Then, in the top of the eighth, Bill Terry hit a sharp grounder to Hodges at first, who moved away from the bag to get a glove on it, then flipped to Robin Roberts, Mack’s pitcher. Roberts had to reach to catch the toss while stepping on the bag, and Terry ran him down. There was a tangle of arms and legs rolling in the chalk and dust, and when it all settled, Terry was safe at first and Roberts was done for the day, his ankle badly spiked.
There were other pitchers available, of course, but Connie Mack had something particular in mind, some kind of purpose, and waved out to right, to the Babe. And so, for the first time since a brief appearance in 1933, Babe Ruth came in to pitch.
He had his best stuff, a blazing fastball that he could place accurately. It was the Babe Ruth of 1916 on the mound, the Ruth who won twenty-three games and had an ERA. of 1.75. The Ruth who pitched twenty-nine straight scoreless innings in World Series play.
Comiskey’s guys would have had a tough time getting to the Babe in any event, but now, his anger really seething, the Babe was viciously untouchable, high and tight fastballs threatening skulls, everything working inside, his ire obvious to every hitter who stepped into the box.
“Stay on your toes, wise-ass,” he bellowed at Cobb, throwing close enough to shave his chin.
And at the plate he was just as angry, though he had to control it some. In the bottom of the eighth, he came to the plate again with one out and nobody on. Bob Gibson, pitching in relief, wasn’t at all afraid to play even-up, and came in with one under Ruth’s chin on the first pitch, and then broke off a curve low and away for ball two, before throwing something in the strike zone, a blazing fastball low and inside, an unhittable pitch. For anybody else.
The Babe golfed it, reached down to make contact and drove the ball up and out, deep to right, twenty rows up, a towering home run. As he rounded the bases he muttered under his breath as he passed each of Comiskey’s players, cursing them quietly, so the umps wouldn’t hear, but swearing to get each and every one of them the next time up.
They all looked shocked. The Babe? Swearing vengeance? Rollicking, fun-loving Babe Ruth, threatening to bean them, calling them the foulest names they’d ever heard? They looked like whipped little boys, scared and ashamed.
They deserve it, the Babe said to himself as he trotted into the dugout. They deserve whatever I dish out to them, the dirty bastards.
Then he looked across the infield to the other team’s dugout and saw Comiskey grinning from ear to ear, like he was perfectly satisfied with the way the game was developing.
It stopped being a baseball game and turned into a war. Every batter who faced the Babe had to dive into the dirt. The Babe wasn’t throwing warning pitches; he was trying to break skulls. He fired his hardest, especially at Cobb and Durocher. Klem, officiating behind the plate, gave him a few hard stares, but let the mayhem go on.
The Babe expected the other guys to come charging out to the mound after him. He was ready for a real fight. Spoiling for one, in fact. But they just took their turns at bat, dived to the ground when the Babe zinged a fastball at their heads, and meekly popped up or grounded out. Vaguely, through his haze of anger, the Babe saw that they all looked scared. Terrified. Good, he thought. Serves ‘em right.
In the top of the ninth Rose worked up the nerve to stand in there and one of the Babe’s fastballs nailed him in the shoulder. Hal Chase went in to run for him. The Babe tried twice to pick him off first, couldn’t do it, and then, angry as hell, came in with a high, hard one to Shoeless Joe, who slapped it out into short right field, putting men on first and third. Cobb’s fly ball to center, three pitches later, gave Comiskey’s men the tie before the Babe could pitch out of the jam.
Babe trudged off the field, more furious than ever that he’d let them tie the score. His teammates shied away from him. They’re sore at me, Babe grumbled to himself. Connie Mack just shook his head, looking distressed. Even Lou seemed unhappy, disappointed in him.
So what? the Babe thought. So they got a lucky run off me. At least they’re not beaning and spiking anybody now. They’re whipped, and they know it.
In the bottom of the ninth the Babe was hitting fourth and just hoping to get an at-bat. Marty Marion, leading off, smacked a grounder up the middle that looked like a sure single, but Durocher came behind the bag and made a hell of a play to get him. Charlie Gehringer fouled off four pitches and finally drew a walk, but then Lefty Grove came in to get Ted Williams on a long fly to deep right, so that brought the Babe up with two outs and one on.
