waiting anxiously for the ticket to arrive. Finally, on Friday the 25th of April, just two days before the game, the ticket arrived. It came in a plain white envelope, with no return address. The postmark was from New York City. The ticket was wrapped in a blank piece of scrap paper neatly folded around the ticket so it could not be seen from the outside of the envelope. No words, no clues.
As I looked at the ticket, my skepticism over Johnny lifted. He had really come through; he had gotten me a ticket for one of the greatest moments that baseball history may ever produce. I tucked the ticket safely away in the back of my wallet.
The anticipation I felt over the next day was overwhelming. I had not looked forward to anything as much as this since September 4th, 1923. I got the Sunday train schedule for trains leaving from the station at 30th Street. I made sure that even if I missed one, that there would be another train that would still get me there on time.
I arrived at 30th Street Station a little after seven in the morning on Sunday. The train I planned to take was already sitting at the station. I jumped on board right away, but the train sat for about thirty minutes before it pulled out of the station. When it finally left, the train let out a loud shriek of the horn that signaled our departure.
Sitting on the train, I watched the miles between Philadelphia and New York roll by, I could not help but think about Johnny. I wondered if I would even recognize him, after all it had been so many years. I wondered what he did for a living, and if he was married and had a family. I wondered if he was finally able to find any peace and happiness.
By the time the train rolled in to the New York City station it was almost 10 AM. I had plenty of time before the game, so I did a little sightseeing, walking the streets of the big city. The streets were not as crowded as I had expected. It was a quiet Sunday morning. I felt dwarfed as I wandered among the massive concrete buildings. Philadelphia did not have anything to compare to this. By noon, I was on a local train headed towards Yankee Stadium, my excitement level rising by the minute. I could feel my pulse quicken and kept rubbing my hands together to try to calm down.
On the train, I sat next to a father and son who were heading for the game. The boy looked to be about twelve years old, sat with a slightly crumpled photograph of Babe Ruth in his lap.
“Are you going to the game today?” the little boy asked me.
“Yep, I came all the way from Philadelphia for this game. An old friend of mine got me a ticket, and here I am.”
“I never saw the Babe play, but I know how great he is,” the boy said as he pointed to the photograph.
“I only saw him play one game myself, and to be honest with you it was only in an exhibition game back in 1923.”
“What’s an exhibition game?” the boy asked.
“Well, that is a game that doesn’t really count,” I answered. “He was just playing in a charity game to help pay for a kids baseball field.”
“The Babe was real nice that way,” the father chimed in.
“I bet the Babe still hit a homer in that game,” the boy said smiling.
“Not exactly, but as I remember it he did hit a ball that may have went six hundred feet, and believe it or not he stole home. It was a pretty incredible exhibition game.”
I got off the train and walked a block up to the stadium. I had worried that I would not know which direction to walk, but soon realized that everybody coming off the train was walking the same direction. I allowed myself to be swept up in the crowd and followed them to the end of the next block. As I turned the corner, I could see it, Yankee Stadium. A place that was as mythical as the lost city of Atlantis. A place so legendary, that just the sight of it made me stop dead in my tracks. Its majesty had to be soaked in. It was as special as seeing the Sistine Chapel itself. It was as large and grand as I had envisioned. I walked around the entire perimeter of the stadium, trying to take a mental picture of it from every angle.
Something about the mood of the crowd struck me. It wasn’t
a raucous crowd that you might expect headed towards a baseball game. They were quiet and respectful, seeming to me to be more like a crowd headed to church on a Sunday morning. I had not really thought about it, but it made sense. Even though this was going to be a tribute to Ruth, there was something greater going on. Everybody knew that Ruth was sick, but we did not know how sick he was. People did not know what to expect, and there was a sense of apprehension hanging in the air.
I had not seen Ruth in person since that day in 1923, and wondered how the years had changed him. I had seen him before he had gained weight and had become the full-bodied figure that everyone associated with Babe Ruth. The bigger than life figure that is emblazoned in all our memories.
