While they talked, the Bambino ate a mountain of steamed clams, drowning each one in butter before chomping it down. Rue tried to keep count, but lost track after thirty-four. That was early in the lunch.
"Call me Jidge,” Ruth told her. He called her “kid,” but that was okay, it was what he called almost everybody. And anyway, she was a kid, and sure felt like one facing the Babe across a table. He was bigger than she'd thought from the newsreels and pictures, and under his extra flesh she could see the rippling muscles of his arms and torso.
He saw her looking at him. “So, kid, you think you can strike me out?"
She shrugged.
"Well,” he said, "I think I can hit your best pitch into the Atlantic Ocean."
"Atlantic's behind home plate,” she said. “Foul territory."
His eyes narrowed. “Okay, the Pacific. Just take the ball a little longer to get there."
"Might take longer than you think,” she said.
The Babe stared at her, then began to laugh. "Okay," he said, as if she'd passed a test. “I got an idea. Let's make this fun."
"Oh, I know it's going to be fun, Jidge,” Captain Mansfield said.
The Babe shot him a look that shut him up and turned back to Rue. “Tell you what, kid,” he said. “You bounce the first one, get everybody laughing. Then you give me something funny, like a big old curve, and I'll swing and miss by a mile.” His face crinkled into a grin. “I'll kick up a big fuss, a real hullabaloo, which should get the folks’ attention."
"And after that?” Rue asked.
"After that?” Serious now, he gave her a direct look, a look of supreme self-confidence.
"After that, no script,” he said. “Just you against me, kid."
* * * *
The Babe missed Rue's second pitch by at least three feet, spinning so hard after his wild swing that it looked like he was trying to drill himself into the ground. He stared out at her in what seemed like shocked disbelief, then threw his bat to the ground with such violence that it raised a puff of dust when it hit. Stomping around the plate, he swore and shook his fists and waved his arms around, while Jimmy Connelly and old Byron Mack, the umpire, the other players on the field, and the whole enormous bellowing crowd, ate it up.
Rue thought the grandstands might come down around her ears.
Finally Jimmy threw the ball back to her. The Babe picked up his bat and started settling himself into his stance. But then he stopped, and Rue saw him grin. He raised his bat and pointed with it towards the deepest part of centerfield.
"The Pacific Ocean, kid,” he called out.
Rue started to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. Rubbing the ball between her palms, she let her gaze slide away from the Babe to a man sitting in the front row of the stands just to the left of home plate. A man who remained entirely still while the fans surged around him.
An old man with wiry white hair, bushy eyebrows, a lined face, and pale, piercing eyes that never seemed to blink.
Rue felt her heart thump against her ribs. She dragged her attention back to home plate. Jimmy gave her the sign: One finger for a fastball.
Just you against me, kid.
It was time.
* * * *
"It's time,” the old man said. “Well past time. This can't go any further."
Rue didn't know what he was talking about. “Further?"
"Girls aren't meant to play baseball,” he said.
Rue had heard it before, many times before, usually from opposing players before she faced them, and then again—in a different tone—after. She'd been hearing it since she was nine, and the words had long since lost any meaning to her.
Until now, just two days before her confrontation with Babe Ruth.
Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the first commissioner of baseball, the Czar, leaned back in his chair and looked at her. He was the man the baseball owners had brought in after the 1919 World Series to kick the crooks and gamblers out of the game, the man with power enough to make the rules and enforce them.
"Baseball is too strenuous for women,” Landis said, holding her in his cold, unblinking gaze. “You are not constitutionally suited to it."
Rue spread her arms as if to say, Look at me. “I'm fine."
"That's not the point. You're setting a bad example."
"But I haven't done anything wrong."
He looked nettled. “That's not the point either,” he said. “I can't tolerate having you out there on the field."
Rue felt her temper flare. “Why?” she asked, hating her passionless voice. “Because I strike them out? Because I win?"
He didn't reply.
She took a deep breath. She'd always sworn she wouldn't beg for anything, but still she forced the words out. “I need this,” she said.
Judge Landis gave the slightest shrug inside his expensive suit. “I'm sorry."
