The Babe Ruth Deception (6 page)

But booze. No one was going to stop Americans from taking a drink when they wanted to, and they'd pay a pretty penny to do it. Bootlegging was the thing. It was new, wide open. He needed to study it, make it his business. Then he needed to start making some real money. Once you get your hands on some money, it doesn't matter how you got it. All those doors open just the same.

S
peed Cook sat on the first-base side at Brooklyn's Ebbets Field. Babe Ruth's All-Stars, a collection of players from several teams, were loosening up for the exhibition game against Cook's Bacharach Giants. When the major leaguers took over the field from the colored players, the men had exchanged some good-natured banter. Maybe not all of it was good-natured. Cook had hustled his players back into their clubhouse, an unknown luxury where they usually played. He reminded them that they were here for a payday, not for payback, so they should forget about evening up the score for anything that had happened five years ago or fifty years ago. If they kept their mouths shut, they could run up the score all they wanted and walk away with money in their pockets. Babe's team had no interest in playing hard, unless someone went and riled them up. So, Cook said, don't do anything, don't say anything that would get them angry. And be sure—he was definite about this—that Babe gets nothing but fat pitches to hit. The older heads nodded.

A week before, the Ebbets Field grass got chewed up during World Series games between the Brooklyn Robins and the Cleveland Indians, but it was still better than the Catholic Protectory Oval on its best day. Cook felt happy, sitting in this fine ballpark, warm in the autumn sun, waiting for the first pitch. The air carried pungent smells of roasting chestnuts from carts outside, reminding him of the aroma of burning leaves that meant autumn in his boyhood. That aroma was scarce in Manhattan. So were leaves.

Cook couldn't help but envy the Robins this field. When he'd been playing thirty years before, big league parks weren't anything like this. The grandstands here—double-deckered around much of the field—could hold more than twenty thousand fans. The outfield wall shouted messages about Gem safety razors, Lifebuoy soap, Green River whiskey, and Bull Durham tobacco. Walls outside the park recommended tires, candy, and shirts. All products for men—which made sense. Almost all the fans were male. Come to think of it, Robins was a pretty weak name for the Brooklyn club. It didn't command respect like the Giants, or the Senators, or the Tigers, the Indians. Well, the sissy name hadn't kept the Robins out of the World Series.

The crowd today would be smaller than for a Series game, but not by that much. Babe was putting rear ends in the seats. Neither Ebbets Field nor National League fans had seen the game's greatest home-run hitter before. The Babe had been in this park with the Red Sox for the 1916 World Series, but then he was strictly a pitcher. Anyway, he never threw a pitch in Brooklyn then. During batting practice, Cook had enjoyed watching that gorgeous swing. Like poetry, or music. If Cook's pitchers did as he'd told them, there would be at least one Ruthian home run for the fans to tell their grandchildren about.

“Comin' up in the world, Daddy.”

Cook grinned up at his son, standing in the aisle in front of him. “Boy, d'you get lost somewhere? Ain't no socialist Abyssinians scheduled here today.”

“I got a phone call from some crazy-sounding woman, said my daddy was having a proud day and that if I ever wanted to eat her roast chicken again, I'd get myself over to Brooklyn and share it with him.” Cook stood and grabbed Joshua's hand, pulling him into the seat next to him. “You got any idea who that woman was?”

“You know,” Cook said, “she can have a mean temper, which I know better than anyone. But underneath it all she's a pretty nice old gal. A man could do a lot worse.”

Joshua leaned away from his father and pulled a serious face. “This is a baseball day, right? Not one about finding yourself a good woman.”

“Every day's a day for finding a good woman, son. Haven't I taught you anything?”

“Just'cause you're teaching doesn't mean I'm learning.”

They leaned back, elbows on the riser behind them, and gazed out at the field. Cook didn't care for his son's snappy vested suit any more than he liked that smart remark. The blue was too blue, the fit too sleek. Cook didn't mind that his own suit was shapeless from wear, the elbows shiny and a cuff button missing. Sharp clothes on Cook would only make the players think he was making more money than he was. Joshua's suit confirmed the talk Cook was hearing, that the boy was into bootlegging.

