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Authors: David O. Stewart

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BOOK: The Babe Ruth Deception
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Chapter 28
B
y the second game of the Series, Fraser was starting to relax around the team. He arrived at the Polo Grounds hours before the first pitch. He sat by while players griped about their muscle pulls and bruises, helping out where he could. When it was time to warm up on the field, he followed them out. He took up a spot near the Yanks' dugout, arms folded, leaning against the railing. He kept his eyes nailed on the Babe.
The slugger got ready his own way. He shagged a few fly balls and played catch to warm up his arm, swapping tales with teammates about the night before. He was all business when it was his turn for batting practice. The whole park stopped to watch. Ruth usually aimed for the fences. When he tagged one, caught it full on the barrel of the bat, he held the corkscrew pose at the end of his swing and admired the ball's flight, its brave defiance of gravity.
Fraser liked the way the small manager, Huggins, kept his players on their toes. The man wasn't real warm. Pretty frosty, really. But he didn't miss much on a baseball field. Fraser also took a shine to the starting pitcher for the second game, Waite Hoyt, a strapping kid from Brooklyn who couldn't be much older than Violet. His open face reflected every emotion that passed through him, beginning with the thrill of pitching in the World Series. The boy was just about jumping out of his skin.
And so were the fans. This Series was for the championship, sure, but it also was a class war, a battle for civic dominance. Giants fans affected the hauteur of aristocracy. After all, their team had been winning championships since the 1880s. In 1904, the Giants refused to play in the World Series because, they sniffed, the newly formed American League wasn't worthy of the effort. The 1921 Series was their sixth since then, but there were cracks in the foundation of their arrogance. The Giants had won only one of those World Series, something that drove their manager crazy. That was feisty John McGraw, the reigning genius of the baseball world, a fierce apostle of scratch-and-claw baseball. A perfect inning for McGraw was for his leadoff man to earn a walk, steal second, take third on a bunt, and score on a sacrifice fly. No hits, two outs, one run. He despised the power game of Babe Ruth and the Yankees. Sitting around and waiting for a slugger to hit home runs was stupid, McGraw thought, and unreliable. He was eager to prove it by winning the Series.
The Yankees were the brash newcomers. They'd been around only half as long, and had been renamed the Yankees a mere eight years before. They'd never won anything, never been in the World Series. They didn't even have their own ballpark, making do as renters in the Giants' Polo Grounds. But they had turned baseball upside down with the Babe and his prodigious clouts, with a whole new way to play the game. The man had clobbered fifty-nine home runs that season. That was more home runs than eight entire teams hit. Even die-hard Giants fans thrilled to watch him, this magical manchild who was remaking the game right before their eyes.
When the game began, Fraser took his reserved seat behind the dugout. He watched Ruth when the slugger was on the field, but so did everyone else. The fans shouted to him when he trotted out to left field. They screamed for home runs when he came up to bat. Everyone stood when he stepped into the batter's box, hoping to see this force of nature work his will on the game they loved. While John McGraw seethed in the Giants dugout, Ruth commanded the ballfield.
The Yankees had a 1–0 lead when they took the field in the fifth inning. Fraser had noticed Abe Attell sitting in a box about two sections over, right behind home plate. Attell's box was three up from the one where Commissioner Landis presided, his features set in a permanent frown under a shock of flyaway white hair. Vice and virtue, a hundred feet apart. Vice looked to be having a better time.
Fraser didn't wave to Attell or nod in his direction. He knew Attell would look for him. He wanted the gambler to appreciate Fraser's privileged position with the Yanks, and with the Babe. He was pretty sure Attell had.
In this game, McGraw plainly had resolved that he wouldn't let Babe beat him. The first time Ruth came to the plate, the pitcher walked him on four pitches. Next time, same story. McGraw was out to show baseball that you can't win the game with home runs if the slugger never gets a pitch he can hit.
When Babe's third at-bat also ended with a base on balls, his frustration got the better of him. He stole second base cleanly, not even bothering to slide. The Yankee fans whooped and hollered in delight. You might keep the Babe from hitting home runs, they told each other, but he'd beat you another way, sure he would. Then the big man, showing surprising grace and speed for his size, stole third base, too, sliding in just ahead of the catcher's throw. The crowd went wild, screaming their lungs out, exulting in his daring.
By the end of the game, Yankee pitcher Waite Hoyt had channeled his excitement into an overpowering performance, shutting the Giants out and giving the Yanks a 2–0 lead in the series. With three more wins—the Series was being played as a best-of-nine contest—the upstart team could win its first world championship ever.