I waited outside the main gate, hoping to see Johnny before he entered the park. As start of the tribute fast approached, I decided that it was time to go in. I wanted to wait for Johnny, but I did not want to miss the Babe. Maybe Johnny was already inside and I had missed him. I waited in line, and entered through the turnstile at the main gate.
It took me a few minutes to get my bearings, and followed the signs to my section. One of the ushers helped me find my seat.
“Sir you’re over here on the aisle,” he said. “Are you alone?”
“No, I am meeting a friend here. He bought me my ticket and told me to meet him here.”
“I guess he gonna be in the empty seat next to you, I’m sure he’ll be here soon. After all nobody wants to miss the tribute to Babe.”
“Yea, there aren’t too many empty seats; it looks like everyone’s here already. I just cannot believe I’m here. Yankee Stadium, this is unbelievable.”
“I guess it’s your first time here.”
“Yep, but I read and heard so much about it. It’s as beautiful as I had imagined.”
“Well, you picked a heck of a day for your fist visit. A couple minutes from now Babe Ruth is gonna be standin’ right there.”
This was not only Babe Ruth day in Yankee Stadium, but also the new commissioner of baseball, Happy Chandler, had proclaimed it Babe Ruth Day at every stadium where baseball was to be played that day. The speech by Ruth would be rebroadcast through every stadium over their loudspeaker systems. This was to be a national event, something that the entire country would share in together.
The groundskeepers were getting the field ready for the game. Around home plate, they had set up a group of four microphones so that the speeches could be heard around the stadium as well as on radio. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest as the ceremony was about to start. Still, there was no sign of Johnny. Was it possible that he was going to do it to me again?
Just as the first speaker approached the microphone, I felt something pushing against my knees. I looked up and I saw a ragged figure, unshaven and looking total out of place. I had been totally immersed in what was happening on the field, and this man’s kick to my knees had completely startled me. It took me a second to realize that I was probably blocking the path to his seat, so I stood up and motioned for him to enter. As he passed in front of me, I could not help but notice the strong odor coming from his body. It was strong enough that I tried to stop breathing for a moment until he had passed far enough away that he would be out of my range of smell. Instead of continuing down the row, he stopped at the seat next to me and sat down. As I looked into to his face, I instantly knew that it was Johnny.
His face looked weathered, and whatever weight advantage he had over me when we were kids was now gone. He looked gaunt and sickly, dirty and beaten down. He stood out like a sore thumb in this crowd of well-dressed men with their fine suits and their custom trimmed hats. He could have benefited from a good bath and a nice shave, but through the dirt, I saw the face of my boyhood friend, Johnny.
Just as I leaned over to say something to him, the voices started speaking over the loudspeakers. It was probably just as well since I was starting to speak to Johnny, but had no idea of what in the world I was going to say to him. Luckily, the blaring s
ounds of the loudspeaker system completely drowned me out. Johnny reached over and squeezed my hand, not so much a handshake, but more like you would squeeze a rag hard to get the last drop of moisture out.
As the speeches went on Johnny looked over at me a few times. We watched as they introduced Larry Cutler, a thirteen-year-old boy, who welcomed the Babe into the new job they had created just for him, Director of Baseball for the American Legion. We listened as he spoke.
“I guess there are thousands of thirteen year old fellows like myself in this country, who have heard about Babe Ruth ever since the first time they learned there was such a game as baseball. It’s a great honor to be here just to be able to tell Babe Ruth how proud we are to have him back in baseball, back where he belongs. And to know that Babe Ruth is going to be with us kids, well that is the biggest and best thing that could happen. From all us kids today it’s swell to have you back.”
When the young boy had finished speaking the Yankees announcer, Mel Allen introduced the Babe to the crowd. The 58,339 people in the stands cheered as mightily as their voices would allow. The Babe walked up to the microphone. His appearance was dramatically different from the last time he had been seen in public. He had become a shrunken version of the man that had struck so much fear in the hearts of American League