, I was too busy trying to avoid hitting them. We sped past a huge movie theater playing
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
starring John Barrymore. Whoever he was.

We crossed 125th Street and then 134th Street. I remembered from my last trip that the Polo Grounds was at 157th Street. As we got close, there were fewer stores, cars, or people on the street. I could feel my heartbeat slowing down slightly.

Finally, we came to a sign that said
WELCOME TO THE POLO GROUNDS
, and I could see the ballpark as we looked down on it from the hill. The Polo Grounds looked pretty much the same as it did when I saw it in 1913. There were players on the field and fans all over. It looked like batting practice was still going on. Lucky for Babe, the game hadn't started yet.

Babe tossed aside the bike the same way he tossed aside his clothes. To Babe Ruth, I guess everything was disposable.

He wasn't out of breath, not like I was. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward an unmarked door at the side of the ballpark.

“Whatcha got in the bag, kid?” he asked, as we hustled for the door. “Ya got anything to eat in there?”

“It's a batting helmet,” I replied, amazed that Babe could still be hungry.

“A helmet that bats?” he asked. “Sounds like a crazy idea to me.”

The door was an entrance just for the players; but there was a small group of fans hanging around, waiting for Babe. As soon as they saw him, they surrounded him with pens and papers.

“Sorry, folks. Not now,” Babe apologized as we ran through the doorway. “I'm late. See you after the game, okay?”

He led me to the locker room, where there were a bunch of players hanging out, playing checkers and cards. They were already in their uniforms—the old, baggy, flannel kind that players used to wear. Above the lockers I noticed some names I had heard before: Bob Meusel, Ping Bodie, Roger Peckinpaugh.

“Ruth! You're late!”

The high-pitched voice came from a tiny man with big ears. He wasn't much taller than me, and I'm only 5 feet 3 inches. His uniform looked two sizes too big on him. It was almost funny watching the guy yell at Babe Ruth. He was so small, he looked like he could be a ventriloquist's dummy.

“Ah, keep your shirt on, Hug,” Babe said. “I'm here, ain't I? The game didn't start yet.”

Hug.
I remembered that there used to be a manager named Miller Huggins. He is in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

“I need you to be here
two hours
before game time,
Ruth!” Huggins said, wagging his finger in Babe's face. “That's the rule.”

Miller Huggins
Library of Congress

“Aw, c'mon, Hug, my friend here is dyin'!” Babe said, throwing me a wink. “I had to visit him in the hospital. Ain't that right, kid? What's your name again? Stash?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, coughing loudly. “Stosh.”

“Yeah, Stosh,” Babe said. “The kid has…”

“Cancer,” I said.

“Right, cancer,” said the Babe. “Poor kid has cancer. He's real sick, Hug.”

“He don't look sick to
me
,” Huggins said, looking me up and down suspiciously.

“Oh, he
looks
fine,” Babe explained, “but he's about to drop dead. He probably won't make it through the weekend.”

“How come every kid you know is dyin', Ruth?” Huggins demanded. “Every day you come in here late with a new kid who's dyin'. Don'tcha ever meet any kids who ain't dyin'?”

“Sure, Hug. I don't just meet sick kids.”

“Maybe the kid's just sick of
you
,” Huggins said. “I know I am. Hey, what's in that bag, kid?”

“That's his medicine,” Babe said before I could answer. “Keep your paws off.”

“Medicine?” Huggins wasn't buying it. “Looks like a lot of medicine for one kid.”

“I told you, Hug, the kid is about to drop dead!” Babe said. “He needs a
lotta
medicine. But I'm gonna hit a homer for him today. That oughta make him
feel better. Ain't that right, kid?”

“Sure, Babe!”

“Hey, Ruth!” hollered one of the players. “How's the kid gonna feel when you strike out three times like yesterday?”

“Ah, stop flappin' yer gums!” Babe hollered back. “I'm gonna get me a rubdown.”

Babe wandered off to the trainer's room and left me standing in the middle of the locker room. I guess I was disposable too. I looked around. One of these guys had to be Carl Mays; but none of them had names or numbers on their uniforms, so I didn't know which one he was.

“Hey, kid,” somebody behind me said. I turned around to see a tall player writing on a baseball. “I hope you don't drop dead or nothin'.”

He handed me the ball. It had red and blue stitching on it. I turned it around. On the other side was this…

WALLY PIPP!? I remembered that name. He was the guy Flip told us about! Flip said Pipp played for the Yankees in the 1920s. And here he was!

“You play first base, right?” I asked.

“That's right,” Pipp said.

Wally Pipp

“Listen, uh, this is gonna sound a little nutty,” I told him, “but don't ever ask for a day off, okay?”

“Huh?” Pipp said. “Why not?”

“You're not gonna believe this,” I explained, “but in a few years, you're gonna have a headache. And you're gonna ask for a day off. And some young guy named Lou Gehrig is gonna take your place that day. And he's gonna be so good that he's gonna take your job. And the Yankees are gonna sell you to Cincinnati. Trust me on this.”

Wally Pipp looked at me like I was crazy.

“How would
you
know what's gonna happen in a few years?” he asked. “I never even
heard
of nobody named Gehrig. You really
are
sick, kid. Maybe you better get back to the hospital.”

I could have tried to convince Wally Pipp not to ask for a day off. I could have argued with him. But there was no point. My mom always told me that you've got to choose your battles in life. I had more important things to do than save Wally Pipp's career.

“Forget it,” I told Pipp. “Thanks for the ball. Can you tell me where I might find Carl Mays?”

Pipp pointed to a locker all the way in the corner of the clubhouse.

“Over there,” Pipp told me. “But don't bother him. He don't like bein' bothered. Especially today. He's going for his 100th career victory.”

Carl Mays was sitting on a bench by himself, hunched over with his back to me. He was stripped
to the waist, wearing gym shorts. He looked lost in thought. His foot was nervously tapping the floor.

As I got closer, I could see there was a scar on the back of his left leg, maybe six inches long. On the floor of his locker were four pairs of baseball shoes, all shined up and lined up perfectly in a row. There were a few bats leaning against the wall behind me, also perfectly in a line. He must have been a neat freak.

Suddenly, I had an incredible idea. I could accomplish my mission right here and now. I didn't have to give a batting helmet to Ray Chapman to save his life. All I had to do was pick up one of those bats and whack Carl Mays on his pitching arm with it!

If he was injured, he wouldn't be able to play. And if he wasn't able to play, he wouldn't be able to hit Ray Chapman in the head with a ball. And if he didn't hit Chapman with the ball…well, you get the idea.