Truth be known, the Babe had always had mixed feelings about Lou. On the one hand, he envied the Dutchman a bit, that tight focus on the game, the way he always kept himself in shape, the reputation he had as a nice guy and a smart one, a real gentleman. In a lot of ways, the Babe wished he could have been a gentleman.
But, on the other hand, the Babe thought that Lou had always been so busy being nice mat a lot of times he didn’t seem to be having much fun. The booze, the women, the high life—it was all part of the fun, and if the game wasn’t fun, why play? My god, it ought to be fun, that was the whole point. Lou had always seemed so damned serious about everything, and that was too bad.
That was part of what was making the Babe so mad right now about these other fellows, these guys playing for Comiskey. The way they were playing was too low, too mean, for it to be any fun. They had forgotten what the game was about. It wasn’t life and death, it was baseball, for Christ’s sake, the joy of hitting, of catching and throwing the ball, or rounding third on a home-run trot, of sliding into second with a double, of just knocking the dirt off the cleats with the handle of the bat.
Ah, yes, the bat. Watching Lou take two balls low and away, then swing and hit a long foul ball out into the right-field seats for a 2-1 count, the Babe could almost feel the way it was to hold his old Louisville Slugger, to swing it and make contact. He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms out, opening and closing those meaty hands, tightening the arm muscles, feeling good in doing it.
He brought his hands together, made fists, placed the left fist over the right as if holding a bat, and brought the two fists back into a stance, as if he were waiting for a pitch, a good fastball out over the plate, rising, begging to be hit. He felt good doing it, real good, like a kid again, having fun.
“Damned if it wouldn’t feel good. Just one more time,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “Damned if it wouldn’t.”
It was calming, thinking about that. The Babe almost forgot how infuriated he’d been by the rough play, when Wynne changed all that, almost forever.
First he came inside on Lou for ball three, and then, while the Babe watched horrified, Wynne—despite the count—brought in a rising fastball, high and tight, that caught Lou just above the ear and laid him out cold in the dirt.
It looked for a second like maybe Lou had gotten his hand up to block it, but then, the Babe heard the awful chunk of ball hitting flesh and the Iron Horse just lay there. Babe knew it was serious. As Lou lay still in the dirt the Babe rose from his seat.
“You goddamned sonsabitches,” he yelled, and started walking down toward the diamond. “You bunch a’ shit headed bastards,” he yelled again, taking the wide concrete steps two at a time. “That ain’t baseball, that ain’t the way it’s supposed to be played.”
He reached the low gate that was next to the dugout, but didn’t bother to open it, just vaulted over the rail instead and landed on the field.
And in doing that he realized there had been some changes. He felt good, he felt really good. He looked down at himself, expecting to see the man he’d become, that rounded belly, the toothpick legs, the arms with the flesh on them loose, hanging down, like the jowls on his face. Damn age. He hated it, hated getting old, hated knowing he couldn’t hit anymore, hated having to live the game through memories.
And what he saw instead was the Babe he’d been at twenty-five, his first year in the outfield for the Yankees. Solid, tight, firm. The legs were strong, he could feel that. And the arm felt good, real good. He brought his hands to his face, felt the youth there.
He hustled over to where Lou lay there, barely conscious, the trainer working on him, talking to him in low tones, trying to bring him out of it.
“Lou,” the Babe said, leaning over to look at Geh rig. “Lou, it was a damn cheap shot, a rotten lowdown no-good thing.”
Gehrig, his eyes focusing as Ruth watched, smiled. “Yeah, Babe, it was a little inside, wasn’t it?”
“A little inside?” Babe snorted. “He meant to bean you, Lou. That dirty little coward. He did it on purpose, I tell you.”
“Babe,” said Lou, slowly sitting up. “Babe, you look good, you look ready to play.” And he started to try and stand, first coming to a kneel.
“Lou. I sure wished he hadn’t thrown at you like that, that’s all. He could’ve killed you.”
