Somewhere I Belong (29 page)

“You want to bet he'd talk 'til sundown if there was an election on,” Uncle George said. “The man loves an audience.”

The Sox were up first. Babe Ruth warmed up for the pitch. He loosened his shoulders and rotated his arms. Then he settled on the mound and gripped the ball in his left hand. Uncle George put a voice to what I was thinking:

“You'd never think a left-hander woulda made it to the big leagues.”

“Bats left, too,” I said.

“I'd like to see what Settlemire will do when Ruth's at bat,” Uncle George said. “He pitches right-handed. He'll have to watch his aim if he doesn't want to walk 'im. Lefties make the game way more interesting, I tell you.”

A knot in me I hadn't even realized was there loosened as I listened to Uncle George talk about left-handedness this way. He didn't know the trouble Old Dunphy had given me, so I knew he wasn't just saying these things to make me feel better. It was just true: left-handedness was another kind of normal and Old Dunphy was simply stuck in the past, gripped by some stupid superstition.

Ruth's pitches were solid. Every ball went straight across the batter's plate and into Carrigan's glove. Too bad Old Dunphy wasn't here to see him throw a perfect left-handed pitch and then dip his glove out to catch one. Then he'd see how it wasn't such a big deal.

Two Boston players sauntered toward home plate, bats in hand. One player smiled and spoke to Carrigan, then took his position at bat. The other one stood at a distance and practiced his swing.

“Pat Simmons, first up for Boston,” Stonewall Jackson announced. “Carl Sumner on deck.”

Everyone on the bleachers watched in silence, except for Mayme. “Simmons didn't do much this afternoon.”

“He's a rookie, Mayme,” Uncle George said. “He likely didn't get much action.”

“Hush up there.” It came from behind.

Ruth pitched a fast one straight at Simmons's bat. Simmons swung and missed. Carrigan returned the ball to Ruth.

“Strike one,” the umpire called.

The crowd roared in approval.

Ruth pitched again.

Simmons swung and missed a second time.

The umpire raised two fingers and called the strike.

“Ruth's bringing on the heat,” Stonewall Jackson called.

“You'd think he'd go easy on a rookie,” Uncle Jim said.

“The man's got a reputation to protect,” Uncle George said. “He
doesn't want a rookie getting by him.”

When Ruth powered back his shoulders for the third pitch, I thought he was going to drill it and strike Simmons out. But, this time, he threw an easy one. The first two pitches were so fast I could hardly see the ball. Now I watched it travel in a slow, perfect arc toward the batter. Simmons stepped forward and swung. The bat connected with a crack and sent the ball over Ruth and out to left field. It landed short of the outfielder and Simmons practically walked to first base.

“Isn't that nice,” Aunt Mayme said. “Ruth gave it to him.”

“He's going easy on 'im, that's for sure,” Uncle Jim said.

“Wait 'til you see Buddy Myer,” Uncle George said. “He'll show you some baseball.”

Carl Sumner batted next. When he took his good old time positioning himself by the plate, Ruth crossed his arms and tapped his foot. When Sumner was ready, Ruth threw four fast pitches. Sumner missed the first two, stepped back to avoid being hit by the third, which the umpire called a no ball, then hit a grounder that bounded straight across the
field. Ruth stepped forward, scooped the ball up, and then threw it
to Gehrig on first. Gehrig caught it and tagged Sumner. Ball in hand, he glanced over at Simmons running for second and hesitated. Then he drilled the ball. But it was too late—Simmons was safe. It almost looked like Gehrig had done it on purpose.

Ruth struck out Boston's next two players in four pitches each. But somewhere in there, Simmons stole home. At the bottom of the first inning, when the Everett Blues took their turn at bat, Boston led 1 to 0.

Over the next three innings, the Red Sox put a man on every base and hit them in, one by one. The Everett team didn't score a single point. I figured it was because neither Ruth nor Gehrig had got to bat. When Aunt Mayme got upset about not seeing her favourite baseball player do what he was best at, Uncle George tried to put her at ease.

“It's Mayor Roche's team, Mayme. He calls the shots. Likely he wants to give his own players a chance to shine.”

By the fourth inning, the Red Sox were all over Everett. They made it look easy. Every Red Sox batter hit one either to the outfield or over
the fence. Well into the inning, with the bases loaded, Buddy Myer
stood at bat.

Uncle George perched at the edge of his seat and watched Myer
position himself. “That's got to be the best player out there.”

“Except for Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig,” I said.

“Of course; that's what I meant,” Uncle George replied.

“Do you think Ruth can strike him out?” Larry asked.

“I doubt it,” Uncle George said. “Ruth hasn't pitched in years.”

Myer swung his bat several times, warming up. Ruth removed his ball cap and scratched his head, like he was sizing Myer up.

“There he goes again,” Aunt Mayme said. “The antics.”

“It's all part of it,” Uncle George said.

Myer unwrapped his hands and rubbed them on his jersey, no doubt drying off the sweat. Then he gripped the bat again. If I were facing Babe Ruth, I'd be nervous too.

When Myer raised his bat to shoulder height and waited, Ruth threw his hands out, palms up, and faked a frown.

“He's havin' a good time out there, that's for sure,” Uncle Jim said.

Ruth wound up and pitched the fastest pitch I had ever seen. The ball left his hands and streaked by Myer in what had to be less than
a second. When it landed in Carrigan's glove, Myer looked around,
confused. He hadn't even swung.

“He wasn't expectin' that one,” Uncle Jim laughed.

Ruth made a sweeping bow and pitched again. Myer leaned over the plate, wound up like a spring. Ruth pitched again. The ball curved left, veered toward Myer, and hit him. We watched Myer drop his bat, and walk to first, a hand rubbing his shoulder.

