Ben Bova - The Babe, the Iron Horse, and Mr. McGillicuddy

“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.”

But Mack wasn’t listening to the Babe, who, Mack figured, would just have to make his decision later. For now, Mack had heard the clatter of a dying engine out in the parking lot and rose to head out that way, excusing himself absentmindedly and leaving six more hot dogs with Ruth—enough, Mack hoped, to tide the Babe over for a few minutes.

Although he carried a cane, the elderly Mack seemed almost to glide along the row of seats and out to the steps that led up from the box seats to the back ramp of the stadium. From there, he watched as an old 1937 Ford bus clanged and popped its way into the empty parking lot. There was a cloud of blue smoke and a loud bang as the engine finally seized up entirely and the bus shuddered to a stop.

Mack frowned slightly, then watched with interest as the front door of the bus creaked open halfway. A hand reached out and tugged, tugged again, and the door creaked open another foot or so. People started to emerge.

First off the bus was Leo Durocher, scowling and cursing, five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw. Pushing him from behind was Pete Rose, who in turn was being pushed by Ty Cobb, who threatened to spike Rose if he didn’t hurry it up.

A quiet, scared-looking Joe Jackson got off next. Then came Billy Martin, Buck Weaver, Bill Terry, John “Bad Dude” Sterns, Carl Mays, Eddie Stanky, Sal Ivars, Bill Lee, Bob Gibson, Rogers Hornsby, Thurman Munson. This was a tough bunch of guys.

Charlie Comiskey had driven the bus, and was still on it, arguing with someone while the others stood around outside, waiting.

“Damn it, we’re here. You have to get off now. We can settle all this later.”

“Mierda,” said a voice from the back of the bus, which was enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘You are all the same, always, you colonialists, always demanding that we do your bidding. Well, I tell you this, I will get off when I am damn well ready to get off, and no sooner. Comprende?”

“Get your ass out here, Fidel,” shouted Rose. Then he turned to Durocher and added, “Damn commies. All the same, I swear.”

Durocher nodded, but added, “I played winter ball down there in Cuba a couple of times, Petey. Great times. Food was good, women were fast, and the players were pretty damn decent. Them Cubanos aren’t too bad, really. But this guy? Shit. Nothing but bitching for twenty miles of bumpy roads getting here.”

Durocher looked over at the ballpark. “Where the hell is ‘here,’ anyway?”

“Fostoria, Ohio, Leo,” said Comiskey, giving up on Castro for the moment and stepping down from the bus. “Nice little park. Seats about a thousand. Built in the early twenties. Two shower heads. Cold water. A few nails to hang your street clothes on. You’ll love the accommodations.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Bill Terry. “I played in this park. It’s got a godforsakin’ skin infield, and some fucking mountains in the outfield. What a hellhole. Jesus, the Ohio State League. I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”

Comiskey just smiled and pointed toward the door that said “Visitors” in faded black paint. The players headed that way, all except for Castro, who still wouldn’t budge.

“Hey, Fidel,” said Rose, “I hear Lou Gehrig’s in there taking batting practice. If you can move your fat Cuban ass outa there you can pitch to him today. Wouldn’t that be something, striking out Gehrig?”

There was a rustle from the back of the bus, and then Castro’s head appeared out the top half of one cracked window. “Gehrig? Is this true?”

“Swear to God, Fidel. Swear to God. The Iron Horse himself. And in his prime.”

Fidel looked at Comiskey, who simply nodded. It was true. “Well, then,” said Castro. ‘This is a different circumstance, and I have always been a realist, one ready to meet changing conditions.”

“Yeah, right,” said Rose with a chuckle, “I bet that’s it, all right. Changing conditions. C’mon, Fidel, quit your bitching and haul it out of there. We got a game to play.”

Castro stared for a few quiet moments at the grinning Rose. There were things to be done with people like him. But not here, not now. Not with Gehrig himself inside, warming up. Such an oportunidad! It was not to be missed.

And so, a few minutes later, while Connie Mack watched with a sad smile from the upper deck, the President for Life and the gambler walked behind the Black Sox owner toward the clubhouse door, and the field, and the game.

It was a battle, right from the outset. Koufax was blazing fast, and his curve looked as if it were dropping off a table. But Ty Cobb chopped one of those curves into the dirt along the third-base line and beat it out for a single. Then Rogers Hornsby slapped a Texas Leaguer that dropped between Gehrig, Gehringer, and Aaron for a double while Cobb raced home with the first run. Koufax then fanned Ducky Medwick and Bill Terry to end the inning with Hornsby stranded on second.

As the players trooped in from the dugout, Gehrig saw the Babe sitting alone and forlorn in the box seat. He waved to his old teammate, then ducked into the shadow of the dugout and sat next to Connie Mack.

“What’s this all about, Mr. Mack?” he asked, as he sat next to the frail-looking old man.

“What do you mean, Louis?”

Phil Rizzuto led off for Mack’s team. Carl Mays scowled at the diminutive shortstop, then threw a wicked underhand fast ball at the Scooter’s head. Rizzuto hit the dirt as Bill Klem calmly called ball one.

“This game, the guys here.” Gehrig’s handsome face was truly troubled. “I mean, I died, Mr. Mack. There was a lot of pain, and I was in the hospital, and my wife was crying and… all of a sudden, I’m here.”

“I died, too, Louis,” said Mack, as Rizzuto danced away from another fast ball aimed at his ear. “Everyone dies.”

Gehrig stared at him. “Then… where are we?”

Mack smiled gently. “That all depends, Louis. It all depends on this game. And that big fellow sitting up there in the stands.”

“The Babe?”

Mack nodded as Rizzuto slapped weakly at a curve and popped it toward Eddie Stanky at second base. The Scooter trudged halfway down the base path, then turned toward the dugout, looking glad to be out of range of Mays’s beanballs.

Gehrig scanned the infield. “Wait a minute, where’s Hornsby? Who’s that little fellow out at second?”

Connie Mack sighed unhappily. “The other team has a certain amount of flexibility in the rules,” he said.

“They can take players in and out of the lineup whenever they want to?”

With an even deeper sigh, Mack admitted, “That was just one of the provisions that Mr. Comiskey insisted upon, Louis. There are other changes, too. Now and again you’ll see them playing on an artificial surface, a kind of fake grass. It helps the singles hitters immensely. You’ll see their Rose fellow take special advantage of that, I suspect. And if this threatening weather actually turns to rain, they’ll play indoors, in a ballpark with a roof over it.”

Gehrig gaped at the thought.

“And they even have what they call a designated hitter, Louis, a fellow who just steps up to the plate and hits for the pitcher. He never has to play any defense.”

“Really?” Gehrig shook his head in surprise. “Free substitution? Fake grass? A roof, for god’s sake? Full-time hitters? That just doesn’t seem like baseball to me, Mr. Mack.”

“There are a lot of us who feel that way, Louis, but those are today’s rules.”

“And we can’t get our own roof, or use a permanent hitter if we want?”