Monday, June 13, 1927: New York City
The Best Seat in the House
Summer is definitely here. It’s 80 degrees and an hour before the game Yankee Stadium is already half full, a sea of straw hats, dotted by fresh-faced women, their blouses unbuttoned one more button than last week, their skirts even shorter than last year. Lazzeri and Koenig will have no trouble picking out a damsel to play for this afternoon.
Lindbergh’s landing a few weeks ago has turned this into a summer of celebration. It’s like we all feel we can touch the sun. Every morning we wake up to a dozen newspapers with front-page stories about Lucky Lindy and other flyers. Just yesterday two more Americans flew across the Atlantic and landed in Germany. In fact, Clarence Chamberlin and Charles Levine might even have beaten Lindbergh to Paris and won the $25,000 Orteig Prize if their flight team hadn’t gotten into a pissing match over seating arrangements. A third man was supposed to be the co-pilot but Levine went to court and sued to get him thrown out of the plane, so that Levine could be the official “co-pilot.” (Christ, no wonder Lindbergh flew solo.)
As a result of all his bickering, instead of being one of the first men to fly across the Atlantic, yesterday Mr. Levine became the first ever transatlantic passenger. Having lost out to Lindbergh, I wonder if Mr. Levine thinks being a historical footnote was worth his court costs.
Before our game today against the Cleveland Indians, Paul Gallico, my writer friend from the Daily News, comes up to me and asks, “If you were attempting to fly across the Atlantic Ocean, which Yankee would you want to fly 33 hours and 30 minutes in the plane with you? Hoyt or Bengough?”
“Neither.”
“Ruth?”
“No way.”
“Gehrig?”
“Nope.”
“Who?”
“Eddie Bennett,” I say, pointing to our dwarf mascot lining up our bats for the game.
“He weighs the least.”
As I walk onto the mound to begin the game I’m heartened by the sight of the American flag atop the Stadium. I truly love the flag when it’s fluttering toward home plate, like it is today. Right now, it looks like the stars and stripes will be doing their part to keep my pitches inside the yard.
In the top of the first, I open the game getting the first two Indians to ground out. Their third batter, Lew Fonseca, takes the first pitch for a strike and then slashes the second straight down the left field line. Damn. It’s a double. Or is it?
Silent Bob Meusel, out in left field, is well known for two things: first, he has the greatest arm in the game — an absolute rifle, a shade more powerful than Ruth’s — and second, he is a loafer. Both reputations are well deserved. The result is that Silent Bob has two in-game alter egos — “Rifle Bob” and “Languid Bob” — and any baserunner who dares to run on him is simply betting that Languid Bob, rather than Rifle Bob, has shown up, at that particular moment.
With the ball rolling toward the left field corner, Fonseca bets on Languid Bob. He aggressively rounds first and goes flying toward second. Unfortunately for Fonseca, for whatever reason — and with Silent Bob, no one will ever know the reason — in a moment as rare as a total eclipse, Meusel runs after the ball like a Labrador retriever. He picks it up near the left field stands and fires a cannon shot — over 300 feet on the fly — to Tony Lazzeri, who is straddling second base. The ball smacks the W*p’s glove louder than most of my pitches will hit my catcher’s today. Fonseca, instead of being a dangerous runner on second, is suddenly my third out of the first inning.
Top of the second, I resume my frustrating habit of letting the leadoff batter reach base, giving up a scratch single. I then hang a curve ball to Cleveland shortstop Joey Sewell, who crushes it to right center. The Babe sprints back to the right-center wall and then, at the last instant, he leaps high into the air. With his glove extended above the wire screen in front of the bleachers, Ruth snatches the ball and pulls it back into the ballpark. Upon landing, he throws the ball 300 feet on the fly to Gehrig at first for a tremendous double play. It’s one of the best defensive plays I’ve ever seen an outfielder make.
No one believes me when I say this but, trust me, Babe Ruth is not only a great baseball player, he’s also one of the greatest all-around athletes on the planet.
I tell people this all the time — about how great he is, about how fast he is, about how graceful he is — but no one takes me seriously. And I understand why. The problem is that unless you see Ruth play every single day, you miss it.
If you only come to a couple of games during the season, your impression of Ruth has primarily been formed by the cartoons of him you see in the newspapers, seven days a week. Those cartoons are giant exaggerations, based on his girth during the off season when he lets himself go. (Over the winter the Babe is like an out-of-shape heavyweight boxer. But during the season, it’s a different story.)
Of course, it’s not just the cartoons that fool people. It’s also the way Ruth moves most of the time. Take, for example, that little dance he does at the plate just before he swings. There’s certainly nothing athletic about that. And then there’s his home run trot, that absurdly delicate way he pigeon-toes around the bases after the ball’s safely in the stands.
But, believe me, if you could watch the Babe play for a full season — every day, every batting practice, every at-bat, every play in the field — you would be as awed as I, all of my teammates and the boys in the press box are, by just what a thoroughbred athlete Babe Ruth truly is.