“No, no,” said Gehrig, waving away the help and sympathy. “No, I’ll be all right. I’ll. . .” And he nearly collapsed, giving up on the idea of standing and then falling back to one knee. “Shoot, I’m a little woozy, I guess.”
Connie Mack, standing next to Lou, patted his star on the back. “You just take it easy, Louis. We’ll get a pinch runner for you. There’s plenty of talented players left around here, you just don’t worry about it.”
“Mr. Mack,” said the Babe, reaching down to help Lou to his feet as Gehrig tried again to rise. “I’d like to be that runner, if it’s all right with you. I think I’d like to get into this game after all.”
“Well, that’s fine, George, of course,” said Mack, as he and the Babe helped Gehrig walk slowly toward the dugout. “You’ll be hitting fourth, then, in Lou’s spot. We’ll put you out in right, in Henry’s spot, and bring in Gil Hodges. And we’re sure glad to have you on the team.”
The Babe trotted out to first, not bothering to loosen up at all, feeling too good to need it. Somehow he was in uniform now, instead of the suit he’d been wearing.
The next fellow up for Mack’s team was Willie Mays and he went with the first pitch from Wynne, a fastball low and away, and took it to the opposite field, sending it into the corner in right. The Babe, off at the crack of the bat, was making it to third standing up, but that wasn’t good enough, not after what had been going on here.
Instead of easing into third, he ignored the stop sign from Yogi, the third-base coach, and barrelled right on through, pushing off the bag with his right foot and heading toward home.
Out in right, Joe Jackson had chased down the ball and came up expecting to see men on second and third, but there was Ruth already rounding third and heading home. Shoeless Joe took one hop step and fired toward Thurman Munson at the plate.
Munson had the plate blocked, and was reaching up with that big mitt to catch the throw as the Babe came in, shoulder down, determined to plow right through him and score.
The collision raised a cloud of dust, and for a long second Bill Klem hesitated over making the call. Then, with a smile and long, slow deep-throated growl, he yanked his thumb toward the sky and called the Babe out.
The Babe was in a fury. He leaped to his feet, started screaming bloody murder at Klem.
“Out? How the hell could you call me out? He dropped the goddamned ball! Can’t you see anything, you dumb—”
The umpire silenced him with the jab of a finger. “You just got into the game, Babe,” Klem snapped. “You wanna get tossed out so soon?”
Growling, holding in the anger, the Babe slowly dusted off his uniform, staring at Klem the whole time. Klem stared back, hands on hips. Then, shaking his head, fists clenched, the Babe trudged over to the dugout.
Munson shakily got up on one knee, reached over to pick up the ball from where it had trickled away, gave Klem a puzzled glance, and then flipped the ball out to Wynne. In all the commotion Mays had moved up to third, and there was still a game to play. Munson adjusted his chest protector, pulled the mask down firmly, and crouched behind the plate as Wynne went through the usual fidgeting and finally stood on the rubber and looked in for the signal. The game went on.
The Babe had calmed down a bit in the dugout when Gehrig, still pale, came over to chat with him.
“Tough call, Babe,” Lou said, slapping him on the back.
“Yeah. Tough, all right. Say, Dutch, you feeling OK now?”
Gehrig ran his right hand through his hair. There was an ugly bluish lump rising behind his ear. He saw Ruth notice the bruise, touched at it gingerly, then smiled, nodded, said “Yeah, sure, better, Babe, better,” he said. “You just keep that temper under control out there, right? You always did have a problem with that. We need you thinking straight, Babe, OK?”
“Sure, Lou, sure,” said the Babe, and gave Lou a puzzled look as the Iron Horse walked away.
The sixth ended with Mack’s team still a run ahead, but in the seventh Comiskey’s team used a walk, an outrageously bad call at first, and a sharp single up the middle from Rose to tie the game at five apiece. Mack’s team threatened in the bottom but couldn’t get a run across even with the bases full and just one out.
