THE BABE, THE IRON HORSE, AND MR. McGILLICUDDY

As I mentioned in the introduction to “Delta Vee,” Rick Wilber is a writer, as well as an editor and teacher. A very fine writer, as a matter of fact; one of the few true literary stylists in today’s science-fiction field.

Rick is also, like me, a baseball fan. He comes to this genetically, being the son of Del Wilber, a big-league catcher for many years. Thus, when he writes about baseball Rick adds an insider’s knowledge to his formidable writing skills. My knowledge of baseball is strictly from the grandstand seats, rooting for the tragedy-prone Boston Red Sox.

One day we got talking about baseball and, as writers will, we were soon plotting a story that involved Babe Ruth, Lou Gherig (baseball’s “Iron Horse”) and Cornelius McGillicuddy, known to the world as Connie Mack, longtime owner and manager of the Philadelphia Athletics.

This story is pure fantasy, of course. I only hope that you have as much fun reading it as Rick and I had writing it.

The Iron Horse uncoiled, bringing the hips through first and then following with the shoulders, those quick wrists, that snap as the bat hit the ball.

It was just batting practice, but Lou felt wonderful, like a kid again, with no pain, with the body doing what it had always done so well. He hid no idea what was going on, how he’d gotten here, what had happened. He almost didn’t want to think about it, for fear it might all be some hallucination, some death dream, his mind going crazy in the last moments, trying to make the dying easier for him.

There was a sharp crack as he sent a towering shot toward the center-field wall in Yankee Stadium, over the wall for sure, sailing high and deep. He stood there and watched this one go. It would be nearly five hundred feet before it landed, he guessed.

But the Negro ballplayer roaming around out in center shagging flies did it again, turned his back to the plate and raced away, heading straight toward the wall, full tilt. There was, surprisingly, a lot of room now in center, and the Negro had blazing speed. He somehow managed to nearly catch up with the ball, and then, amazingly, reached straight out in front to make a basket catch over his shoulder. It was a beautiful catch, an amazing one, really, the large number 24 on the man’s back all that Lou could see for a moment as the ball was caught.

Then the Negro turned and fired a strike toward second, where Charlie Gehringer waited for it, catching it on one long hop and sweeping the bag as if there were a runner sliding in. Gehringer whooped as he made the tag, as impressed as everyone else with the center fielder arm. Then he rolled the ball in toward the batting practice pitcher.

On the mound, taking a ball out of the basket and pounding it into his catcher’s mitt, Yogi just smiled. Like everyone else, he didn’t understand how this was happening, how they all came to be here—but he really didn’t care. When he let that last pitch go he’d have sworn he was in Yankee Stadium somehow, but then, looking at Willie chase it down in dead center, it looked for all the world like the Polo Grounds, with Coogan’s Bluff in the background.

It didn’t make any kind of sense, but Yogi just decided he wasn’t going to worry about it. He and the other fellows were having a good time, that was all. And he’d been right, he figured with pride. It wasn’t over till it was over.

He took a quick look around. There was Willie Mays out there in center, and Gehringer at second, and Ted out in left. Next to the cage, swinging a couple of bats, getting loose to hit next, was Scooter himself, happy as a clam. There were great players everywhere, and more showing up all the time, walking in from the clubhouse or just suddenly out there, in the field, taking infield or shagging flies.

Yogi counted heads. Where, he wondered, was the Babe? You’d think he’d be here. Then Yogi went into a half-wind, took a short stride toward the plate, making sure to get the pitch up over that open corner of the screen that protected him from shots up the middle, and threw another straight ball in to Lou. Imagine, he thought, me, throwing to Gehrig. The line drive back at him almost took his head off.

In the stands, up a dozen rows near the back of the box seats, an old, fat, sad-faced Babe Ruth sat in a wide circle of peanut shells. He was eating hot dogs now, and drinking Knickerbocker beer, watching batting practice, not saying much. He knew a few of the guys out there, but couldn’t place the others. There was a sharp clap of thunder, and the Babe wondered if the day might be rained out. Low dark clouds circled the field, swirling and rumbling with menace.

Next to him sat white-haired, saintly Connie Mack, producing hot dog after hot dog as the Babe shoved them into that maw and chewed them down. Amazing, really, this fellow’s capacity. Ruth was perspiring in a heavy flannel suit. Mack, slim as a willow, looked coolly comfortable in his customary dark suit, starched collar, and straw boater.

“George,” Mack said, “isn’t that about enough for now?”

Ruth never stopped chewing, but managed to say “Mr. Mack, I ain’t got any idea how long it’s been since I sat in a ball yard and ate a hot dog, and I also ain’t got any idea how long this is gonna’ last. Them clouds move in and this thing’ll be a rain-out. I’m eating while I can, you know?”

“George, I understand. Truly I do. But I really don’t think it will rain, and I’d hoped that you might want to get out there and take a few cuts, meet the other fellows. There are some very fine players out there.”

Mack pointed toward the infield. “That fellow there at third is Brooks Robinson, as fine a glove man as you’ll ever see at that position. And at shortstop, that young, lanky fellow is Marty Marion, one of the slickest men to ever play short. And there, in the outfield, is Willie Mays, the Negro who just caught that ball. Next to him, in left, is Ted Williams”

“I know him, the Williams kid,” said the Babe between bites. “Helluva young hitter. Got a real future.”