They sat in silence for a few moments in the dimly lit room with its smell of cigars and whiskey and treated leather. Then she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “What about Saturday?"
"Saturday,” the Czar said, shaking his head. “I've given a substantial amount of thought to Saturday, and I've decided to let the game go on as scheduled. The fans—and Captain Mansfield—would be too disappointed if I canceled your—” He cleared his throat. “Your confrontation with the Babe."
His thin lips turned downward. “But I will make the announcement immediately afterwards.” He shook his head. “Articles about you in The Sporting News, Baseball magazine,even The New York Times. You're making a mockery of the game."
"Jidge doesn't think so,” she said.
Landis's bushy eyebrows shot upward like outraged caterpillars. “Oh,” he said, “now we're taking lessons in dignity from Babe Ruth?"
After that she knew it was hopeless. He was just an old man. He had no idea what it felt like to be standing out there on the field during a game. The Babe did, and Jimmy Connelly, and she did too. Every player did. But not the Czar.
She got to her feet, the room's still air roaring in her ears. He rose too, came around his desk, and walked her across the room.
"Enjoy your last hurrah,” he said, closing the door behind her.
* * * *
You've got no choice.
"See?” Chase said. “Told you so."
They'd met this time at a delicatessen in Borough Park, a world away from Coney Island and anyone she knew. The windows were streaked with steam, and a bowl of pickled tomatoes sent up sour fumes from the tabletop between them. They were the only people in the place speaking English.
"You knew that Landis was going to throw me out?” Rue asked.
"Sure.” Chase looked bored. “Only a matter of time."
He showed his teeth. “Notice something about baseball?” he said. “It's all about white men."
Rue took a deep breath. “Okay. What do you want me to do?"
His eyes brightened and he leaned forward. “Just throw one pitch,” he said. “That's all we're asking."
* * * *
Jimmy Connelly signaled fastball.
Rue nodded. She stood on the rubber, the ball shielded in her glove. Usually, all her focus would be on the plate, the batter, the catcher's mitt. But this time she let her attention stray from the Babe, deadly serious now, and back over to Judge Landis in the first row.
Her eyes met his. He didn't blink or change expression.
Then, amid all the blurred frenzy of the crowd, she glimpsed more purposeful movement, a dark figure moving towards him.
In a moment, much sooner than she'd anticipated, Chase stood behind the Czar's left shoulder. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a cloth cap pulled low over his brow.
Rue saw his hand come out of his coat pocket, saw the glint of sunlight off steel, and knew at last exactly what was about to happen.
Though really, she'd known from the start.
Judge Landis didn't notice, nor did Captain Mansfield beside him, or any of the fans arou
nd them. Just as Chase had predicted, every eye, every camera, was focused on the field, on the battle between pitcher and batter.
Rue went into her windup.
Enjoy your last hurrah, she thought.
* * * *
"Can you do it?” he asked.
Rue nodded.
"You sure? Be a bad idea to miss."
"I can hit him,” she said.
"In the head?"
She didn't answer.
Chase frowned, then made a face and shrugged. “Okay, yeah, that's a lot to ask. But we've got a ton riding on the Cubs this year, and they have a straight shot through the Series if the Babe's not right.” He paused. “Would be a great exacta, but that's okay. You just plunk Ruth good, put him on the ground, and we'll take care of the rest."
"What do you mean—the rest?"
For a moment his face darkened, but he got hold of himself. “Don't worry about that,” he said.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “If I say yes, I'll be able to keep pitching?"
"Garr-annn-teeed.” He looked calm now, relaxed, as if he'd just put a penny into a gumball machine and knew the gum would soon come rolling out of the chute. “The next commish will know who's really in charge."
He paused, thinking about it. “Might even be, no one will want the job."
"All right,” Rue said. “I'm in."
Chase smiled.
"Garr-annn-teeed,” he said again.
* * * *
The most famous man in America standing at home plate.
The crowd bellowing with anticipation.
The cold-eyed old Czar on his feet like everyone else, as still as death in his black coat and black hat.
