by Dan Gutman
“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.
It would be so easy!
My mind was racing, but I had to think this thing through. If I whacked Mays with the bat, the rest of the Yankees would surely surround me in about two seconds and beat the crap out of me. I’d most likely get arrested and possibly thrown in jail. If they took away my new pack of baseball cards, there would be no way for me to get back home again. I’d be stuck in 1920 forever.
It was a dilemma. If I whacked Mays with the bat, I would be saving Ray Chapman’s life and possibly ruining my own. Is it the right thing to do to hurt somebody if it would save somebody else’s life? I didn’t know.
I eyed the bats. I could always argue that by hitting Mays with a bat, I was saving two lives. Chapman wouldn’t die, and Mays wouldn’t have to go through the rest of his life knowing that he killed Chapman.
But who would believe me afterward when I explained that I was only trying to help these guys? I was the only person in 1920 who knew that Ray Chapman was going to be dead in a matter of hours. Nobody else had a clue. They would just think I was some crazy kid who attacked Carl Mays with a bat.
There wasn’t a lot of time to work out all the consequences. I had to make a decision fast.
I put down the ball that Wally Pipp gave me. I picked up one of Carl Mays’s bats.
10
All Part of the Game
IN THE END, I DIDN’T HAVE TO DECIDE WHETHER OR NOT to attack Carl Mays with his own baseball bat. Because at that moment, he turned around and looked at me.
I could have swung the bat, anyway. Mays would have been so surprised, he probably wouldn’t have been able to block it. I could have smashed his pitching arm, made a run for the door, and maybe even gotten out of there before the whole Yankee team grabbed me.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe hitting him was the right thing to do, but it’s just not in my nature to hit an innocent man with a baseball bat.
“What are you doin’ with my bat?” Mays asked.
I was sure he was going to kill me. He had every right to kill me. Ballplayers are very protective about their bats and gloves. Hey, I don’t like strangers touching my stuff either. He probably would have killed me too if he knew what I had been thinking about.
“I’m…uh…just admiring it,” I stammered. “What is this, 32 ounces?”
“33,” he replied, taking the bat from me.
Mays was a big guy, with broad, muscular shoulders. He had short blond hair, not quite a crew cut. Blue eyes. Sharp nose. He wore a grimac
e on his face that looked permanent. It was like he had a tooth-ache or something.
I desperately tried to think of something to say to the man so he wouldn’t think I had been on the verge of whacking him with his own bat.
“What happened to your leg?” I asked.
Mays looked down at his scar and touched it.
“That’s a little artwork courtesy of a fellow named Ty Cobb,” he said. “He bunted a ball down the first-base line on me. I scooped it up. When I went to tag him, he spiked me pretty good.”
“What a jerk,” I said. It wasn’t the first time I had heard about Cobb hurting someone on purpose.
“It’s all part of the game, son,” Mays told me, “all part of the game.”
I wanted to talk to Mays about Ray Chapman, but I didn’t quite know how to get started. How do you tell a man that in a few hours, he’s going to do something that will result in another man’s death and change his own life forever? He’d never believe me.
Carl Mays
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY
Carl Mays didn’t tell me to get lost, but he didn’t ask me to stay either. He reached into his locker, took out something, and put it in his mouth.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A chicken neck,” he said. “Keeps my mouth moist.”
Okay! So the guy was a little eccentric. That didn’t make him a bad guy. It certainly didn’t make him a murderer. He turned back around to face his locker.
“Uh, Mr. Mays?” I asked. I had to say something.
“Yeah?” he said, turning around again and taking the chicken neck out of his mouth.
“Be careful out there today,” I said.
“I’m always careful,” he replied, and then he went back to sucking on his chicken neck.
I wasn’t going to get anywhere with Carl Mays. I decided to stick with my original plan—to find Ray Chapman and give him my batting helmet. Then I’d go home and see if I had changed history.
As I headed for the door, Babe Ruth strolled out of the trainer’s room, wearing only a towel and puffing on a cigar.
“Swing big and hit big,” Babe was telling one of the other players. “That’s why I led the league in homers the last two years. You know how many I hit for the Sox last season? 29. And you know how many the whole team hit? 33! That’s a fact. Just four more. And that’s why I’m making ten grand this year. Swing big, hit big, and earn big.”
Suddenly, I noticed Carl Mays got up off the bench in front of his locker.
“Why don’t you shut your cake hole for once in your life, Ruth?” Mays said.
All the locker-room conversation and card games stopped instantly. Silence. It was like a cemetery in there. Everybody was staring at Carl Mays. And then, like they were watching a game of tennis, all heads swiveled over to Ruth.
“Who’s gonna make me?” the Babe said, striding over to Mays.
The two men were right in each other’s faces. Mays looked a couple of inches shorter than the Babe, but just as strong.
“Easy, boys,” one of the players said.
“You were born with a gift, Ruth,” Mays said. “The rest of us would give anything to have your talent. But you’re just wasting it. How many home runs would you hit if you didn’t spend all your time drinking and smoking and chasing girls? Why don’t you try getting a good night’s sleep for once? Why don’t you try to help this team win the pennant?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business, Carl?” Babe shot back.
“This is my business, Ruth,” Mays said. “I want to win the pennant. I want to win the World Series. Just like every man in this room does. And we’re not gonna win anything if you don’t shape up.”
