Chapter 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 Yankee 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.

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

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

“Huh?” the kids said, completely befuddled.

“Here,” Babe said, pulling a twenty dollar 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, I was in a car driven by Babe Ruth. I almost died. Well, he rode a bicycle the same way--like a maniac. He took off and was immediately pedaling furiously, weaving around street vendors, potholes, and up on the curb past garbage cans. 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 just cut in front of them. Little old ladies were diving out of his way.

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.

I had been to New York a few times now, so it wasn’t so new and different to me. I barely looked at the old time street lights, 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 “The Last of the Mohicans” starring Wallace Beery. Whoever he was.

We crossed busy 125th street and then 134th street. I remembered from my last trip that The Polo Grounds was at 168th street. As we got close, there were fewer stores, cars, or people on the street. I could feel my heartbeat calming 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 a 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, but it looked like batting practice. 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 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 the Babe. As soon as they saw him, they surrounded him with pencils and papers.

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

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

“Ruth! You’re late!”

The high-pitched voice came from a tiny man with big ears. He wasn’t much taller than me, and I’m 5’3”. His uniform looked two sizes too big on him. It was almost funny watching the guy yell at Babe Ruth. He was so small, he looked like he could be a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Ah, keep your shirt on, Hug,” Babe said. “I’m here, ain’t I? The game didn’t start yet.”

Hug. I remembered that there used to be a manager named Miller Huggins. He was in The Baseball Hall of Fame.

“I need you to be here two hours before game time, Ruth!” Huggins said, wagging his finger in Babe’s face. “That’s the rule.”

“Aw, c’mon, Hug, my friend here is dyin’!” Babe said, throwing me a wink. “I had to visit him in the hospital. Ain’t that right, kid? What’s your name again? Stash?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, coughing loudly. “Stosh.”

“Yeah, Stosh,” Babe said, “The kid has...”

“Cancer,” I said.

“Right, cancer,” said the Babe. “Poor kid has cancer. He’s real sick, Hug.”

“He don’t look sick to me,” Huggins said, looking me up and down suspiciously.

“Oh, he looks fine,” Babe explained, “but he’s about to drop dead. He probably won’t make it through the weekend.”

“How come every kid you know is dyin’, Ruth?” Huggins demanded. “Every day you come in here late with a new kid who’s dyin’. Don’tcha ever meet any kids who ain’t dyin’?”

“Sure, Hug. I don’t just meet sick kids.”

“Maybe the kid’s just sick of you,” Huggins said. “I know I am. Hey, what’s in that bag, kid?”

“That’s his medicine,” Babe said before I could answer. “Keep your paws off.”

“Medicine?” Huggins wasn’t buying it. “Looks like a lot of medicine for one kid.”

“I told you, Hug, the kid is about to drop dead!” Babe said. “He needs a lotta medicine. But I’m gonna hit a homer for him today. That oughta make him feel better. Ain’t that right, kid?”

“Sure, Babe!”

“Hey Ruth!” hollered one of the players. “How’s the kid gonna feel when you strike out three times, like yesterday?”

“Ah, stop flappin’ yer gums!” Babe hollered back. “I’m gonna get me a rubdown.”

Babe wandered off to the trainer’s room and left me standing in the middle of the locker room. I guess I was disposable too. I looked around. One of these guys had to be Carl Mays, but none of them had names or numbers on their uniforms so I didn’t know which one he was.

“Hey, kid,” said somebody behind me. I turned around to see a tall player writing on a baseball. “I hope you don’t drop dead or nothin’.”

He handed me the ball. It had red and blue stitching on it. I turned it around. On the other side were the words WALLY PIPP!? I remembered that name. He was the guy Flip told us about! Flip said Pipp played for the Yankees in the 1920s. And here he was!

“You play first base, right?” I asked.

“That’s right,” Pipp said.

“Listen, uh, this is gonna sound a little nutty,” I told him, “But don’t ever ask for a day off, okay?”

“Huh?” Pipp said. “Why not?”

“You’re not gonna believe this,” I explained, “but in a few years you’re gonna have a headache. And you’re gonna ask for a day off. And some young guy named Lou Gehrig is gonna take your place that day. And he’s gonna be so good that he’s gonna take your job. And the Yankees are gonna send you to Cincinnati. Trust me on this.”

Wally Pipp looked at me like I was crazy.

“How would you know what’s gonna happen in a few years?” he asked. “I never even heard of nobody named Gehrig. You really are sick, kid. Maybe you better get back to the hospital.”

I could have tried to convince Wally Pipp not to ask for a day off. I could have argued with him. But there was no point. My mom always told me that you’ve got to choose your battles in life. I had more important things to do than save Wally Pipp’s career.

“Forget it,” I told Pipp. “Thanks for the ball. Can you tell me where I can find Carl Mays?”

Pipp pointed to a locker all the way in the corner of the clubhouse.

“Over there,” Pipp told me. “But don’t bother him. He don’t like bein’ bothered. Especially today. He’s going for his 100th career victory.”

Carl Mays was sitting hunched over on a bench by himself, with his back to me. He was stripped to the waist, wearing gym shorts. He appeared to be lost in thought. His foot was nervously tapping on the floor.

As I got closer, I could see there was a scar on the back of his left leg, maybe six inches long. On the floor of his locker were four pairs of baseball shoes, all shined up and lined up perfectly in a row. There were a few bats leaning against the wall behind him, also perfectly in a line. He was probably a neat freak.

Suddenly, I had an incredible idea. I could accomplish my mission right here and now, it occurred to me. I didn’t have to give a batting helmet to Ray Chapman to save his life. All I had to do was pick up one of those bats and whack Carl Mays in his pitching arm with it!

If he was injured, he wouldn’t be able to play. And if he wasn’t able to play, he wouldn’t be able to hit Ray Chapman in the head with a ball. And if he didn’t hit Chapman with the ball, well, you get the idea.

It would be so easy!

My mind was racing, but I had to think this thing through. If I whacked Mays with the bat, the rest of the Yankees would surely surround me in about two seconds and beat the crap out of me. I’d most likely get arrested, and possibly thrown in jail. If they took away my new pack of baseball cards, there would be no way for me to get back home again. I’d be stuck in 1920 forever.

It was a dilemma. If I whacked Mays with the bat, I would be saving Ray Chapman’s life, and possibly ruining my own. Is it the right thing to do to hurt somebody if it would save somebody else’s life? I didn’t know.

I eyed the bats. I could always argue that by hitting Mays with a bat, I was saving two lives. Chapman wouldn’t die, and Mays wouldn’t have to go through the rest of his life knowing that he killed Chapman.

But who would believe me afterward, when I explained that I was only trying to help these guys? I was the only person in 1920 who knew that Ray Chapman was going to be dead in a matter of hours. Nobody else had a clue. They would just think I was some crazy kid who attacked Carl Mays with a bat.

There wasn’t a lot of time to work out all the consequences. I had to make a decision fast.

I put down the ball that Wally Pipp gave me. I picked up one of Carl Mays’ bats.