“Indeed,” said Mack. “And at second is Charlie Gehringer, you know him, too. And there are others showing up all the time. Look, there’s Dominic DiMaggio, and Hoot Evers. These are good men, Babe, all of them, good men. You really should make the decision to join them, before it’s too late.”

“Who’s that catching?”

“Fellow named Wilber. Del Wilber. A journeyman, but with a fine mind, Babe. He’ll make a fine manager someday, and he has a good, strong arm. He’ll cut people down at second if we need him to play.”

“And pitching?”

“That’s a coach throwing batting practice, Yogi Berra. Another good catcher, too, in his day. He can help us if it comes to that. And warming up out there in the bullpen is Sandy Koufax, he’s our starter. You should see his curveball, George, it’s really something.

“You know,” Mack said, “you belong out there. You really do. You should be loosening up a bit, running around out in the outfield, a few wind sprints perhaps, instead of”—he handed the Babe a napkin—“this.”

The Babe shook his head. “I gave all that up a few years back. I appreciate it, Mr. Mack. But the thing is, it’s like this, I hung ‘em up, Mr. Mack, and that’s all there is to it. Now if you need a manager. . .” Mack smiled. “I’m afraid that the managerial position is filled for now, George. But, there is a roster spot for you, I’d love to have you on my team. You could play in the outfield for us, or even pitch. I think you’d enjoy it.”

The Babe held out his hand, and Mack started to shake it, thinking the deal was done, and quite early, too. Then he realized what the Babe really wanted, sighed to himself, and obligingly placed another hot dog into it. Incredible capacity, really.

“Maybe in a little while, Mr. Mack,” Ruth said, taking a huge first bite. “But right now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just sit and watch Lou and these other guys. The Dutchman, he looks fine, don’t he? Always was a sweet hitter, got those wrists, you know? Snap on that ball and away she goes.”

There was another sharp crack as Gehrig sent one deep to center. Mays drifted under this one, waited, then made a basket catch to some general laughter from the other players. What a showboat, that Mays.

“He’s something, ain’t he, that nigger?” said the Babe. “Remember Josh Gibson, Mr. Mack? Now, there was a ballplayer. Boy, I tell you, he could hit that thing a ton. Played against him once or twice in exhibitions.”

But Mack wasn’t listening to the Babe, who, Mack figured, would just have to make his decision later. For now, Mack had heard the clatter of a dying engine out in the parking lot and rose to head out that way, excusing himself absentmindedly and leaving six more hot dogs with Ruth—enough, Mack hoped, to tide the Babe over for a few minutes.

Although he carried a cane, the elderly Mack seemed almost to float along the row of seats and out to the steps that led up from the box seats. He was a quiet man, and despite the peanut shells everywhere, there was no crunching, no sound at all, really, as he left, moving up to the back ramp of the stadium, from where he watched the old 1937 Ford bus clang its way into the empty parking lot. There was a cloud of blue smoke and a loud bang as the engine finally seized up entirely and the bus shuddered to a stop.

Mack frowned slightly, then watched with interest as the front door of the bus creaked open halfway. A hand reached out and tugged, nagged again, and the door banged open another foot or so. People started to emerge.

First off the bus was Leo Durocher, scowling and cursing, five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw. Pushing him from behind was Pete Rose, who in turn was being pushed by Ty Cobb, who threatened to spike Rose if he didn’t hurry it up.

A quiet, scared-looking Joe Jackson got off next, looking around anxiously for any kids ready to ask troublesome questions. Then came Billy Martin, Buck Weaver, Bill Terry, John “Bad Dude” Sterns, Carl Mays, Eddie Stanky, Sal Ivars, Bill Lee, Bob Gibson, Rogers Hornsby, Thurman Munson. This was a tough bunch of guys.

Charlie Comiskey was driving the bus, and still on it, arguing with someone while the others stood around outside, waiting.

“Damn it, we’re here. You have to get off now, all right? We can settle all this later.”

“Merde,” said a voice from the back, enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke. “You are all the same, always, you colonialists, always demanding that we do your bidding. Well, I tell you this, I will get off when I am damn well ready to get off, and no sooner. Comprende?”

“Get your ass out here, Fidel,” shouted Rose. Then he turned to Durocher, and added, “Damn commies. All the same, I swear.”

Durocher nodded, but added, “I played winter ball down there in Cuba a couple of times, Petey. Great times. Food was good, women were fast, and the players were pretty damn decent. They’re not too bad, you know. But this guy? Shit. Nothing but bitching for twenty miles of bumpy roads getting here.”

Durocher looked over at the ballpark. “Where the hell is ‘here,” anyway?”

“We’re in Fostoria, Ohio, Leo,” said Comiskey, giving up on Castro for the moment and stepping down from the bus. “Nice little park. Seats about a thousand. Built in the early twenties. Two shower heads. Cold water. A few nails to hang your street clothes on. You’ll love the accommodations.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Bill Terry. “I played in this park. It’s got a god forsaking skin infield, and some fucking mountains in the outfield. What a hole. Jesus, the Ohio State League. I don’t fuckin’ believe it. This is hell, just hell.”

Comiskey just smiled and pointed toward the door that said “Visitors” in faded black paint. The players headed that way, all except for Castro, who still wouldn’t budge.