The man in the aisle beside him, teeth shining white, something half-hidden in his hand.
The girl on the mound, awaiting an oncoming storm only she knew about.
The long, breathless moment preceding the pitch.
Rue rocked back, raised her hands above her head, broke them apart, hurled herself forward with the controlled violence that always ended with a fastball whistling across the plate. Only not this time. This time, in the middle of her motion, she stumbled.
Or seemed to stumble.
Her arm whipped forward and she released the ball, just as the toe of her spikes caught on a chewed-up patch of ground and she fell flat on her face.
Lying there, unmoving, she heard the dull, solid thump. There was a moment's pause, as if the world itself was holding its breath, and then the silence was broken by a woman's high-pitched shriek. This was followed by the upwelling, frightened sound of the crowd.
Rue got slowly to her feet. She took her time looking over, because she didn't really need to. She knew what she was going to see.
But she had a role to play, so when she did look, she found herself running towards the stands. The commissioner of baseball was standing there, his face ashen as he stared down at something lying at his feet.
Chase, glazed eyes half open, an enormous purple knot sprouting from his left temple.
Rue scrambled over the railing and dropped to her knees beside the stricken man. Her face was full of shock and concern as she put her mouth close to his ear.
"To answer your question, I can hit anything I want to,” she whispered, “where I want to."
He blinked, and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
"And I always have a choice,” she said.
She got back to her feet and moved closer to Landis. He was hanging on the railing with both hands.
"It's him,” she said so only he could hear. “Chase. I didn't get a chance to warn you—it happened too fast."
Rallying himself, the commissioner spoke to the cops who had congregated around his seat. It only took them a few seconds to find the knife pinned under Chase's body. That got everybody's attention.
When he was gone, heading to the hospital under the law's watchful eye, Rue looked up at the Czar. After a moment he gave a brief, reluctant nod.
"Thank you,” she said, and went back to work.
* * * *
It was the day before the big game, the “Battle ‘tween Teen and Titan,” in the words of one poetic scribe, and Judge Landis was exhausted.
He'd had enough. The New York dailies and out-of-town papers alike had been mad with excitement and anticipation for days. Reporters from as far away as Seattle and Santa Fe had been ringing his telephone off the hook. It was all he could do to keep his opinions to himself for one more day.
So the last thing he needed was to see the girl, the cause of all this tumult, walking into his office and perching on the edge of his desk as if she owned it.
"What are you doing here?” he asked her.
She didn't answer at once, but there was an expression on her face that he'd never seen there before. She looked, he thought suddenly, like someone who'd just won the World Series.
"Miss Thomas,” he said, struggling to keep his temper, “we have nothing further to talk about."
"But we do,” she said.
And then, leaning forward so he'd hear every word, she told him what it was, and what they were going to do about it.
* * * *
"Think you can get one over this time?” Babe Ruth asked her.
Rue grinned. They were standing midway between the mound and the plate. The players were back in their positions, and the crowd, quiet and subdued now, was focused on the field again.
"Sure,” she said.
"Good. Then let's give them a show."
He turned away, then looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, kid."
She waited.
"Heard that old windbag Landis was going to toss you out after the game."
Rue shook her head. “You heard wrong. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah?” The Babe looked surprised. “Glad to hear it, ‘cause you can throw."
"And you can hit, Jidge,” she said.
He laughed and headed back to the plate. Got right into his stance, no fooling around this time. Jimmy Connelly signaled fastball, and Rue threw one.
The bat whipped around, and there was a sound like a cannon shot. The ball streaked upward and headed towards the Pacific Ocean.
The crowd let loose. The Babe dropped his bat and watched the blast leave the yard before starting his laughing, clownish circuit around the bases. Rue, stone-faced, held up her glove and waited for the ump to toss her a new ball.
But inside she was smiling. Sometimes, she knew, you just had to give the fans what they'd come to see.
(c)2008 by Joseph Wallace
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TROUBLE IN MIND by John Harvey
MANILA BURNING by Clark Howard
CANDLES ON THE CORNER by Janet Dawson
WHEN THERE'S A WILL by Judith Cutler
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