Where Am I?
Saturday, August 20, 1927
“Mr. Capone has instructed me to drive you back to your destination at the Cooper Carlton Hotel.”
What?
Where am I?
Oh, yeah.
Shit.
Since Capone left his office, I’ve been staring at his pile of newspapers with Steven and Rothstein’s advertisement promising to make millionaires out of peasants. How long have I been here, alone? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?
If this goon in the evening jacket hadn’t come in just now, I might have sat here all night.
A few blocks from the Cooper Carlton, I tell the jacket to let me out of the car. I need to get some air.
I walk back down to Lakeshore Drive. The night is cloudy and dark. The sailboats are gone.
I look back at the hotel; almost all the lights are out. I think about all the lives that pass through the building. Businessmen. Lovers. Wedding guests. Mourners. Gangsters. Hookers. Little kids. Ballplayers. How many more times in my life will I be registered in a great hotel as a Yankee? Jesus Christ, my life is coming apart — I’ve just been threatened by the biggest hood in America and this is what I’m thinking about? I need to concentrate. How am I going to get out of this? But I can’t concentrate. My head is spinning, full of too many irrelevant thoughts. I feel like I’ve been picked off first base, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and now I’m caught in a rundown — I’m madly dashing back and forth between first and second, and at both bags there are players lining up to put the tag on me. Maybe I should just let the bastards tag me out.
I’m the worst player on the greatest team of all time. That’s something to tell my grandchildren, if Capone lets me live that long.
I need to call Steven. And I need to pitch my way out of this mess.
I don’t call Steven. And I don’t pitch my way out of this mess.
Before hopping on a train for Cleveland, we lose our getaway game against the White Sox 3–2. Schoolboy pitches well, but the only support he gets is from Gehrig. Lou has an RBI double (his 41st of the season) and a home run — a leadoff shot in the ninth that pulls us within a run (his 39th, one more than Ruth) for his 134th and 135th RBIs, with 38 games still to play.
I’m the only one in the dugout who doesn’t stand up to follow the flight of the ball. I remain seated just staring out at the field. It’s as if nobody’s on it. It’s empty. Everything is empty. My head is both empty and full of thoughts at the same time. I can’t seem to grab hold of any of them. I’m trying to grasp my situation but I can’t. It’s still just confusion.
The next day in Cleveland, Dutch Ruether starts the game but, despite a Ruth homer in the first and a 4–1 lead, Dutch only lasts four innings, giving up four runs and leaving the game with the score 5–4.
Sailor Bob pitches the fifth, giving up four runs. The score is 8–5 Cleveland when Huggins calls my number for the first time in 21 days — but who’s counting.
Pat Collins is behind the plate putting down the signs in the top of the sixth. I don’t shake him off once. With no faith left in myself, I need to trust Pat.
Double.
Sacrifice bunt.
RBI Single.
RBI Double.
RBI Single.
RBI Single.
It’s 12–5 Cleveland before I can get out of the inning. When I come back to the bench, I sit down between Schoolboy and Benny, as I always do.
No one says a word.
Huggins makes the mistake of trusting me and sends me back out for the seventh.
Single.
Triple.
Single.
Collins bails me out by throwing out a sprinting Indian looking to steal second. But two more runs have scored. I walk off the mound having helped the Tribe grow their lead from 8–5 to 14–5.
My pitching line for the day:
Two innings pitched. 13 batters faced. Eight hits. Three extra-base hits. Six earned runs.
Since the middle of June my ERA is 6.80.
Yet, all I can think about are Capone’s words to me:
“Tell your pal Thornberry that I don’t want him and that Jew doin’ any more advertisin’ in Chicago papers. I don’t care what the fuck he does in New York or the rest of the fuckin’ country, but he’s not peddlin’ this shit in Chicago. Not on my turf.
“And if you’re gonna to keep feedin’ your pal Thornberry injury reports on the team, you should tell him not to be so greedy with his betting.”
Steven calls me tonight at the hotel. I don’t say anything to him about Capone. I don’t know why but I tell him that Meusel’s going to be out at least one more game with a migraine.
I’m honestly hoping Capone will bump me off.
It will save me the trouble of doing it myself.
- August 19, 1927: “Gehrig Slams 39th But Yanks Trail, 3–2”. New York Times article and Box Score.
- August 20, 1927: “Ruth Crashes 39th As Yanks Fail Again”. New York Times article and Box Score.
