The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Read online

  I tried to catch Margie’s eye, certain she would know what I was thinking. But she gave only a hint of a smile in return and looked away. Something was troubling her.

  Van Dusen said, “Margie tells us you’re Babe Ruth’s roommate. So… I was hoping you could ask him to meet with me. He’d be the perfect ballplayer to launch the new movie series.”

  Now I really did understand: Van Dusen was only interested in me because of my connection to the Babe. I remembered that Margie had been trying to tell me something just before we’d met Van Dusen, and I was sure this was it. I gave Margie a smile and a small nod to let her know that it was alright. She visibly relaxed.

  I said to Van Dusen, “Ruth was at the train station. You could have met him there.”

  He shook his head. “I would have only been a face in the crowd. I need to talk to him one-on-one. Also I’m hoping you might use your influence to sell him on my idea. I assume you two must be pretty close.”

  “Sorry, but I barely know the man. I spend more nights with Ruth’s suitcase than I do with him.”

  Van Dusen let loose a theatrical belly laugh. “Yes, he is rather renowned for his extracurricular activities. And that’s why I believe this picture would be good for him as well as for us. With all the bad publicity he’s been getting lately, a good clean motion picture could do a lot for his image.”

  It might take more than one movie, I thought. The Babe had been hit with a paternity suit in November, and in January even the discreet New York Times alluded to his sexual history by describing him as “a man of many infections.” And, of course, there was no secret about his drinking. Another newspaper ran a headline just last month that announced “Ruth Training on Scotch.”

  A thoughtful expression briefly altered Van Dusen’s pretty boy features. He added, “Of course I only mentioned Babe Ruth first because he would be the star. There would certainly be a part in the movie for you, too.” No doubt Van Dusen assumed I would jump at the chance, but I didn’t find the role of afterthought to be all that appealing.

  Natalie Brockman roused herself. “I would love to meet Babe Ruth,” she slurred. “From what I hear, he must be quite an athlete.” She flicked a half inch of cigarette ash on to the floor and returned to contemplating her champagne.

  I was pretty sure Brockman wanted more from Ruth than an autograph. I also suspected that the Babe would more agreeable to whatever she might propose than to anything Van Dusen had in mind.

  For Margie’s sake, I finally answered, “I promise I’ll talk to him if I get a chance. But I don’t see much of him when we’re in New York. He stays at the Ansonia. We only room together on the road.”

  “Fair enough,” Van Dusen said. “That’s all I can ask.”

  Margie abruptly spoke up. “This was a lovely lunch, but if you’ll excuse us I really need to get Mickey home.”

  I smiled at her. I was glad there was somebody in the world who was more interested in me than in my roommate.

  Chapter Three

  The temperature was barely fifty and wintry clouds scudded across the threatening gray sky. There was also an electricity in the air that had nothing to do with the weather. Wednesday, April 18, 1923, would be a day for the history books and it seemed that all of New York wanted to share in the occasion.

  This was Opening Day for the most majestic ballpark ever built—no, not “ballpark,” but stadium. Thousands of tons of steel and concrete had been put together in a structure so imposing that the usual names of “park,” “field,” or “grounds” were inadequate. The new home of New York’s American League franchise, swathed in patriotic bunting, was being unveiled to the public as Yankee Stadium.

  Almost two hours before the scheduled first pitch, Babe Ruth led us onto the park’s fresh green turf. Even the Babe, who was larger than life himself, seemed staggered by the scale of this baseball palace. “Some ballyard!” he exclaimed. We all stopped for a moment to gaze around. The structure wasn’t impressive only in size, but in design. The team’s owners had spent wildly to make this a monument for the ages. The stadium looked as if it could last as long as the Roman Coliseum that some said it resembled. The structure featured splendid architectural embellishments, my favorite being the scalloped copper frieze on the grandstand roof.

