Wednesday, May 4, 1927: Washington, D.C.
The Yankees Steal Babe Ruth’s Mail
The Babe gets two hundred letters a week — probably more than anyone else but Santa Claus — so much that he brings bags of it on the road with him. Most of his mail he tosses to the ball boys, who reply to his fans with an autographed picture that they sign for him. But with each delivery there are a couple of letters Ruth holds onto for personal reasons.
Jidge keeps the ones from sick kids in hospitals and from the parents of sick children. And without exception, he keeps all the letters from his female admirers.
Schoolboy Hoyt loves rummaging through Ruth’s locker, train compartments, and clothing to find those female correspondences that the Babe keeps for himself. Schoolboy then reads Jidge’s mail aloud for the team’s amusement. (Some of the gals actually know a surprising amount about baseball.)
Hoyt’s readings are theatrical events — his father was a Vaudeville comedian from Brooklyn, and Schoolboy grew up on the stage with him, and he still performs in the off-season.
After his recitations, Schoolboy returns Ruth’s letters to wherever the Babe was storing them, usually in his sports jacket inside pocket. But there’s one letter Hoyt will never return.
The Babe received this cherished piece of mail back in the spring of 1921. It came in a highly perfumed pink envelope, postmarked from Detroit, and was handwritten on pink perfumed stationery. Hoyt’s first public reading of the letter that season was so well received by the team that now, once a season since ’21, Schoolboy reopens this magic epistle and reads it aloud, to rally the troops.
Yesterday, Hoyt the postman arrived early.
It’s 12 noon and I’m sitting by my locker reading parts of a magazine article to Wilcy Moore — our rookie relief pitcher, who will be 30 this month — and Little Julie Wera, our pint-sized utility infielder. It’s an article from a November issue of Scientific American that I found on the train that’s about the probability of life on Mars.
I’m about halfway into it when Cy and Julie interrupt me to have a debate as to whether or not there are Martians. Julie says yes. Cy says no. Julie stands up and asks for a show of hands to see which Yankees agree with him on the Martian matter.
Suddenly all the lights in the locker room go out. It’s pitch black.
After a few seconds of everybody shouting, “Hey! What’s going on for Chrissakes!,” a couple of flashlights are brought out — their beams quickly land on Hoyt, who is sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the locker room.
Schoolboy is wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe — his naked legs are spread wide, and between them in his left hand he’s holding a lit cigarette. In his right hand he holds the sacred pink letter.
In a breathy woman’s voice, Hoyt begins his to read it aloud.
May 11, 1921.
Schoolboy dramatically waves the letter.
My Dear Mr. Babe Ruth.
Schoolboy is interrupted by a wave of wolf whistles and cheering. A seasoned stage performer, he waits for his audience to quiet down.
As for the Babe, the object of Schoolboy’s performance, just moments ago he had been sitting by his locker, chewing on a cigar butt that he probably found on the floor, and talking with Herb Pennock, “Sailor Bob” Shawkey, Joe Dugan and “Silent Bob” Meusel about their yearly moose hunting trip to Canada. Now, Ruth is being held back from trying to stop Hoyt by the other four, who clearly are in cahoots. To the Babe’s credit, it doesn’t require much effort to hold him back. He’s enjoying the show.
The room quiets down, and Schoolboy now directs his reading at Ruth, with a level of exaggerated sexual drama that Mae West would envy.
I am the young woman in Detroit that you first waved at, and then came over and spoke with this past Tuesday, May 10th, before your wonderful and most majestic game at Navin Field.
Schoolboy lifts his cigarette and pretends to brush back long locks of hair. He inhales the stick, then slowly exhales the smoke downward. The light beams from the flashlights shining through the smoke, combined with Hoyt’s lascivious pose — the bottom of his legs are now wrapped serpentine around the legs of the chair — give the impression of a female in heat. Or, at least, they’re supposed to.
I was so excited when my husband, Rocco, bought us tickets to see the Yankees play the Tigers. But I really only wanted to see you play. I had heard so much about you on the radio. Why, I couldn’t have cared less if there wasn’t another Yankee or Tiger on Navin field.
Sailor Bob Shawkey shouts, “I believe the lady speaks for all of America, boys! The rest of us are just props for the Babe!” Led by Ruth, the entire team replies with hearty shouts of, “Yeah!” and “Goddamn right!” We all know our place.
Hoyt again waits for the shouting to die down. He takes another salacious drag on his cigarette, and then exhales so much smoke through his nose that I’m surprised no one runs out to pull the fire alarm box.
That morning when I got dressed, I chose my bright canary yellow dress because I was hoping it would catch your eye. And it did!
You were such a gentleman, the way you came over and chatted with me before the game, while my husband was buying our refreshments.
Oh, Babe, when you told me you would hit a home run for me, my husband just laughed, but I shivered. It was as if your words shot right through me, right to my heart. And my vagina.
The dynamite has been lit.
The locker room explodes with a wild, tribal cheer. Bats are banging on the floor. Towels are flying through the air. Ruth proudly waves to us all, as if he were taking a home run bow.
And then when you did hit that home run in the very first inning! Oh, Babe! I stood up to applaud, but I had to sit right back down because I didn’t want anyone to see how wet my dress was.
At this point, two buckets of water, one from each side, are hurled on Hoyt by Benny Bengough and Mike Gazella. Schoolboy doesn’t even blink. His cigarette is washed out and bent in two, but he continues to hold it aloft. He waits for a full minute for the laughter to die down, frozen in a soaked and dripping pose.
Just before the water hit him, Hoyt had deftly slipped the pink letter under his bathrobe to keep it dry. Now he slowly pulls it back out.
Oh, Babe!
Schoolboy moans.
My husband travels for work sometimes, and each night before I go to bed I silently pray to God that Rocco will be away when the Yankees come back to Detroit on Saturday, July 16th. Sunday, July 17th. Monday, July 18th. And Tuesday, July 19th.
Please write me back at my sister’s address — Maria Magnotta, 20495 Danbury St., Highland Park, Detroit, Michigan.
Signed: Sherry. The woman in the yellow dress.
P.S. Babe…
Schoolboy pauses.
Feel free to ask Harry Heilmann, Ralph Young and Ira Flagstead on the Tigers about me.
With that Hoyt alights from the chair to a standing ovation from the entire room — even Gehrig — and takes a series of overly dramatic bows.
