Ray & Me Page 4

  “What’s the password?” a man’s voice asked gruffly.

  “Password?” I said. “I don’t know any password.”

  “Then whaddaya want?” All I could see were the man’s eyes.

  “I’m trying to find a guy,” I said. “His name is—”

  “Scram!” the voice said. “Put an egg in your shoe and beat it.”

  “But I—”

  “Go play in the traffic, kid.”

  The slot in the door closed. I was about to turn away when it opened again. Another pair of eyes stared at me.

  “Don’t mind Louie,” a woman’s voice said with a giggle. “He’s a flat tire. Did you bring the stuff?”

  “What stuff?” I asked, but she had already closed the slot and opened the door.

  She was pretty, with bright red lips, short wavy hair, and skinny eyebrows that looked like they were drawn on with a pencil. She was holding a rose in her hand. Behind her, there was a party going on. It looked like a nightclub. Happy people were dancing to jazz music. There was a live band playing. The scene looked like one of those old gangster movies my mom likes to watch.

  “Hey, you’re kinda cute!” the lady said. “Come on in!”

  I hesitated. There was a lot of drinking going on in there, and I didn’t want to get in trouble. On the other hand, Carl Mays might be in this place. And besides, it wasn’t every day that a pretty girl told me I was cute. I stepped through the doorway.

  “My name’s Adeline,” she said. “Y’know, like in the song ‘Sweet Adeline’? You can call me Addie.”

  “You’re kinda cute!’ she said. “Come on in!”

  I’d never heard of the song before.

  “Joe Stoshack,” I said, shaking her hand. “You can call me Stosh.”

  “Stosh, I like that,” she said. “Hey, what’s with the odd threads? Where ya from, Stoshie?”

  I looked down at my jeans and sneakers.

  “I’m from…out of town,” I said.

  “Way out, looks like to me.”

  “Louisville, Kentucky,” I said.

  “That how they dress in Louisville?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “C’mere, Stoshie!”

  Addie grabbed my hand and pulled me past some couples who were dancing while swigging from bottles of whiskey. They didn’t even bother with glasses. As she dragged me toward the bar, she told me that the password was Woodrow, same as the president’s first name.

  “Hey, Jimmy!” she yelled to a guy mixing drinks behind a bar. “Where’s that zoot suit we had layin’ around? I think it would fit my friend Stoshie.”

  “Get that ragamuffin outta here, Addie!” the bartender yelled back. “You want the cops to bust in and find a kid in here?”

  “Ah, dry up, Jimmy, ya big sap!” Addie yelled at him. “Mind your potatoes.”

  “Says you, Addie!”

  “Don’t mind him,” Addie whispered to me. “He’s just steamed because we’re gonna get the right to vote.”

  “Huh?”

  “You ain’t heard?” she said. “On Wednesday, Tennessee is gonna vote on women’s suffrage, and word is it’s gonna pass. They’re gonna add an amendment to the Constitution! We’ll get to vote in November just like men.”

  Women couldn’t vote until 1920? That was a new one on me.

  Addie rummaged around in a box behind the bar until she found a fancy-looking sports jacket.

  “Who does this belong to?” I asked as she helped me put it on.

  “Some drunk ran outta here in his underwear,” she told me. “He won’t be comin’ back. You can have it.”

  She stepped back to look me over. “Pretty spiffy! Fits you like a glove. Now you’re hip to the jive, Stoshie! So, where’s the stuff?”

  “I don’t have any stuff,” I said.

  “C’mon, level with me, Stoshie,” she said. “They told me a kid was bringing the stuff.”

  “I don’t know what stuff you’re talking about,” I told her. She was clearly drunk.

  “Then what’s a nice young fella like you doing in a juice joint like this?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Carl Mays,” I said. “Do you know where he is?”

  Addie burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “C’mere.”

  She grabbed my hand again and dragged me across the room. People were stumbling all over themselves, laughing crazily and staggering around in a stupor.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked Addie. “Why is everybody so drunk?”