  This was the first ballpark in history to have three tiers of seating, and it easily had the largest capacity. Although tickets were expensive—from one dollar for the bleacher section to $3.50 for reserved—they all sold easily and a small army of ushers attired in tuxedos had been employed to escort patrons to their seats. As the stadium filled, we had received attendance updates in the locker room: fifty thousand, sixty thousand, seventy thousand. Then came reports on the number of fans that had to be turned away: ten thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand. I had thought that the counts must have been exaggerated, but from what I could see now, there appeared to be a million people packed in the seats and standing in the aisles. It looked like a dark roiling sea of wool overcoats, felt derbies and cloth caps. A rumbling sound from thousands of throats filled the air and reverberated through the vast space.

  To keep warm, all the Yankees wore long sweaters over our pin-striped white flannels. The sweaters were trimmed in navy and adorned with an interlocking “NY” that matched the one on our caps. The Babe stepped forward to a thunder of cheers, and the rest of us followed. I was near the end of the line but not last; behind me walked Hinkey Haines, who had made the roster as a utility outfielder.

  Like the fans, most of us had hopeful eyes on Babe Ruth. Just as he was leading us onto the field, we were counting on him and his fifty-three ounce bat to lead us to the pennant. He was well aware of how much everyone was depending on him, and was eager for a good start. In the clubhouse, he had said wistfully, “I’d give a year off my life to hit one today.”

  I certainly didn’t want to shorten his life span, but I hoped that he’d hit one, too. Last year, the Babe had missed all of April and most of May because of a six-week suspension. He was suspended four more times during the year, easily leading the league in that unfortunate statistic, and had ended the season by hitting a pitiful .118 in the World Series—less than half my lifetime batting average. Some sports writers suggested that Ruth was washed up. That made me wonder: If Babe Ruth could be over the hill at twenty-eight, what was I at thirty-one? And I had never even been up the hill!

  At the moment, though, I felt no fears or worries, only excitement about what might be in store. Playing the first game of the season in this spectacular new stadium, with a crowd larger than many city populations, there was every reason for optimism. I was just a sucker for Opening Day and the promises of spring.

  Of course, Opening Day in a new stadium required that the pregame ceremonies be interminably long. Every politician and dignitary wanted his moment in the spotlight and a photograph with Babe Ruth. We waited while public officials from the Bronx borough president to the superintendent of West Point had their images taken alongside the Babe. Every pose was documented by dozens of photographers. With each shot, smoke from the flash powder puffed into the air like naval broadsides.

  The most awkward photographs of the day had to be those of Yankees owners Jacob Ruppert and Til Huston. The two men had become such bitter enemies in recent years that Baseball Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis had to stand between them as a buffer. The three men were a contrast of styles: Ruppert dignified and dapper, Huston a disheveled man of almost three hundred pounds, Landis a slightly built, white-maned federal judge who ruled organized baseball with an iron fist. All three of them waved to the crowd enthusiastically, and accepted the crowd’s applause as if they had each personally put every stone in place.

  When the smoke cleared from the photographs, John Philip Sousa himself led the Seventh Regiment National Guard Band around the park. Seventy-five instruments blasted out the old march king’s compositions, but the park was so large that the music could barely be heard when the band was on the far side of the
field. After one tour around the perimeter of the park, the band halted near home plate and struck up The Stars and Stripes Forever. In tight formation, the musicians marched to the flagpole in distant centerfield, with the players of both clubs following them in an orderly procession.

  Boston manager Frank Chance was given the honor of raising the American flag while the band launched into a spirited rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. Miller Huggins followed by raising the Yankees’ 1922 American League Championship pennant.

  I looked over at our opponents and at the scarlet “Red Sox” across their jerseys. I had played for Boston myself in 1912 when Fenway Park was new. Now I had to face them as an enemy. Of course, going from the Red Sox to the Yankees wasn’t unique to me. Most of the Yankees roster, including Ruth, Jumpin’ Joe Dugan, shortstop Everett Scott, and virtually the entire pitching staff, had once worn a Red Sox uniform. I knew that changing clubs was part of baseball, and that today’s teammate could be out to beat you as an opponent tomorrow, but the switch from Boston to bitter rival New York was almost like transferring from the American Expeditionary Force to the Kaiser’s Imperial Guard during the Great War.