“Looks like Ruth gave this one away, folks,” Stonewall Jackson said.

Ruth grimaced and shrugged at Stonewall as Myer picked up to a trot and his teammates moved to second, third, and home.

As the fourth inning lengthened, the score got worse. It looked like Everett was going to get skunked. Ruth didn't skirt around the mound so much. He kept his cap on his head and the sweeping bows disappeared. He threw easy, lobbing balls that didn't require his full force. He threw a fastball that went way too close to the plate and nearly hit Carrigan when the batter jumped back. He threw another one so low it looked like he was aiming for the batter's knees. The whole inning, we watched the Sox hit balls into the outfield or out onto Ferry Street. And the score mounted. When the sun dipped behind the old oak tree, casting a gloom across the field, the Red Sox were leading 9 to 0. And only two men out.

“Did anyone get the score from this afternoon's game?” Uncle Jim asked.

“The Sox lost 7 to 1,” Aunt Mayme said.

“You mean they got clobbered,” Uncle George said.

“Lookit them now,” Uncle Jim said. “They're all over Ruth.”

“Lou Gehrig could even things out—I just know it,” Aunt Mayme said.

“If Everett gets another turn at bat,” Uncle Jim said.

We all sat there, watching the sun set and the diamond grow dim. Wondering at the lopsided score.

“Johnnie Heving at bat,” Stonewall Jackson announced. “Doug Taitt on deck.”

“If Ruth can't strike Heving out, we're really in trouble,” Uncle George said.

According to Uncle George, Heving should have been easy pickings. But Ruth threw three consecutive balls that missed the plate and Heving walked.

“It's one thing to go easy on Heving,” Uncle George said. “It's another to throw away the game.”

As the Sox moved along the bases and a player walked home, Ruth looked up at the crowd and pursed his lips. Then he wiped his forehead and turned to Carrigan.

Carrigan pushed back his mask and frowned. He turned to the crowd, threw his hands in the air and shrugged the way Ruth had so many times that evening. I thought he was playing along with Ruth. I thought he was assuring us that the bad pitches were intentional; that Carrigan and the Babe had a strategy—some bit of baseball magic that would
pull the Everett Blues together and have them walking all over the
boys in red stripes. Season after season, Bill Carrigan and Babe Ruth had been a formidable duo when they had played together for the Red Sox, early in their careers. Now, they were losing to some of Boston's newest and weakest players. Aunt Mayme cleared it all up.

“You forget, George,” she said. “Those boys played all afternoon at Fenway in that terrible heat. They've been playing all week.”

The entire game, I had watched Babe Ruth's every move: the confident way he wound up and pitched the ball, the ease with which he caught it. How he had allowed a batter to run just to be a good sport. I felt connected to him, somehow. Even though he had been playing for the Yankees the last time I saw him, he was still my hero. But when Bill Carrigan signalled to the umpire and then to Lou Gehrig, and the umpire called a time out, I got the feeling that my hero was in some kind of trouble.

The crowd hushed as Carrigan and Gehrig headed to the mound. There was a brief discussion. Carrigan's hand went up and a finger wagged. Ruth put his hands on his hips and shook his head several times. When Ruth finally handed Gehrig the ball and walked to first
base, I got the same sinking feeling of shame for my favourite ball
player that I had the first time Old Dunphy had marched me off to the dummy desk.

“Do left-handed pitchers get tired faster than right-handers?” I asked no one in particular. “Is that why he's in trouble?”

“That's got nothin' to do with it,” Uncle Jim said.

“He's tired, dear,” Aunt Mayme said. “They're all likely tired. It's
been a long day for them.”

“Wait 'til you see him at bat,” Uncle George said. “Ruth'll go at 'im like a freight train.”

Lou Gehrig struck the next three players out, one after the other,
and put the Everett Blues at bat. A man sitting behind us said, “It's
about time.”

The sun sank lower still. We sat there wondering if the game would end before Everett had a chance to score.

“When's Babe Ruth going to bat?” I asked. I wanted to see him do what he was best at. I wanted to see him send one home.

Settlemire moved to the mound. An Everett Blues player stepped up to the plate and another one waited on deck. When Settlemire struck them out in three pitches each, the crowd booed.

“I'd like to see Lou Gehrig bat just once,” Aunt Mayme said.

Someone in front of us shouted, “Where's Ruth?”

A man behind us said, “We want to see the Iron Horse.”

From across the field someone stood up and shouted, “Yeah, we
want to see what we came here for.”

Home plate and the deck stood empty as the crowd heckled. We
sat there staring at the Everett dugout, wondering what Mayor Roche would do. Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig got up and walked toward the batter's box.

Stonewall Jackson picked up the bullhorn. “There they are folks:
the Twin Bombers of the New York Yankees.”

We all stood up and roared.

Ruth spoke a few words to Carrigan and picked up a bat. He swung several, lazy, left-handed swings, then gripped it in both hands and positioned himself at the plate.

“Settlemire's a reserve pitcher,” Uncle George said. “Ruth's likely
got him all figured out.”

“Imagine pitchin' against Babe Ruth,” Uncle Jim said. “If it were me,
I'd be plenty nervous right now.” I hadn't thought he knew a thing
about baseball.

Settlemire threw a fastball, first pitch. Ruth stepped back and
watched it streak across the plate and into the catcher's glove.

“Strike one,” the umpire called.

Ruth gave the umpire a crooked smile and repositioned himself
at bat.

“What's he doing?” Larry asked.

“Come on, Ruth,” someone shouted from across the field. “Show us what you got.”

Settlemire pitched again. Again, Ruth missed.

The umpire raised two fingers, calling the strike.

Ruth removed his cap and wiped his forehead.