The Babe, the Iron Horse, and Mr. McGillicuddy
by Ben Bova & Rick Wilber
Illustration by Steve Cavallo
The Iron Horse uncoiled, bringing the hips through first and then following with the shoulders, those quick wrists, that snap as the bat hit the ball.
It was just batting practice, but Lou felt wonderful, like a kid again, with no pain, with the body doing what it had always done so well. He had no idea what was going on, how he’d gotten here, what had happened. He almost didn’t want to think about it, for fear it might all be some hallucination, some death dream, his mind going crazy in the last moments, trying to make the dying easier for him.
There was a sharp crack as he sent a towering shot toward the center field wall in Yankee Stadium, over the wall for sure, sailing high and deep. He stood there and watched this one go. It would be nearly five hundred feet before it landed, he guessed.
But the Negro ballplayer roaming around out in center shagging flies did it again, turned his back to the plate and raced away, heading straight toward the wall, full tilt. There was, surprisingly, a lot of room now in center, and the Negro had blazing speed. He somehow managed to nearly catch up with the ball, and then, amazingly, reached straight out in front to make a basket catch over his shoulder. It was a beautiful catch, an amazing one, really—the large number 24 on the man’s back was all that Lou could see for a moment as the ball was caught.
Then the Negro turned and fired a strike toward second, where Charlie Gehringer waited for it, catching it on one long hop and sweeping the bag as if there were a runner sliding in. Gehringer whooped as he made the tag, as impressed as everyone else with the center fielder’s skill. Then he rolled the ball in toward the batting practice pitcher.
On the mound, taking a ball out of the basket and pounding it into his catcher’s mitt, Yogi just smiled. Like everyone else, he didn’t understand how this was happening, how they all had come to be here—but he really didn’t care. When he let that last pitch go he’d of sworn he was in Yankee Stadium somehow, but then, looking at Willie chase it down in dead center, it looked for all the world like the Polo Grounds. Yogi looked in toward the plate and could see Coogan’s Bluff in the background.
It didn’t make any kind of sense, but Yogi just decided he wasn’t going to worry about it. He and the other fellows were having a good time, that was all. And he’d been right, he figured with pride. It wasn’t over till it was over.
He took a quick look around. There was Willie Mays out there in center, and Gehringer at second, and Ted out in left. Next to the cage, swinging a couple of bats, getting loose to hit next, was Scooter himself, happy as a clam. There were great players everywhere, and more showing up all the time, walking in from the clubhouse or just suddenly out there, in the field, taking infield or shagging flies.
Yogi counted heads. Where, he wondered, was the Babe? You’d think he’d be here, joking with the guys, taking a few of those thunderous cuts. That’d sure be fine, Yogi thought, to throw a few in to the Babe and then watch the ball fly out of the ballpark.
Well, maybe later. For now, Yogi figured he had no complaints coming. He went into a half-wind, took a short stride toward the plate, making sure to get the pitch up over that open comer of the screen that protected him from shots up the middle, and threw another straight ball in to Lou. Imagine, he thought, me, throwing batting practice to Gehrig. The line drive back at him almost took his head off.
In the stands, up a dozen rows near the back of the box seats, an old, fat, sad-faced Babe Ruth sat in a wide circle of peanut shells. He was eating hot dogs now, and drinking Knickerbocker beer, watching batting practice, not saying much. He knew a few of the guys out there, but couldn’t place the others. There was a sharp clap of thunder, and the Babe wondered if the day might be rained out. Low dark clouds circled the field, swirling and rumbling with menace.
Next to him sat white-haired, saintly Connie Mack, producing hot dog after hot dog as Ruth shoved them into that maw and chewed them down. Ruth was perspiring in a heavy flannel suit. Mack, slim as a willow, looked coolly comfortable in his customary dark suit, starched collar, and straw boater.
“George,” Mack said, “isn’t that about enough for now?”
Ruth never stopped chewing, but managed to say, “Mr. Mack, I ain’t got any idea how long it’s been since I sat in a ballyard and ate a hot dog, and I also ain’t got any idea how long this is gonna last. Them clouds move in and this thing’ll be a rain-out. I’m eating while I can, you know?”
“George, I understand. Truly I do. But I really don’t think it will rain, and I’d hoped that you might want to get out there and take a few cuts, meet the other fellows. There are some very fine players out there.”
Mack pointed toward the infield. ‘That fellow there at third is Brooks Robinson, as fine a glove man as you’ll ever see at that position. And at shortstop, that young, lanky fellow is Marty Marion, one of the slickest men to ever play short. And there, in the outfield, is Willie Mays, the Negro who just caught that ball. Next to him, in left, is Ted Williams…
“I know him, the Williams kid,” said the Babe between bites. “Helluva young hitter. Got a real future.”
“Indeed,” said Mack. “And at second is Charlie Gehringer, you know him, too. And there are others showing up all the time. Look, there’s Dominic DiMaggio, and Hoot Evers. These are good men, Babe, all of them, good men. You really should make the decision to join them, before it’s too late.”
“Who’s that catching?”
“Fellow named Wilber. Del Wilber. A journeyman, but with a fine mind, Babe. He’ll make a fine manager someday, and he has a good, strong arm. He’ll cut people down at second if we need him to play.”
“And pitching?”
“That’s a coach throwing batting practice, Yogi Berra. Another good catcher, too, in his day. He can help us if it comes to that. And warming up out there in the bullpen is Sandy Koufax, he’s our starter. You should see his curveball, George, it’s really something.
“You know,” Mack said, “you belong out there. You really do. You should be loosening up a bit, running around out in the outfield, a few windsprints perhaps, instead of,” he handed the Babe a napkin, “this.”
The Babe shook his head. “I gave all that up a few years back. I appreciate it, Mr. Mack. But the thing is, it’s like this, I hung ’em up, Mr. Mack, and that’s all there is to it. Now if you need a manager… you know, I was just getting the hang of it in ’35.”
Mack smiled. “I’m afraid that the managerial position is filled for now, George. But, there is a roster spot for you, I’d love to have you on my team. You could play in the outfield for us, or even pitch. I think you’d enjoy it.”
The Babe held out his hand, and Mack started to shake it, thinking the deal was done, and quite early, too. Then he realized what the Babe really wanted, sighed to himself, and obligingly placed another hot dog into it.
“Maybe in a little while, Mr. Mack,” Ruth said, taking a huge first bite. “But right now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just sit and watch Lou and these other guys. The Dutchman, he looks fine, don’t he? Always was a sweet hitter, got those wrists, you know? Snap on that ball and away she goes.”
There was another sharp crack as Gehrig sent one deep to center. Mays drifted under this one, waited, then made a basket catch to some general laughter from the other players. What a showboat, that Mays.
“He’s something, ain’t he, that boy?” said the Babe. “Remember Josh Gibson, Mr. Mack? Now, there was a ballplayer. Boy, I tell you, he could he hit that thing a ton! Played against him once or twice in exhibitions.”