Ray & Me by Dan Gutman Page A

probably wouldn’t have been able to block it. I could have smashed his pitching arm, made a run for the door, and maybe even gotten out of there before the whole Yankee team grabbed me.
    But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe hitting him was the right thing to do, but it’s just not in my nature to hit an innocent man with a baseball bat.
    â€œWhat are you doin’ with my bat?” Mays asked.
    I was sure he was going to kill me. He had every right to kill me. Ballplayers are very protective about their bats and gloves. Hey, I don’t likestrangers touching my stuff either. He probably would have killed me too if he knew what I had been thinking about.
    â€œI’m…uh…just admiring it,” I stammered. “What is this, 32 ounces?”
    â€œ33,” he replied, taking the bat from me.
    Mays was a big guy, with broad, muscular shoulders. He had short blond hair, not quite a crew cut. Blue eyes. Sharp nose. He wore a grimace on his face that looked permanent. It was like he had a tooth-ache or something.
    I desperately tried to think of something to say to the man so he wouldn’t think I had been on the verge of whacking him with his own bat.
    â€œWhat happened to your leg?” I asked.
    Mays looked down at his scar and touched it.
    â€œThat’s a little artwork courtesy of a fellow named Ty Cobb,” he said. “He bunted a ball down the first-base line on me. I scooped it up. When I went to tag him, he spiked me pretty good.”
    â€œWhat a jerk,” I said. It wasn’t the first time I had heard about Cobb hurting someone on purpose.
    â€œIt’s all part of the game, son,” Mays told me, “all part of the game.”
    I wanted to talk to Mays about Ray Chapman, but I didn’t quite know how to get started. How do you tell a man that in a few hours, he’s going to do something that will result in another man’s death and change his own life forever? He’d never believe me.

    Carl Mays
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY
    Carl Mays didn’t tell me to get lost, but he didn’t ask me to stay either. He reached into his locker, took out something, and put it in his mouth.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œA chicken neck,” he said. “Keeps my mouth moist.”
    Okay! So the guy was a little eccentric. That didn’t make him a bad guy. It certainly didn’t make him a murderer. He turned back around to face his locker.
    â€œUh, Mr. Mays?” I asked. I had to say something .
    â€œYeah?” he said, turning around again and taking the chicken neck out of his mouth.
    â€œBe careful out there today,” I said.
    â€œI’m always careful,” he replied, and then he went back to sucking on his chicken neck.
    I wasn’t going to get anywhere with Carl Mays. I decided to stick with my original plan—to find Ray Chapman and give him my batting helmet. Then I’d go home and see if I had changed history.
    As I headed for the door, Babe Ruth strolled out of the trainer’s room, wearing only a towel and puffing on a cigar.
    â€œSwing big and hit big,” Babe was telling one of the other players. “That’s why I led the league in homers the last two years. You know how many I hit for the Sox last season? 29. And you know how many the whole team hit? 33! That’s a fact. Just four more. And that’s why I’m making ten grand this year. Swing big, hit big, and earn big.”
    Suddenly, I noticed Carl Mays got up off the bench in front of his locker.
    â€œWhy don’t you shut your cake hole for once in your life, Ruth?” Mays said.
    All the locker-room conversation and card games stopped instantly. Silence. It was like a cemetery in there. Everybody was staring at Carl Mays. And then, like they were watching a game of tennis, all heads swiveled over to Ruth.
    â€œWho’s gonna make me?” the Babe said, striding