  “Don’t ya have Prohibition in Louisville?” Addie asked me. “Hootch is against the law, y’know. We ain’t had a legal drink in months. It’s only a matter of time before the cops shut this joint down. We’re enjoying it while we can.”

  I learned about Prohibition in Social Studies. For years, alcohol was illegal in the United States. If the police showed up at this place, I’d be in big trouble.

  As Addie pulled me across the room, I almost crashed into a guy who was weaving around with a lamp shade on his head.

  “Look, I just need to find Carl Mays,” I told Addie. “Is he here?”

  “Nah, he ain’t here,” she replied.

  “But you know who he is?” I asked.

  “Sure I do,” Addie said. “He’s that pitcher with the Yankees.”

  “Why did you laugh when I asked if he was here?” I said.

  “Carl is such a killjoy,” she told me. “I don’t think he ever let a sip of booze pass his lips, even when it was legal.”

  Something didn’t make sense. This place was a speakeasy, one of those illegal bars. But Carl Mays didn’t drink. I wondered why I ended up in a place like this. Finally, Addie pulled me over to a booth where some people were sitting.

  “Carl Mays ain’t here,” she said, “but one of his teammates is. He came over from the Red Sox too. He’s only been with the team for a few months, but he’s pretty popular. He’s sitting right over there.”

  I recognized that guy.

  8

  Babe & Me

  IT WAS BABE RUTH!

  Babe freaking Ruth!

  I was paralyzed. I couldn’t breathe. Babe Ruth was sitting right in front of me!

  Of course! I should have known. The Red Sox sold Babe to the Yankees after the 1919 season. So he started his career with New York in 1920. That meant that he was probably on the field at the moment Ray Chapman was hit.

  I shouldn’t have been so shocked to see the Babe. We had met before. In fact, I’d met him twice. The first time was when I went back to see Jackie Robinson in 1947 and bumped into Babe sitting in the stands at the World Series. Another time I went back to 1932 to see with my own eyes whether or not Babe really called his famous “Called Shot” home run.

  But those are stories for another day.

  I couldn’t help but stare at him. Babe wasn’t fat, the way he was in 1932. And he wasn’t old and dying, the way he was in 1947. He looked like a big kid, lean and muscular. You could almost call him handsome.

  Babe didn’t notice me staring at him. He had a lot of distractions. There were two ladies sitting on his knees, a beer in each of his hands, and a plate of spaghetti on the table in front of him. Oh, yeah, and a cigar in his mouth. I don’t know how he managed to eat, drink, smoke, and joke with the girls all at the same time; but he seemed to be managing. The girls were laughing, the spaghetti and beer were disappearing like they were being dumped into a bottomless pit, and thick clouds of smoke billowed every time he took a puff on the cigar. My eyes teared, and I reminded myself that it was only recently that smoking was banned in most indoor spaces.

  “How’s about I hit a homer for each of you pretty girls today?” Babe suggested.

  “That would be swell, Babe!” they agreed, and collapsed into giggles.

  Babe Ruth was like the sun—everything revolved around him. A waiter came over and refilled his glasses the instant they were empty.

  Addie, who had brought me ov
er to the table, had flitted off to talk to somebody else. I guess she figured Babe would take me to Carl Mays.

  “Say, here’s a riddle for you dolls,” Babe said. “Why is it faster to run from first base to second than it is to run from second base to third?”

  “Gee whiz, Babe, I dunno!” one of the girls said, giggling.

  “Because there’s a short stop in the middle,” I said.

  The girls didn’t laugh. Babe didn’t say anything. They all just looked at me.

  Oops. I wished there was a hole in the floor I could jump into.

  But then, Babe busted out laughing.

  “That’s right!” he said, pounding the table with his fist. “Hey, what’s your name, kid?”

  “Stosh,” I told him, “Joe Stoshack. I’m a big fan, Babe.”

  “You don’t look so big to me!” he said, roaring at his own joke. Then he tilted his head back and half of his beer vanished, like he didn’t even need to swallow.