Joshua nodded out at the field as he lit a cigarette. “That big one over next to home plate, that's him?”

“Not hard to pick out.”

“Is he as thick as the newspapers let on?”

Cook considered the question. “You know, he's ignorant, that's sure. I wouldn't ask him the capital of Egypt. But he's the best damned ballplayer I've ever seen, which means he's figured out some things. Things about baseball, anyway. Did you see his season? He had 54 home runs, 130-some RBIs, batted .376. Add up all nine of my seasons and I didn't come close to those numbers.”

“Different game back then, Daddy.”

“You can say that again.” He shook his head. The whole business still made him angry. That last season in pro ball, he knew he might be close to being through. It was his hands, a catcher's best asset but also his most vulnerable. That was before they figured out that a bigger glove would provide some protection. Most of his fingers got broken one time or another. Also, some bones in his hands. By the end of a game catching fastballs, curves, spitters, shine balls, whatever the hell the pitcher was dishing up, his hands swelled up to twice normal size. The pain got to be too much. But the bastards didn't drive him out because of his hands. It was for his skin. He was the last one, the last Negro they got rid of. No one would give him a contract. Not one of them. And that was the end of colored ballplayers in the big leagues. He tried to relax his hands. They hurt when he clenched them into fists.

“How's the crowd look to you?” Joshua said.

Cook checked over his shoulder. “Good. Real good. Figure we'll go over fifteen thousand. Should make a few pennies for our trouble.” They stood to let some fans shuffle past them.

“Went to see Violet Fraser the other day,” Joshua said. “At the hospital.”

“How's she doing? That was a bad business.”

“Got hurt pretty bad. I don't know about that leg. She's something, though, keeping her spirits up.”

“I'm glad you were there that day, that you could help.” Cook cleared his throat. “Say, son, was that really just a coincidence, you being there when she was there, on Wall Street?”

“Yeah, it was, Daddy. Fate, eh? Throws us together again.”

“You may not want to overdo that fate business, son.”

“You want to tell me again how black boys don't go with white girls?”

Cook shrugged. “Well, there's something else I've been meaning to raise with you.”

Joshua raised an eyebrow, an unmistakable signal that defenses against paternal advice were fully engaged.

“Don't be like that, now. I've got a right to say some things.”

“I always listen, Daddy. It's not about the cigarettes, is it?” Joshua dropped the butt and stamped it out.

Cook took a breath, knowing that his words would fall on deaf ears. “I've been hearing, you know, hearing around, that you're getting mixed up with some bootleggers, some rough customers.”

His son looked at him but said nothing.

“You know that's not a good idea, Joshua. It makes your mother worry—”

“Now don't go hiding behind her.”

“All right, it makes me worry.” Cook leaned toward him. “Listen, why don't you come into this baseball business with me? I tell you what. Negro baseball is going to take off now. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's from the war. People are interested. They like it. It's an exciting game. You know they're organizing a real league out in the Midwest. We can do that here in the East, maybe have our own World Series.”

Cook swept a hand around the park. “Look around you, at those people paying good money to watch this game. Our players are as good as the ones in the white leagues, maybe better whenever the Babe stops passing for white.”

Joshua smiled. “Daddy, this kind of crowd, you know it's here for Ruth, not for these no-account traveling men you put out on the field.”

“Sure, sure, our crowds are smaller, but they're growing, and it's a lot less dangerous than bootlegging. There's mean folks running that liquor. You know that's true.”

Joshua leaned toward his father and spoke softly. “I know I killed more men in France than any of those so-called mean folks ever has.”

“That was different.”

Joshua waited a second. He decided not to ask how his father would know what it was like on the front line in France. He stood into the aisle. “Gotta go,” was all he said. He placed his hat on and started down the steps.

“Come to dinner on Sunday,” Cook called after him. “Your mother's expecting you.”

Joshua waved without turning his head. Then he was gone. Cook tried to concentrate on the game. It was only the top of the second inning. So much for watching the game with his son. The pain flared in his left hand, the one he'd caught most of the pitches with. He tucked it under the other bicep and waited for the warmth and pressure to help. The hands were getting worse. So what? There wasn't anything was going to make them better.