Except Fraser had noticed something after Ruth slid into third base. His left arm, the way he carried it. He never rubbed it or showed any discomfort with it. But he held it out slightly from the rest of his body. Something, Fraser thought, was wrong.
Fraser found Babe in the clubhouse after the game, wearing only his victory cigar. But the arm was bad. The inside of his elbow looked like raw hamburger meat.
“We need to wash that,” Fraser said. “Get some disinfectant on it.”
Babe beamed, cigar clenched at a jaunty forty-five-degree angle. “Don't be an old lady. You're here to be seen by the smart guys, not to sweat over this stuff. I'm telling you, though, that field”—he took the cigar out of his mouth and shook his head—“it's a mess. All sorts of pebbles and crap on the base paths. Like a sandlot.”
Fraser knew he should push the Babe on this. He was the doctor and the damned thing needed attention. Then again, he had already said that, and this was exactly the sort of information that might give Fraser the edge he needed with Rothstein and Attell, something he and they would know and others wouldn't.
Babe stood up. “I'll wash it off in the shower. Listen, I'm in a rush, need to see some people. Gonna cut loose. Two games to nothing, eh? If only they'd give me a goddamned pitch to hit. Then I'd show that bastard McGraw something to remember!”
Fraser held his tongue as the slugger strutted off, towel in one hand and cigar in the other. He knew he should demand that Babe at least put some iodine on the wound. Well, he had tried, sort of. It was the Babe who had pushed him away.
When Fraser reached the Ansonia, the desk clerk handed over a message. Part of him hoped it was from Ruth, asking him to clean and dress his arm.
Inside the creamy Ansonia envelope was a torn-off scrap of paper. There was writing on one side that made no sense. The other side read: “8 pm, George's, Fifty-third and Eighth.” It was signed “AA.”
Fraser smiled. He had a nibble. A definite nibble.
* * *
Attell was waiting for him at George's on Fifty-third. Another good sign. The little prizefighter was eager.
They went through the motions of looking at the food-stained menu, the cardboard soft from use. George's was a greasy spoon that had earned the label.
“Order the scrapple,” the little man said. “It's terrific here. Stick to your ribs. They serve it twenty-four hours.” Attell seemed to be in high good humor, which Fraser hadn't expected. He feared the gambler would resent having to deal with someone he held in contempt, like Fraser, or else he would be on edge to make a deal. Instead, Attell seemed almost joyful. He must think Fraser was a patsy. It was insulting, but understandable.
Fraser ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, guessing that the cook couldn't do much harm to that, but he was wrong. The bread was limp and the cheese carried a worrisome aroma. Fraser elected to make do with coffee while Attell inhaled an intimidating brick of scrapple. Conversation was impossible while the gambler shoveled the gelatinous substance into his face. Wiping his mouth with a daintiness that contrasted with his other table manners, Attell gestured at Fraser's plate. “You going to finish that?”
Fraser pushed the dish over. Attell was equal to the challenge. Fraser tried to recall the symptoms of tapeworm.
Attell sat back with a sigh.
“You could order another,” Fraser said.
Attell held his hand up, palm out to Fraser. “Don't tempt me. Honest food, you know?” He made a feeble effort at stifling a belch, then surrendered completely to the next one. “So,” he said, a satisfied look on his face. “How bad is it?”
“The arm?”
Attell nodded.
“I won't know until I see it tomorrow afternoon. But it's his throwing arm, so it'll be hard to protect it. Pretty much impossible.”
Attell sat forward and spoke softly. “You know, if the Babe's hurt—you know, really hurt—it raises some possibilities. For a betting man, that is. The Yanks are up 2–0, so the action's running their way. But if the Babe has a bad wing, and if we're the only ones who know how bad . . .” He shrugged. “That could be very interesting. Very interesting.” Attell's eyes narrowed.
Fraser's heart rate picked up. This felt too easy. He made himself wait. He gave Attell time to like the situation more. And more.
“So,” Fraser said, “I take it we have a deal? A trade? For Babe's IOU and for putting Speed's kid in the clear.”
“Not so fast, Doc,” Attell said. “We have an idea of a deal. It's just a little baby idea. See, first we gotta see if this really helps us with the betting line tomorrow. And if it works good, then maybe the idea starts to grow up a bit, maybe we can move on to have a grown-up deal.”