  “Gee, Babe, maybe you shouldn’t be drinking so much,” I suggested gently.

  “Who are you, my mother?” Babe said. “Drinking helps me hit homers!”

  “Howdya figger that, Babe?” asked one of the girls.

  “Well, I hit 29 homers last year for Boston,” Babe said. “That’s the most ever. And since I moved to New York, I drink a lot more beer. Well, I got 42 homers right now, and the season ain’t over yet. So I figger it must be the beer.”

  The girls cackled, and Babe threw back his head, draining the other glass. I was about to ask him about Carl Mays, but there was a commotion at the other end of the club. Babe stood up to see what it was. The girls hopped off his lap and scurried away, like it was the end of their shift.

  “Hey, Harry!” Babe yelled. “Come on over here!”

  This had to be my lucky day! Harry Houdini, the guy who I had just seen hanging upside down, was walking toward us.

  Houdini was a short man with graying hair and strange-looking eyes. Even though he was fully dressed, you could see he had thick muscles on his arms and legs.

  Babe greeted Houdini warmly and introduced me as his new friend.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Houdini said mysteriously, gripping my hand in a death grip that lasted just a bit too long. He was weirding me out.

  “Whatcha drinkin’, Harry?” asked Babe.

  “I never touch alcohol,” Houdini replied.

  “Ya don’t have to touch it to drink it!” Babe hollered. “Hey, I gotta take a leak. Do that thing you do with the needles, Harry. The kid’ll love it.”

  Babe left, and Houdini pulled a handful of sewing needles out of his pocket. Why anybody would carry around a pocketful of sewing needles is a mystery to me. Everything about this guy was a mystery to me.

  What happened next was even stranger. Houdini took the needles and popped them into his mouth, like peanuts! Then, he started chewing them! Truly weird. But wait, it gets even weirder.

  Houdini picked up a glass of water from the table and guzzled it, as if he was washing down the needles. Then as he looked me in the eye, he pulled a ball of thread out of his pocket. He popped that in his mouth and swallowed it too.

  But what happened next was really unbelievable. Houdini reached into his mouth and pulled out the thread. That’s not the unbelievable part. The unbelievable part was that the thread came out in a line—with all those needles attached to it! He had threaded the needles while they were in his mouth!

  Houdini could do some weird stuff.

  Library of Congress

  It was amazing!

  When he was done, Houdini looked at me with an eerie smile and asked if I had seen him “hanging around” outside.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How did you get out of that straitjacket?”

  “A magician never reveals his secrets,” he told me. Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “But between you and me, I dislocated my shoulder.”

  “On purpose?” I asked.

  “But of course,” he replied, and looked at me as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do.

  I told Houdini that I had dislocated my shoulder too when I fell down after getting hit by a baseball. He said that after you dislocate your shoulder once, it’s easier to do again.

  Just talking about stuff like that was creeping me out. Houdini seemed like an alien from outer space who was trying to blend in with the earthlings but wasn’t quite pulling it off.

  He took a tiny key out of his pocket and slipped it into my hand.

  “A souvenir of our meeting,” he said. “It will open virtually any lock known to man. You never know when it might come in handy. I hide it in my mouth.”

  Cool. I thanked him as I slipped the key in my back pocket. Babe came back from the bathroom with a new cigar in his hand. Houdini asked him what time it was.

  “Time for another beer!” Babe bellowed.

  “Don’t you have a game at three thirty?” asked Houdini.

  Babe stopped, stared, let out a curse, and quickly grabbed my hand.

  “You’re right!” he said. “Let’s go, kid! We gotta get to the Polo Grounds fast!”

  “We?” I asked.

  “If anybody asks why I’m late, you’re gonna tell ’em I was visiting you in the hospital. Because you’re a sick kid and you’re dying, okay?”

  “But I’m not dying,” I protested.

  “You’re gonna be if Hug finds out I was drinking. Let’s go!”

  Hug? Who’s Hug?

  There was no time for questions. Babe grabbed a bag from under the table and ran for the door like he was trying to stretch a single into a double. I grabbed my bag with the batting helmet in it and ran after him.