The Babe was out in right field, hands on his knees, watching the duel between pitcher and batter. A foul tip careened off the catcher's forearm. The game paused while the catcher stood up and ate the pain, flexing his arm but never rubbing it, not giving in to it. Out in right field, the Babe toed the ground and walked in a tight semicircle. He hunched and relaxed his shoulders, then crouched down for the next pitch. Not for the first time, Cook thought how he should have played outfield. Old outfielders didn't have hands like his.

* * *

By the sixth inning, the Bacharachs had a solid 6–2 lead. Cannonball Dick Redding was turning the major leaguers into pussycats, though that presented the problem Cook was worrying about. The Babe hadn't hit his homer yet.

It was mostly Ruth's own damned fault. The right-field fences at Ebbets Field were nice and close, and Cannonball had served up some juicy grapefruits. But the Babe's timing was off. Maybe he'd had a late night, maybe a few in a row. He popped up in the first, then lined out to the right fielder. He was the third batter this inning. Now was the time to hit one out. Cook had no interest in sweating this out until the ninth inning, when the Babe would be overanxious and the fans would be grumbling. Before the Bacharachs took the field, Cook stepped down to the fence next to their dugout. He told Cannonball he had but one job this inning—to groove a homer for the Babe. There didn't need to be men on base, but the ball had to land on the far side of the outfield fence.

Back at his seat, Cook found Abe Attell waiting. The little man's checkered, snap-brim cap set him apart in a sea of fedoras and bowlers. He also was the only white man on the Bacharachs' side of the field. He nodded affably as Cook resumed his seat.

“I heard,” Attell said, “that your boys're going to win.”

Cook snorted. “A little bird tell you?”

“A big one.” Attell nodded toward home plate. “The Babe himself. Though I think the big fellow thought he'd have at least one homer by now. So did a lot of us, actually.”

“Not to worry. The fans'll have something to remember.”

“That's terif. Then I should have a good day, too.”

They watched one of the All-Stars whiff at three Redding pitches. There was something majestic about how hard the man was trying to avoid hitting the ball. Cook winced inside. It was one thing to know the game was fixed. It figured that the All-Stars wouldn't be all that interested in winning this game. What did they care? Cook had figured on that. He'd put some money down on the Bacharachs this afternoon. But it was something else for some clown to show the world he was trying to lose.

“You seem pretty relaxed,” Cook said, “for a man just got indicted in Chicago for fixing the World Series.”

“That business with the White Sox last year?”

Cook smiled. “The papers are calling them the Black Sox.”

Attell laughed softly. “Do you
schvartzes
take offense at the name?” Cook didn't respond. Looking back out at the field, Attell shrugged. “That indictment, it's bubkis. It's under control. Mr. Rothstein, you know, he knows a lot of people in Chicago.”

The second batter struck out, too. At least he took the trouble to foul off two pitches before fanning. The crowd came alive as Babe strode to the plate. The fans started to stand to get a better look. His bat looked as thick as a table leg.

“So,” Attell nodded out at the Babe, “one of the things we don't know is why the Babe and you are suddenly such good friends.”

“What're you talking about? We made a business deal for these games. Straight-up deal. Not a lot of friendship involved.”

The sound startled both of them. More than a firecracker but less than a bomb. A sound that reached into your bones. That's how Cook described it to Aurelia when he got home. Like a gunshot. Cook saw only the end of the swing, the Babe corkscrewed around, his bat curled behind the wrong shoulder while he watched the ball's flight. Cook and Attell stood and shouted with everyone else. A Ruth home run was an act of nature. In nine years playing pro ball, Cook never saw one like it, partly because the baseballs were so lousy then. This ball cleared the right-field wall by fifty feet; it might have hit some car driving by. Every fan whooped. Most of them asked the man in the next seat if he'd ever seen
that
before. Cook watched the big man trot around the bases, taking his time, giving the fans a show. Then Cook caught Cannonball's eye out on the pitcher's mound. He nodded. Everything was fine. Cannonball could concentrate on winning the game now.