Fraser stared at him, trying to let the silence get uncomfortable. “Why would I do that? That way you hold all the cards. No matter what happens, you get to say that the information from me didn't help.”
“Hey, you know you can trust us. We're businessmen. We can't stay in business if we don't keep our word. It's the same as paying off bets. Ask anyone. We always pay off. It's only good business.”
“Trust isn't so easy to come by in this situation.”
“Hey, for us, too. We're taking the chances here, remember? We're covering the bets, putting up good money, which we gotta pay off if you're wrong. Which reminds me. If we act on the information you give us, you'd damned well better be right. Being wrong—hell, I don't need any help from you to be wrong. I can do that all by myself.”
“Tell you what, Abe. I've got an idea how we can do this.”
Chapter 29
F
raser was groggy with another dream when he opened his eyes in the sunlit train car. He was chasing someone. Or someone was chasing him. Maybe it was because of the jouncing ride of the early express back from Philadelphia. The patchy track bed delivered random jolts into the steady pulse of steel wheels on steel rails, all of which tortured Fraser's spine.
He used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his forehead. This was it. He had made his deal with Attell. Now he had made his deal with Pete Johnson and Jerome Hill in Philadelphia. After hurrying home to clean up, he had to get the bank to wire funds to them, then recruit Uncle Wilfred. Then back to the Babe and then Attell and Rothstein again.
He let his head rest against the window. New Jersey rushed by as the morning light slanted higher. He imagined packing his clothes, heading to the piers, and walking onto the first ship to England. After six days, maybe five, he would see Eliza, see Violet. He wouldn't have to pretend he had the nerve to face down New York gangsters. He had wondered a few times in the past if Speed would ruin him somehow, even get him killed. Eliza liked to predict that he would. Fraser never imagined it could happen after Speed was gone.
By the time he climbed out of a taxi for game three at the Polo Grounds, Fraser was thinking about the lives that were built around baseball. Instead of tromping down hospital corridors that reeked of disinfectant to see people he didn't often help, a baseball man lived his life in the sunshine, under an open sky. His brain was filled with nothing more vexing than whether the third-baseman was playing too far off the foul line. So what if you were wrong? Nobody suffered for your mistake, not really suffered. Maybe he could be a sportswriter—that looked soft. Even an usher, or a trainer for the players—he might be qualified for that.
He pushed out of his mind the arrangements he'd been making since he left George's Diner with its twenty-five strains of botulism. There were too many moving parts to the deal. Any one of them, starting with Uncle Wilfred, could fail. It was a risk to involve the old fellow, but Fraser needed someone he could trust. Speed was gone and the rest of his family was in London, which left Wilfred. At least he was enthusiastic. Also he had no competing obligations. As Eliza had predicted, Wilfred's new show had folded after only eight performances in August. The old fellow would respect the role Fraser had given him to play today. At least Fraser hoped he would. Fraser had to play his own role.
Fraser found Ruth lacing his shoes, already dressed in the pin-striped uniform and short-visored cap.
“Hey, Doc,” the big man greeted him, a grin on his face, “how's your old man?”
“More to the point, how's your elbow?”
Babe shrugged. “Feels great. Just had a three-hour nap. I'm feeling tip-top.”
“Let me take a look.” Ruth held out his arm. Fraser pulled up the sleeve and peeled off an amateurish bandage. He rotated the elbow to pick up the light. He didn't need a lot of time to see that it was bad, but he took a little extra time anyway. That delay usually made patients uncomfortable, got their attention better. “It's not looking good, Babe. It's getting infected. See here?” He pointed to a swelling.
“Doesn't feel so bad.”
“It will.” Fraser let more seconds slip by as he bent to look more closely. “That needs to be drained.” He waved at the small black bag he had carried in. “I've got the instruments with me. It won't take long and then I'll bandage it up.”
“Can I play after you do that?”
“Probably not today. It'll hurt, but I bet it already does. I'll have to cut into the elbow. You'll have to be careful not to reopen the wound so it doesn't get reinfected.”
“Tell you what, Doc. Let's skip it, wait a day. Maybe it'll clear up.”
“Infections don't usually just reverse themselves. They run their course, which can be very damaging.”
“What can a day hurt? If we win today, we're up 3–0. It won't be so bad if I miss a game.”
Fraser knew in his bones that it was a mistake. He should insist. But he let it go. Ruth held his arm out. “Bandage it up, but not too much. I don't want the Giants thinking I'm really hurt. They'll go after the elbow if they do. Fucking McGraw's a killer.”