  9

  A Simple Solution

  BABE RUTH DID SOMETHING I HAD NEVER SEEN ANOTHER human being do. He changed clothes while he was running!

  It was amazing. While we were hustling through the nightclub, Babe somehow tore off his pants and shirt and tossed them aside. Then he reached into the bag he was carrying, took out his Yankees uniform, and put it on—while he was hopping around, dodging waiters and various drunks! I don’t know how he did it.

  And the strange thing was that the people in the club weren’t particularly shocked. They acted like that sort of thing went on all the time.

  “Hurry up!” he yelled to me as if it was my fault he would be late. “We gotta get to the Polo Grounds!” I could barely keep up with him, and I didn’t have to change my clothes.

  When we got outside, Babe looked around frantically for a taxi, but there wasn’t one on the street. Suddenly, two kids on bikes came pedaling around the corner. Babe jumped in front of them, and they hit their brakes so they wouldn’t crash into him.

  “It’s Babe Ruth!” one of the kids shouted.

  “Hey, kids, how much for the bicycles?” asked Babe.

  “Huh?” the kids said.

  “Here,” Babe said, pulling a $20 bill out of his pocket. “We need those bikes.”

  The kids were still in shock, but they got off their bikes and took the twenty like they had just won the lottery. In 1920, twenty dollars was probably like a thousand.

  “Y’know how to ride a bicycle?” Babe asked me.

  “Well, sure…”

  “Then let’s go!”

  Back when I visited him in 1932, Babe Ruth drove me to Wrigley Field in Chicago. I almost died. Well, he rode a bicycle the same way—like a maniac. He took off and started pedaling furiously, weaving around street vendors, potholes, and garbage cans. Little old ladies were diving out of his way. Cars were honking at him, and I wasn’t sure if it was because the drivers recognized Babe Ruth or because some nut on a bike had just cut them off.

  I was pedaling as hard as I could to keep up. My heart was racing. I wished I had put on the batting helmet I’d brought for Ray Chapman. If I fell and hit my head on the street, there was probably no doctor in 1920 who could help me.

  Babe took off and started pedaling furiously.

 
; National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY

  Like I said, I had been to New York a few times now, so it wasn’t completely new and different to me. I barely looked at the old-time streetlights, cars, and signs as we zipped by them. Besides, I was too busy trying to avoid hitting them. We sped past a huge movie theater playing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde starring John Barrymore. Whoever he was.

  We crossed 125th Street and then 134th Street. I remembered from my last trip that the Polo Grounds was at 157th Street. As we got close, there were fewer stores, cars, or people on the street. I could feel my heartbeat slowing down slightly.

  Finally, we came to a sign that said WELCOME TO THE POLO GROUNDS, and I could see the ballpark as we looked down on it from the hill. The Polo Grounds looked pretty much the same as it did when I saw it in 1913. There were players on the field and fans all over. It looked like batting practice was still going on. Lucky for Babe, the game hadn’t started yet.

  Babe tossed aside the bike the same way he tossed aside his clothes. To Babe Ruth, I guess everything was disposable.

  He wasn’t out of breath, not like I was. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward an unmarked door at the side of the ballpark.

  “Whatcha got in the bag, kid?” he asked, as we hustled for the door. “Ya got anything to eat in there?”

  “It’s a batting helmet,” I replied, amazed that Babe could still be hungry.

  “A helmet that bats?” he asked. “Sounds like a crazy idea to me.”

  The door was an entrance just for the players; but there was a small group of fans hanging around, waiting for Babe. As soon as they saw him, they surrounded him with pens and papers.

  “Sorry, folks. Not now,” Babe apologized as we ran through the doorway. “I’m late. See you after the game, okay?”

  He led me to the locker room, where there were a bunch of players hanging out, playing checkers and cards. They were already in their uniforms—the old, baggy, flannel kind that players used to wear. Above the lockers I noticed some names I had heard before: Bob Meusel, Ping Bodie, Roger Peckinpaugh.