Babe & Me by Dan Gutman Page A

Chicago!”
    â€œRuth!” McCarthy demanded, putting his arm in front of us as we tried to follow Babe up the steps. “Who’s this guy? Who’s the kid?”

    The porter led us through the station to a huge train that was belching smoke and soot. A bunch of women grabbed Babe to pose for a photo with them.
    â€œDon’t get in a tizzy, Skip. These boys are friends of mine.”
    â€œThey ain’t gettin’ on this train!” McCarthy said angrily.
    â€œWell,” Babe said, stepping back down to the platform, “if they ain’t gettin’ on this train, I ain’t gettin’ on this train either!”
    He didn’t say it in exactly those words. Babe and McCarthy added about one curse word for every regular word they used. McCarthy looked at Babe with disgust. “Oh, get on the train, you fatslob!” he finally said. “I’ve had it up to here with you.”
    Babe laughed. Dad and I piled in behind him. With the Babe finally on board, the train immediately lurched forward. It would take all night and most of Friday to travel eight hundred miles from New York to Chicago. If we had been on a jet, I knew, the trip would have taken less than two hours. But in 1932, there were no jets to take.
    The last three cars of the train, Babe told us, were reserved for the Yankees. One car was the dining car. A second car had rows of seats like a regular train. The third car was the sleeper. That’s where Babe led us.
    The sleeper car was basically a bunch of tiny enclosed rooms, just big enough for one person to sleep in. They were stacked on top of one another, like bunk beds. Veteran players like Babe got the lower berths while the younger players had to climb up to the top ones.
    Those beds looked inviting. It was past midnight and I hadn’t slept in I don’t know how long. But who could sleep? I was too revved up. I was on my way to Chicago! With the great Babe Ruth! And the New York Yankees! To see Game Three of the 1932 World Series!
    â€œLemme introduce you boys to the fellas,” Babe said, tossing his suitcase into his little berth.
    He led us to the dining car, which was like a tiny restaurant on wheels. There was a little counter where a guy was making sandwiches. Allthe tables were bolted to the floor so they wouldn’t slide around.
    Guys were sprawled all over the place, some of them in jackets and ties and others sitting there in their underwear. Some were eating a late dinner. Some were playing cards or reading newspapers.
    It was stuffy. There was no air-conditioning. Most of the guys were smoking, and the smoke hung in the air like fog. The train was chugging along now, its wheels clacking on the rails.
    â€œHey, Flop Ears, how’s tricks?” Babe said to a guy who, I had to admit, did have kind of floppy ears. “Chicken Neck, you son of a gun!” he said to another guy, “what’s buzzin’, cousin?” To a third he asked, “We gonna beat them Cubbies, Horse Nose?”
    Babe greeted all the Yankees with his personal nicknames for them. I didn’t catch all of them, but I did remember “Wop,” “Rubber Belly,” “Duck Eye,” and “Barney Google.” They all greeted Babe—and me—good-naturedly. They called Babe “Jidge,” I guess because his real name was George.
    Dad was in awe, just staring. He’s been a Yankee fan since he was a kid. I’d never seen him so excited. He was able to recognize most of the players, even though they were out of uniform.
    â€œSee that skinny guy?” he whispered to me. “That’s Frank Crosetti. Third baseman. And that tall guy? That’s Bill Dickey, the Hall of Fame catcher. He’s from Louisiana. And there’s Tony Lazzeri. Second base. He had epilepsy. And there’s Earle Combs…Joe Sewell…Lefty Gomez…”
    â€œWhich one is Lou Gehrig?” I asked. I had heard a lot about