Ray & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

over to Mays.
    The two men were right in each other’s faces. Mays looked a couple of inches shorter than the Babe, but just as strong.
    â€œEasy, boys,” one of the players said.
    â€œYou were born with a gift , Ruth,” Mays said. “The rest of us would give anything to have your talent. But you’re just wasting it. How many home runs would you hit if you didn’t spend all your time drinking and smoking and chasing girls? Why don’t you try getting a good night’s sleep for once? Why don’t you try to help this team win the pennant?”
    â€œWhy don’t you mind your own business, Carl?” Babe shot back.
    â€œThis is my business, Ruth,” Mays said. “I want to win the pennant. I want to win the World Series. Just like every man in this room does. And we’re not gonna win anything if you don’t shape up.”
    â€œYou’re just jealous, Carl!” Ruth shouted. “You were jealous of me when we were on the Red Sox,and you’re jealous of me now.”
    â€œYou’re drunk!” Mays said.
    â€œAnd you’re chicken!” Ruth barked. “Is that why you suck on a chicken neck? Maybe you should take a drink once in a while. It might loosen you up.”
    â€œI’m plenty loose,” Mays said. And with that, he hauled off and socked Babe Ruth in the jaw.
    Babe got a punch or two in before the rest of the Yankees jumped on the players and pulled them apart. I hoped that Babe might hit Mays in his pitching arm and put him out of the game, but he didn’t.
    While the Yankees were still yelling and shouting at each other, I decided it might be a good time to remove myself from the situation. I made my way to the locker-room door and slipped out of there.

11
Nice Hat
    W HEN I WALKED OUT OF THE Y ANKEES LOCKER ROOM , I realized that I’d left my baseball behind. Too late now. Fists were flying in there. I wasn’t going back. Not for a Wally Pipp ball. If Babe had signed it—well, that would be another story.
    I found myself in a dimly lit corridor somewhere in the bowels of the Polo Grounds. A few doors down was a sign with the word VISITORS on it. I thought the door would be locked, but it wasn’t. I looked left and right. Nobody was around, so I pulled open the door and went inside.
    The locker room was empty. The Indians were probably still taking infield practice. They might freak out if they came into their locker room and found a strange kid there. I needed a place to hide.
    I opened one of the wooden lockers. It was stuffed with gloves and bats and balls and other gear. I openeda few more lockers until I found one that was empty. Perfect. I got in and closed the door behind me.
    I waited. There were some thin slots I could look through. I wondered—would I recognize Ray Chapman from the pictures I’d seen of him? I rehearsed in my mind what I was going to say to him.
    This was not the first time I found myself hiding in a locker room, it occurred to me. One time, I was on a mission to visit Mickey Mantle in 1951, but I got blown off course and ended up in 1944—in the locker room of an all-girls’ baseball team. But that’s a story for another day.
    Footsteps. Voices. A bunch of players piled into the room. I peered through the slot in the door. The word CLEVELAND went across their uniforms. I prayed that nobody would open the locker I was hiding in. That would be embarrassing. I kept looking for Ray Chapman.
    The atmosphere in the Indian locker room was completely different. These guys were laughing, happy, clapping each other on the back. One of them suddenly started to sing, and the others gathered around him to join in.
    Sweet Adeline,
    My Adeline,
    At night, dear heart,
    For you I pine.
    In all my dreams,
    Your fair face beams.
    You’re the flower of my heart,
    Sweet Adeline.
    â€œSweet Adeline”! I remembered that girl I’d met in the speakeasy. She said her name was