  After the flag-raising, the players marched back to a spot near home plate, where Governor Al Smith prepared to throw the ceremonial first pitch. He astonished everyone who’d ever seen a politician throw a baseball by tossing a perfect strike to Wally Schang.

  I was getting restless. The ceremonies were a requisite for the occasion, but they were all about the owners and the politicians. I was a player, and I was eager for the first real pitch of the actual game to start the new season.

  Finally, the field was cleared of politicians and the umpires took their positions on the diamond. Instead of the usual two umps, the American League had assigned three to this game. The venerable Tom Connolly was given the honor of calling balls and strikes. He had officiated the first game in Yankee history in 1903, back when the team was known as the Highlanders and played in Hilltop Park on Washington Heights.

  Because it was so difficult to hear in the vast stadium, two announcers were being used, one along each foul line. In resonant voices, they called out the starting lineups through hand-held megaphones. To no one’s surprise, “Mickey Rawlings” was not among the names they announced.

  I had held out some hope that I might get to fill in for shortstop Everett Scott, who had injured his ankle days earlier. But Scott had played in 986 consecutive games and was determined to reach one thousand. So I was relegated to the dugout bench.

  Miller Huggins chose right-hander Bob Shawkey to pitch the opener for us. The tall veteran was the Yankees’ workhorse, pitching almost 300 innings in 1922. Shawkey took the mound, his trademark red-sleeved undershirt sticking out of his uniform. It was ironic that he was the only Yankee with a splash of Red Sox color on him because he was the only starter in our rotation who had never pitched for Boston.

  Behind the plate, Tom Connolly bellowed “Play ball!” and Boston lead-off man Chick Fewster stepped into the batter’s box. Shawkey unleashed a fastball for the first pitch in the new park. It didn’t even come close to the strike zone. He promptly buckled down, though, getting Fewster out on a grounder and retiring the rest of the side in order.

  Then it was time for Yankee bats to make their stadium debut. Whitey Witt, Joe Dugan, and Babe Ruth were the first three to face Howard Ehmke, who relied on slow, tricky pitches delivered with a hesitation move. Witt and Dugan were quick outs for the Boston hurler. Ruth, spurred on by the cheering crowd, fared somewhat better, lifting a high fly ball to left, but it was easily caught to end the inning.

  In the top of the second, Boston’s George Burns singled to right for the first hit in the new park. The first Yankee hit was by our second baseman Aaron Ward, and Bob Shawkey scored the first run.

  In the bottom of the third inning, with two runners on and two outs, it was the Babe’s turn again. As the crowd roared louder with each pitch, Ehmke cautiously worked Ruth to a two-two count. Then the wily pitcher served up a side-armed offering so slow that it didn’t look like it had enough stuff on it to reach home plate. Thanks to the Babe, it never did.

  Ruth shuffled forward in the batter’s box and unleashed his massive bat. The crack of wood on horsehide was louder than anything Sousa’s entire band had achieved. As the sound echoed through the park, the ball soared toward the frieze in right field… Home run!

  The big guy went into a happy trot around the bases while the screaming, joyous crowd littered the new field with shredded programs, half-eaten hot dogs, and more than a few hats. Fans danced in the aisles and jumped on the seats. Dozens of photographers who had been kneeling along the foul lines triggered their cameras to document the event. All of us on the bench bolted from the dugout, cheering as we swarmed the Babe.

  The game couldn’t continue until smoke from the photographers’ flash powder had cleared and groundskeepers had swept the field clean of debris. When Connolly again called “Play ball!” what followed was anticlimactic.

  Relying on nothing fancier than a hard fastball and a sharp curve, Shawkey completely dominated the Red Sox batters. By the fifth inning, with the Yankees up 4-0 and the skies growing dark and ominous, much of the crowd began to leave.