The Babe knew all about Grove. He was a fastball pitcher all the way, with a good curve that he didn’t bother with much since he had so much heat. Somebody said once that Grove could throw a lamb chop past a wolf. We’ll see about that, the Babe thought.
The Babe figured he could wait him out a pitch or two and then take him deep and end this game. That would feel good, real good. He was so mad that he wanted to do more than just win, he wanted to really hurt these guys, teach them a lesson, humiliate them.
But the Babe didn’t figure he’d get a chance to do anything like that, much as he wanted to. Instead, he’d just sit back a bit, let Grove have a little rope, and then crush one. End the game in real Babe Ruth style and leave the damned bastards standing there on the field, cowed for good.
But it wasn’t Grove on the mound when the Babe stepped into the batter’s box. Instead, as he settled in, digging a spot for the left foot to brace, and looked up, it was Charley Root.
Where the hell had Root come from? Then the Babe smiled. This was typical. Of course Comiskey would pull a stunt like this. In 1932, in the third game of the World Series, the Babe had gotten even with the Cubs by showing up Root, pointing at the spot in the stands where he planned to hit his home run and then doing it. He called his shot, and it became part of baseball’s legend.
Root said it never happened that way, experts analyzed old home movies of the moment and tended to agree. But the Babe knew better, he’d gotten even with Root back then and he would do it now, just the same way.
First, he wanted to let a few pitches go by, just to get another good look at Root’s stuff, and to let the moment build up a bit.
The first pitch came right at his head, and the Babe had to fight the instinct to hit the dirt, getting away from it. Instead, he just leaned back and let the pitch go by his eyes, inches away. Gehringer, on first, could see how Root had his attention focused on the plate, and took off as the pitcher started his windup. Munson pegged it down to second, but never had a chance, and Gehringer was on second with an easy steal.
The Babe, laughing as the ball came back to the mound, stepped back out of the box and looked back at the catcher.
“That the best you guys can do? You sons of bitches, give me a strike in here now and I’ll ride the thing right out of here.”
Munson just shook his head, said nothing.
The second pitch came even closer, aimed at the Babe’s ribs. It was another fastball, a good one with a lot of movement aimed high and tight. The Babe didn’t flinch, and the ball came so close to him that Klem, umping behind the plate, hesitated for a moment, wondering if it hadn’t clipped the Babe’s jersey.
Sensing the hesitation, the Babe turned to face Klem, and said loudly “It didn’t touch me, and you know it. You and me got some history, Klem, but this ain’t your fight here. Just let it go, you hear me? Let it go.”
Klem stared back at Ruth. “You’re showing me up, Babe, and I don’t like it. That’s not your style. I don’t know what’s eating you, but just get back in there and play.”
“What’s eating me,” growled the Babe as he dug in again, “is a bunch of snotty little goddamned bus hers playing dirty ball. That’s what eating me.”
“And what’ve you been doing, Babe?” Klem snapped.
Munson, looking toward Root on the mound, pulled down his face mask, and added: “Hey Babe, some of us don’t have a choice out here, so don’t take it out on us, huh?”
“No choice, hell. You guys play rough and then when I give you a dose of your own medicine you start crying,” the Babe said.
Munson shook his head, and muttered, “You still don’t get it, do you, Babe?”
“Play ball,” Klem ordered.
Root pounded the ball into his glove nervously and glared toward the plate. The Babe stepped back out of the box, lifted his bat toward the right-field seats, and pointed it.
“You got that?” the Babe yelled out to the pitcher. There was no doubt about it this time, nothing unsure. This was meant. “You got that? Right out there, Charlie, right out there, maybe ten rows up.”
Root glared at him, and then, as the Babe stepped back in, went into his windup and brought in the next pitch, a good fastball down low for a strike.
The Babe just watched it go by, full of confidence, not bothering with the pitch because it wasn’t where he wanted it. By God, he wanted to show these guys up, every one of them. They’d put some good men out of the game, especially poor old Lou, and the Babe was going to get even, going to win this thing in fine style.
