The Big Bam: The Life and Times of Babe Ruth by Leigh Montville Page A
Authors: Leigh Montville
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one for the horse. The owner said he didn’t serve horses. Then there was the bicycle. Ruth convinced a local kid to let him borrow his bicycle every day. He rode it tirelessly around the town. He rode quite fast.
Jack Dunn and veteran catcher Ben Egan were standing at a street corner when Ruth came flying past, ran straight into the back of a hay wagon, was thrown six feet in the air, and landed on his back. Dunn ran to his newest acquisition and delivered some loud guidance.
“You wanna go back to that school?” he shouted. “You behave yourself, you hear me? You’re a ballplayer—not a circus act.”
Dunn had fallen in love with the kid. The exhibition games had started, and Ruth very much could pitch. He pitched well in scrimmages, a hard thrower with a workable curveball to back up his speed. He pitched well in relief against the Yankees. He pitched a complete game, a 6–2 win, against the Philadelphia Athletics, who had the best-hitting lineup in baseball. He also assuredly could hit. He could be fooled sometimes and look bad in striking out, but when he caught the ball, it traveled.
Talent like this did not just show up, well sanded and finished. Talent was supposed to be wild, and time was needed to tame it. Here was a kid who came straight out of school and could beat the Athletics. This just didn’t happen.
“Brother,” Dunn wrote to Brother Gilbert, “this fellow Ruth is the greatest young ballplayer who ever reported to a training camp.”
“He’ll startle the baseball world,” the owner told the writers quietly, “if he isn’t a rummy or he isn’t a nut.”
Spring training was short. Twenty-six days after he left, the boy from St. Mary’s was back in Baltimore. He was a secret no more. He was Babe Ruth. The newspapers said he was.
His first purchase back in the city was an Indian motorcycle for $115. His first trip on the motorcycle was to St. Mary’s Industrial School for Boys. His first fall off the motorcycle…well, there were a few of them before he reached St. Mary’s. The final one was in front of the school. Brother Matthias saw the whole thing. Ruth landed in a puddle next to some horse droppings.
“Oh, too bad,” the brother said with a smile. “Now you’re wet and dirty.”
Muttering about the city’s sanitation practices in regard to horse droppings, the returned world explorer went back inside the grounds looking much the same as he always did after a normal school day. He revved up his beast and proceeded to take his friends for rides, blasting around the streets with the kids from his past hanging on for dear life in his newly discovered present. Talk about satisfaction.
He embarked on his postgraduate baseball degree as the Orioles played two weeks of local exhibitions, then moved into their International League season. Every day was a new lesson.
He pitched the third of three exhibitions against John McGraw’s Giants, losing 3–2 in a classic moment of miscommunication. With one out in the ninth, a runner on first, the Orioles ahead 2–1, catcher Egan gave the prearranged clenched-fist sign for “a waste pitch,” a pitchout. He sensed a hit-and-run might be taking place. To Egan’s surprise, Ruth delivered a pitch over the dead center of the plate that was whacked by Red Murray over the left-field fence for a two-run homer and the victory.
Egan was mad. Ruth was mad.
He thought Egan had ordered a “waist” pitch. That was exactly where he delivered it, right at the waist. Didn’t the catcher know any better than that?
(A similar story was told by Fred Parent about “waist-waste” confusion in a game against the Buffalo Bisons. Parent said Bill Congalton hit that pitch for a triple. One of the stories is probably true. The pick here is Egan’s.)
Ruth then pitched the second game of the season, a 6–0 shutout of the Bisons, and went to work in the regular rotation. He mixed startlingly good games with occasional stinkers, all part of
Jack Dunn and veteran catcher Ben Egan were standing at a street corner when Ruth came flying past, ran straight into the back of a hay wagon, was thrown six feet in the air, and landed on his back. Dunn ran to his newest acquisition and delivered some loud guidance.
“You wanna go back to that school?” he shouted. “You behave yourself, you hear me? You’re a ballplayer—not a circus act.”
Dunn had fallen in love with the kid. The exhibition games had started, and Ruth very much could pitch. He pitched well in scrimmages, a hard thrower with a workable curveball to back up his speed. He pitched well in relief against the Yankees. He pitched a complete game, a 6–2 win, against the Philadelphia Athletics, who had the best-hitting lineup in baseball. He also assuredly could hit. He could be fooled sometimes and look bad in striking out, but when he caught the ball, it traveled.
Talent like this did not just show up, well sanded and finished. Talent was supposed to be wild, and time was needed to tame it. Here was a kid who came straight out of school and could beat the Athletics. This just didn’t happen.
“Brother,” Dunn wrote to Brother Gilbert, “this fellow Ruth is the greatest young ballplayer who ever reported to a training camp.”
“He’ll startle the baseball world,” the owner told the writers quietly, “if he isn’t a rummy or he isn’t a nut.”
Spring training was short. Twenty-six days after he left, the boy from St. Mary’s was back in Baltimore. He was a secret no more. He was Babe Ruth. The newspapers said he was.
His first purchase back in the city was an Indian motorcycle for $115. His first trip on the motorcycle was to St. Mary’s Industrial School for Boys. His first fall off the motorcycle…well, there were a few of them before he reached St. Mary’s. The final one was in front of the school. Brother Matthias saw the whole thing. Ruth landed in a puddle next to some horse droppings.
“Oh, too bad,” the brother said with a smile. “Now you’re wet and dirty.”
Muttering about the city’s sanitation practices in regard to horse droppings, the returned world explorer went back inside the grounds looking much the same as he always did after a normal school day. He revved up his beast and proceeded to take his friends for rides, blasting around the streets with the kids from his past hanging on for dear life in his newly discovered present. Talk about satisfaction.
He embarked on his postgraduate baseball degree as the Orioles played two weeks of local exhibitions, then moved into their International League season. Every day was a new lesson.
He pitched the third of three exhibitions against John McGraw’s Giants, losing 3–2 in a classic moment of miscommunication. With one out in the ninth, a runner on first, the Orioles ahead 2–1, catcher Egan gave the prearranged clenched-fist sign for “a waste pitch,” a pitchout. He sensed a hit-and-run might be taking place. To Egan’s surprise, Ruth delivered a pitch over the dead center of the plate that was whacked by Red Murray over the left-field fence for a two-run homer and the victory.
Egan was mad. Ruth was mad.
He thought Egan had ordered a “waist” pitch. That was exactly where he delivered it, right at the waist. Didn’t the catcher know any better than that?
(A similar story was told by Fred Parent about “waist-waste” confusion in a game against the Buffalo Bisons. Parent said Bill Congalton hit that pitch for a triple. One of the stories is probably true. The pick here is Egan’s.)
Ruth then pitched the second game of the season, a 6–0 shutout of the Bisons, and went to work in the regular rotation. He mixed startlingly good games with occasional stinkers, all part of
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