  I was as thrilled as anyone in the park by the Babe’s home run and our solid lead, but I could never be completely happy about a game unless I was in it. I was a player, not a spectator, and I needed to get a bat in my hands and my cleats on the field. I hoped that Everett Scott might be pulled from shortstop after he had been in long enough to keep his consecutive game streak alive. But he stayed in for the duration, and my posterior remained on the dugout bench.

  * * *

  Three days later, as the series finale against the Red Sox went into the ninth inning, my butt was in the exact same spot. I had initially chosen to sit near Miller Huggins so that he couldn’t miss noticing me; whenever we needed a pinch runner or a defensive replacement, I wanted to be the first player he saw. It soon became my regular location and proved to be an instructive one. I listened in on his discussions with the coaches and studied his strategies. As much as I learned, however, my restlessness only grew.

  The dugouts in Yankee Stadium were better than any other in baseball, with cushioned benches and convenient hooks for caps, gloves, and equipment bags. I had no complaint with the facility, but a strong aversion to being confined to it. I didn’t want to be comfortable and I didn’t want a regular spot on the soft green bench. I wanted to play ball!

  Even Hinkey Haines had already gotten into a game. When we needed a pinch runner in the ninth inning of game three, Hug looked right past me and sent in Haines. Ten years ago, I would have been the one chosen. I didn’t begrudge the kid his first appearance in a big league game, but I fretted that the years might have slowed my steps a little. If so, my value to the team was diminished. But, after some thought, I considered the situation as Huggins must have done: Haines was faster than me and he ended up scoring the tying run. It had been the right choice.

  As for the fans, the enthusiasm of opening day had sputtered out quickly. For the stadium’s second game most of the seats were empty. And, although the Babe hit some powerful drives, not another one left the confines of the spacious park.

  My chance to play in the series ended when spitballer Carl Mays got the final out in a 7-6 victory to complete a four-game sweep of the Red Sox. The win was greeted by a smattering of cheers from the sparsely populated grandstand.

  As we trudged to the clubhouse, I saw Miller Huggins intercepted by a brawny man in an ill-fitting gray suit and a ridiculously small polka dot bowtie. He had the freckled face and unruly ginger hair of a twelve-year-old, but his demeanor and size would discourage anyone from teasing him about it. They spoke briefly in voices too quiet for me to hear.

  When I tried to pass by them, Huggins grabbed the sleeve of my jersey and pulled me up short. “They want you in the office,” he said softly. A sad scowl dragged at Huggins features
, but since that was a common expression for him, I didn’t read much into it. The circumstance alone was enough to tell me what was happening. I knew that when a utility player who hasn’t made a single appearance all year is called into the front office, it isn’t because he’s earned a bonus.

  The big man spoke up in a high, pinched voice, “Colonel Ruppert wants to see you right away.” An odd whistling issued from his bent nose as he said the words. He hunched his broad shoulders as if his suit was binding him and I had the feeling he’d have been more comfortable in boxing trunks.

  “This is Andrew Vey,” said Huggins. “He’ll show you the way.”

  I didn’t see why firing me should be such an urgent matter. “Can’t I change first?”

  While Vey pondered the question, Huggins answered, “Of course.” To Vey, he said, “You don’t want him scratching up the nice new floors with his spikes, do you?”

  “Suppose not,” muttered Vey, and the three of us proceeded to the locker room. Vey hovered directly behind my shoulder as if he thought I might try to flee.

  I followed Huggins into the Yankee clubhouse expecting it to be for the last time. The manager went directly to his small private office without a glance back at me. I was disappointed not to get a “good-bye” from him.

  Near the clubhouse entrance was the Babe’s maroon locker, with “Ruth” stamped on a metal tag at the top. Next to the locker was a telephone that had been installed for his personal use, and on the floor was a wastebasket into which he threw most of his mail unopened. With a postgame cigar in his mouth, Babe was loudly regaling a crowd of newspapermen with colorful details of a nighttime escapade that he knew would never see print. Edging my way around the Babe’s enraptured audience, I wondered if I was being let go because I had failed in my assignment to keep him reined in.