Babe & Me by Dan Gutman

play ball there.”
    It occurred to me that Babe always had something in his mouth. A pipe, cigar, gum, chewing tobacco, something.
    â€œBabe, you shouldn’t smoke,” I warned him. “It kills people.”
    â€œKid,” he said as he lit the pipe, “I had seven brothers and sisters. Six of them died when they were babies. My mother died when she was thirty-four. Tuberculosis. My father got kicked in the head in a fight outside his saloon and died when he was forty-six.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    â€œI could get hit in the head by a fastball tomorrow,” Babe said quietly. “I’ve seen it. I saw a man die once.”
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œWe were playing Cleveland in 1920. Their little shortstop, Ray Chapman, didn’t see a pitch coming at him. It busted his skull. He crumpled like a rag doll right in the batter’s box. I saw it with my own eyes. A few hours later, Chapman was dead. So if you don’t mind, kid, I’m gonna have a smoke.”
    By that time, the waiter finally arrived and helped Babe into his seat. He seemed like his old self, maybe a little more subdued. Dad came rushing in, lugging an enormous suitcase that was plastered with stickers —BALTIMORE, DETROIT, WASHINGTON, CHICAGO— just about every big city in the country.
    â€œYou’re a good man, Pop,” Babe said when he saw Dad.
    By now I had noticed that Babe never called anyone by his name. He always called me “Kid.” Dad was “Pop.” Young women were “Sister” and older ones “Mom.” Old men were “Doc.” I guess he met so many people, he gave up trying to learn anyone’s name.
    â€œMaybe we should get you to a doctor,” Dad said.
    â€œ

11
Dumb Luck
    BY THE TIME OUR CAB GOT TO GRAND CENTRAL, IT WAS A few minutes before midnight. It looked like we were going to miss the train to Chicago. If Babe never made it to Game Three, the history of baseball would be changed forever. The called shot would never happen. And it would be my fault.
    But as soon as Babe entered the station, it was like the rest of the world stopped.
    â€œMister Ruth! Mister Ruth!” an African-American porter called, “the Yankees are waiting for you!”
    â€œThey’d better wait!” Babe boomed. “Without me, they don’t stand a chance against the Cubs!”
    The quiet, serious Babe who had confided in me about his miserable childhood on the docks of Baltimore was suddenly gone. Like a light switch flipped on, in public he was the jovial, obnoxious Babe. Hewas in great spirits again, showing no signs of being sick.
    The porter grabbed Babe’s suitcase, and we followed him through the station. It occurred to me for the first time that all the black people I’d seen in 1932 were porters or cleaning ladies or people who did some menial job. And I knew there were no black players in the major leagues.
    As we rushed through the train station, people swarmed around Babe as usual, calling his name and asking for autographs. This time he reluctantly turned down these requests, explaining that he had to catch a train so he could beat “them bums in Chicago.”
    The porter led us through the station to a huge train that was belching smoke and soot. On the side of the train it said TWENTIETH CENTURY LIMITED . A bunch of women spotted Babe and grabbed him to pose for a photo with them.
    â€œRuth!” shouted an angry-looking man standing in front of the train. “Where were you? Out carousing?”
    â€œWho’s that guy?” I asked my dad.
    â€œMust be Joe McCarthy,” he whispered back, “the Yankee manager.”
    â€œDon’t get hot under the collar, Skip,” Babe said casually as he stepped past McCarthy onto the train, “I’m here, ain’t I?”
    â€œAll aboard!” a conductor shouted, holding a megaphone to his mouth. “All aboard for