“You’re just jealous, Carl!” Ruth shouted. “You were jealous of me when we were on the Red Sox, and you’re jealous of me now.”
“You’re drunk!” Mays said.
“And you’re chicken!” Ruth barked. “Is that why you suck on a chicken neck? Maybe you should take a drink once in a while. It might loosen you up.”
“I’m plenty loose,” Mays said. And with that, he hauled off and socked Babe Ruth in the jaw.
Babe got a punch or two in before the rest of the Yankees jumped on the players and pulled them apart. I hoped that Babe might hit Mays in his pitching arm and put him out of the game, but he didn’t.
While the Yankees were still yelling and shouting at each other, I decided it might be a good time to remove myself from the situation. I made my way to the locker-room door and slipped out of there.
11
Nice Hat
WHEN I WALKED OUT OF THE YANKEES LOCKER ROOM, I realized that I’d left my baseball behind. Too late now. Fists were flying in there. I wasn’t going back. Not for a Wally Pipp ball. If Babe had signed it—well, that would be another story.
I found myself in a dimly lit corridor somewhere in the bowels of the Polo Grounds. A few doors down was a sign with the word VISITORS on it. I thought the door would be locked, but it wasn’t. I looked left and right. Nobody was around, so I pulled open the door and went inside.
The locker room was empty. The Indians were probably still taking infield practice. They might freak out if they came into their locker room and found a strange kid there. I needed a place to hide.
I opened one of the wooden lockers. It was stuffed with gloves and bats and balls and other gear. I opened a few more lockers until I found one that was empty. Perfect. I got in and closed the door behind me.
I waited. There were some thin slots I could look through. I wondered—would I recognize Ray Chapman from the pictures I’d seen of him? I rehearsed in my mind what I was going to say to him.
This was not the first time I found myself hiding in a locker room, it occurred to me. One time, I was on a mission to visit Mickey Mantle in 1951, but I got blown off course and ended up in 1944—in the locker room of an all-girls’ baseball team. But that’s a story for another day.
Footsteps. Voices. A bunch of players piled into the room. I peered through the slot in the door. The word CLEVELAND went across their uniforms. I prayed that nobody would open the locker I was hiding in. That would be embarrassing. I kept looking for Ray Chapman.
The atmosphere in the Indian locker room was completely different. These guys were laughing, happy, clapping each other on the back. One of them suddenly started to sing, and the others gathered around him to join in.
Sweet Adeline,
My Adeline,
At night, dear heart,
For you I pine.
In all my dreams,
Your fair face beams.
You’re the flower of my heart,
Sweet Adeline.
“Sweet Adeline”! I remembered that girl I’d met in the speakeasy. She said her name was Adeline, just like the song.
It was a style of music you hardly ever hear anymore. Really slow, with a lot of harmony. I think they call it “barbershop music,” because it would usually be sung by men who were hanging out in a barbershop. It actually sounded good. Some of the Indians put their hands over their hearts as they sang.
The Indians started singing “Sweet Adeline.”
When the song was over, the players laughed and gathered around one guy with silver hair. He looked a little older than the others, but not old. I guess he was the manager of the team.
“Speaker will speak!” somebody announced.
Speaker. I recalled that name because it was unusual. Tris Speaker. He’s in the Baseball Hall of Fame. He was a great centerfielder and led the American League in batting one year. In his playing days, he was a rival of Ty Cobb. Maybe, I guessed, he was a player-manager.
“Fellas, we need this one today,” he said in a thick Texas accent. “We’ve been doin’ great. We’re 70 and 40 right now. But the Sox are right behind us. And remember when these Yanks beat us four in a row last week in Cleveland? Can’t let that happen again.”
“Ruth is tough,” one of the Indians said. “You
make one mistake to him, and he hits it over the wall.”
“Ruth is just a man,” Speaker said. “He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you ’n’ me. And last year he struck out twice as many times as he homered. You can look it up.”
Speaker threw his arms around the players on either side of him.
“Boys,” he said quietly, “y’know, since our club was formed back in 1879, we ain’t won a single pennant. That’s 40 years. Not one pennant. Neither did those Yanks, so they want it just as bad as us. We finished second last year. I got a feelin’ this is our year. So let’s go out there and beat those bums.”
Tris Speaker
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY
“Mays is pitching,” somebody said, and a few of the Indians groaned. “That underhand fastball sure is hard to pick up.”
“Mays doesn’t bother me,” said a slim guy with dark hair, as he unbuttoned his uniform top. “We hit him just like we hit everybody else.”
“That’s my boy, Chappie!” said Speaker.
Chappie. Flip referred to Ray Chapman as “Chappie.” Now I knew which one of the guys was Chapman.
I looked at him closely. He was the guy who started in singing “Sweet Adeline.” He had big ears that stuck out slightly, a square jaw, and a friendly, smiling face. On his right shoulder was a tattoo of a bird. He looked a little different from the pictures I had seen.
If I didn’t do anything, I realized, this man would be dead very soon.
The pep talk broke up, and the players went to their lockers to get ready for the game. There were lots of guys milling around. It looked like a good time for me to come out of hiding. I pushed open the locker door and pretended to be a clubhouse attendant. Baseball teams always need a clubhouse attendant, because baseball players are slobs who leave a big mess that somebody’s got to clean up. There was a broom in the corner. I grabbed it and started sweeping.