Instead of following Babe out to the field, Fraser headed for the street door. From the sidewalk, he waved to Wilfred, who sat in a taxi pointed west, toward the pickup spot. When the cab pulled away, Fraser turned back to the stadium. Now three things had to go right. First, the Yanks had to start losing because of Babe's bad arm. Second, Attell had to keep his word. And Wilfred had to get it right.
From his vantage point next to the Yankees' dugout, Fraser could see that Babe was being careful with his arm while trying to conceal the injury. He showed no restraint during batting practice. The swings still looked titanic, and the ball still flew off his bat. Even if the arm held up for a while, Fraser told himself, it was going to give out.
When the Giants took the field to start the game—they were designated the home team for this one—Fraser stood to encourage the Yanks. He looked over to Attell's box. The little man was there. Fraser took off his hat, waved it out at the field. That was the signal.
* * *
By the third inning, Fraser was a wreck, his leg jiggling madly. The Yankees had a 4–0 lead. Babe had hit a single that drove in two runs. Had Fraser called it wrong? Was Babe that good, playing through the pain and stiffness of that ugly elbow? Was he beyond the limitations that applied to mere mortals? Or was he just better with one arm than everyone else was with two?
The scoreboard mocked Fraser. The Giants hadn't scored yet in the Series. Not once in twenty innings. Even John McGraw's brand of low-scoring baseball required at least one run to win a game. How could they possibly overcome a four-run deficit? McGraw was showing his own nerves. He had already brought in a relief pitcher to stop the Yankees as soon as possible. Preferably now.
Babe looked cocky taking his lead off first base, chatting with the first-baseman. He yelled over as the pitcher started his windup. After each pitch, Babe trotted back, toed the bag, and winked at the fans seated behind the foul line. After the third pitch, with a count of two balls and one strike, Babe took off his cap and carefully placed it back on. Everyone in the stadium could see his grin. Fraser couldn't help but envy his mastery of the sport, how much he enjoyed that mastery. Fraser had underestimated Ruth's talent, and his spirit. Fraser was going to pay for that mistake. Attell and Rothstein would see to that.
As the pitcher delivered the next pitch, Babe broke for second base. Yankee fans shouted. The big galoot was going to swipe another base, grind these Giants into rubble all by himself. His slide set off a dust storm. The umpire crouched low to get the best view. “Out!” came the bellowed call. Yankee fans froze. The Giants' rooters roared to life.
Babe bounced up and started to trot off the field. He winced. His movements revealed the pain. No one could miss it. Fraser looked away. He knew he should be ashamed of himself, but his heart leapt with joy.
The Giants tied the game in the bottom of the inning, showing their first signs of life in the Series. The next time Ruth batted, he struck out. Even in the best of health, Babe was prone to strikeouts. His swing was so long and so powerful, he was bound to miss the ball some of the time. A lot of the time. But this time was different. He didn't look good. He was favoring the elbow, anyone could see it. Fraser's leg jiggle slowed down. The door was open. It was up to the Giants to walk through it.
It didn't happen until the bottom of the seventh. The Giants loaded the bases. Irish Meusel, a dangerous hitter, came to the plate. His younger brother Bob was playing right field for the Yankees. This time family seniority prevailed. Irish scorched a double past his brother and scored two runners. The Giants kept right on battering the Yankee pitchers, scoring six more times. When Babe led off the eighth, trailing 12–4, the Giants still weren't taking any chances. They walked him on four pitches. Manager Huggins wasn't taking any chances, either. He sent in a sub to run the bases for Babe. No more suicidal base-stealing by the big man.
Fraser took a deep breath. His leg wasn't jiggling at all.
Wilfred took the seat next to him before the ninth inning began. He was dressed for his part, a fair imitation of a racetrack tout in a checked suit and spats. He smelled like the third shift at a brewery. “What'd I miss?” he asked.
Smiling, Fraser said, “The longest damned ballgame I've ever sat through.” He looked over at Wilfred. “Did you get it?”
Wilfred winked, a long, slow one. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over a sheet folded into quarters. Fraser held it low, between his knees, opening it just a bit to peek in. It looked right. He refolded it and placed it in his trousers pocket. “Any trouble?” he asked.
“Nah. Once it came over the wire that the Giants scored all those runs, the guy showed up and handed it to me. Didn't say a word.”
BOOK: The Babe Ruth Deception
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