Before the game, the Babe skipped batting practice because he said, “I’m feeling a home run or two coming on today, and I don’t want to waste them on BP.” Upon hearing this, Schoolboy Hoyt’s observation was, “It’s far more likely that the Babe is feeling a hangover or two, and wants to stay out of the sun for an extra hour.”
Both Schoolboy and the Babe are correct in their diagnoses. In the bottom of the third, with Ray Morehart on base, Jidge hits a titanic shot off the Indians’ bison-sized pitcher, the 250-pound Garland Buckeye. The ball flies over the center field wall in front of the scoreboard, landing over a dozen rows up in the bleachers — well over 500 feet from the plate. It’s the longest home run I’ve ever seen. It travels so far and so fast that the Tribe’s catcher, Luke Sewell (Joey’s younger brother), demands that the home plate umpire, George Hildebrand, inspect Ruth’s bat. This amuses our bench to no end, and deeply pisses off the Babe.
The next time Jidge comes up, in the bottom of the fifth, he’s still infuriated by Sewell for questioning the legitimacy of his home run. He walks to the plate jawing loudly at the Indians’ catcher. “You little piece of shit. You want to check my bat after every home run? Why not after every goddamn pitch. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
Ruth takes a strike and then steps out of the batter’s box and offers Sewell his bat for another inspection. Sewell just looks straight ahead at his pitcher. After every pitch, the Babe steps out, saying, “You sure you don’t want to check my bat again? You piece of shit.” This goes on until the count is full, at 3–2, at which point all of us are at the top of the dugout steps hooting and hollering at Sewell:
“Hey, Sewell! I heard you were out late last night inspecting bats,” yells Lazzeri.
“Inspect this bat!” yells Dugan, while holding his crotch.
“Does that mean Dugan’s a f*ggot?” Hoyt asks me.
“Maybe,” I reply. “But this sure is a strange time to announce it, don’t you think?”
“Well,” says Schoolboy, “I, for one, respect Jumpin’ Joe’s decision.”
“Really?”
“No. Not in the least.”
Suddenly, the Babe swings and shuts everybody up. The ball soars deep into the right field bleachers, just a few rows from the top of the Stadium. Before Ruth begins his home run trot, he offers Sewell his bat one more time, then flips it toward Eddie Bennett. Sewell can only shake his head. Just like the rest of us.
It’s the Babe’s 11th home run in his last 20 games. It’s also his 20th home run of the year.
Following Ruth’s at-bat, Gehrig singles to left, then advances to third and steals home. By the end of the inning, it’s 4–0 good guys.
In the sixth, I give up one run. But in the bottom of the inning I help get one back, slapping my second single of the game. One batter later, Earle Combs sends me home. 5–1.
Next inning, in the bottom of the seventh, Lazzeri drives the ball deep to left field. It hits the warning track and skids into the Indians’ bullpen. By the time their left fielder retrieves the ball, the W*p is rounding third. His sprint around the bases takes, perhaps, 15 seconds. It’s his second inside-the-park home run in four games. 6–1 good guys.
As I walk out to the mound to start the ninth, I’m thinking about how much fun today’s game is. It’s got everything. It’s one of those rare games where I find myself both playing and watching — pitching my heart out, while being a fan at the same time — one of those rare days when the mound is the best seat in the house.
Then I run out of gas.
I give up a double. A walk. Another walk. A single. Another single. And suddenly it’s 6–3 with the bases loaded and just one out. There goes my great seat on the mound.
30,000 fans give me a fond farewell. Their applause continues as Wilcy Moore jogs in from the bullpen to replace me. Facing just two batters, Cy quickly closes out the game I couldn’t.
8 1/3 innings. Four earned runs. My fifth win.
After the game Gallico comes up to me and says, “Nice job. And pretty well timed.”
“How so?”
“The trading deadline is midnight, Wednesday. Despite the rumors, I don’t think Huggins will let Barrow trade you after today.”
“I guess not,” I reply.
What rumors?
- Clarence Chamberlin
- Paul Gallico
- WAITE Hoyt
- Charles Levine
- Charles Lindbergh
- SILENT BOB Meusel
- BABE Ruth
- Joey Sewell
- Luke Sewell
- 1927 Yankees
- June 11, 1927: “Babe Hits 2 More As Yanks Win 6–4”. New York Times article and Box Score.
“Waiting for the Trade”
Unbeknownst to Myles, he has been walking a fine line between being too good to trade and too good to keep, leaving his season (and career) in limbo.
Apparently I’m the only person who wasn’t aware my name was the subject of trade rumors — the Yankees have been talking with the Red Sox about trading Mark Koenig and me for the Sox’s 23-year-old star shortstop, Buddy Myer. The Sox, at 13–37, are the worst, most dysfunctional team in either league.
What a nightmare.
