Babe Ruth’s Own Book of Baseball

The Baltimore River front—Street corner baseball—Days at St. Mary’s—The first contract—A word of advice from Brother Gilbert—The big leagues at last—The climb upward—Aid from team-mates—A $70,000 contract—Looking back.

My earliest recollections center about the dirty, traffic-crowded streets of Baltimore’s river front.

Crowded streets they were too, noisy with the roar of heavy trucks whose drivers cursed and swore and aimed blows with their driving whips, at the legs of kids who made the streets their playground.

And the youngsters, running wild, struck back and echoed the curses. Truck-drivers were our enemies: so were the coppers patrolling their beats, and so too were the shopkeepers who took bruising payment from our skins for the apples and the fruit we “snitched” from their stands and counters.

A rough, tough neighborhood, but I liked it.

There in those crooked winding streets I staged my first fight, and lost it, I think. There too I played my first baseball. There I learned to fear and to hate the coppers. Perhaps it was there, too, that I learned to control my pitches. For tossing over-ripe apples, or aged eggs at a truck driver’s head is mighty good practice—although I don’t recommend it to the boys of today.

I’ll never forget the day Brother Gilbert called me over and introduced me to Jack. I was flabbergasted. I hadn’t known about the letter and the idea of shaking hands with a real professional baseball man was almost too much. Jack was mighty good to me and talked for quite a while about baseball. Finally he got me into a uniform and out in the yard. He had me pitch to him for a half hour I guess, talking to me all the time, and telling me not to strain and not to try too hard. I was a pretty fair pitcher in those days if I do say so myself, and at the end of a half hour Dunn called a halt and went into the office with Brother Gilbert.

In about a half hour they called me in and Brother Gilbert explained that Mr. Dunn thought I would make a ball player and wanted me to sign a contract with the Baltimore Orioles. Since I wasn’t yet of age, Brother Gilbert explained, Mr. Dunn would take out papers as my guardian and would be responsible for me when I was away from the school.

“How about it young man,” Dunn asked me, “do you want to play baseball?”

I guess I must have come near falling over in my excitement. Did I want to play baseball? Does a fish like to swim or a squirrel climb trees?

I didn’t even pause to ask questions.

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll play. When do I start?”

But Brother Gilbert stopped me.

One of the best yarns I ever heard, was a stunt pulled by Miller Huggins when he was manager of the Cardinals.

The Cards were mixed up in a tough, tough game, and opposing them was a young pitcher, who for that day at least, seemed to have everything. Inning after inning he went along, setting the Cards down in order, until Hug was almost licked. Finally along in the seventh inning the Cards got a runner to third with two men out. A weak hitter was up and Huggins, coaching along the third base line, knew very well that he couldn’t hit.

Hug was thinking fast, and as the kid pitcher wound up and started to pitch, he yelled from the coaches’ box:

“Hey you, let me see that ball!”

Without thinking, the kid turned and tossed the ball over to Hug, who promptly stepped aside and let it roll to the bench. The runner on third scored standing up, and the ball game was won.

Right there was one kid pitcher who learned a lesson. From that day on he surrendered the ball to nobody but the umpire, and then only after strong urging.

The greatest example of place hitting I ever saw was put on by Ty Cobb one afternoon at the Yankee Stadium a couple of seasons ago. Ty was taking batting practice and some of the boys on our bench were kidding him.

Shocker, in particular, was “on” him.

“Hey, Ty” Shock yelled. “You’re supposed to be good. Let’s see you hit one down the right field foul line.”

Ty took a half swing and planted the ball within three feet of the spot Shocker called for.

“Now hit one to left,” Shocker commanded.

Ty socked one a mile a minute over third base.

“Center field, now,” Shocker ordered.

Ty dropped the ball over second base.

“Well, I’m a son-of-gun!” Shocker exploded. “Let’s see you foul one back of the catcher.”

Ty did it, too.

“You win,” Shocker said, “I’m whipped.”

Ty grinned. “That’s nothing,” he shouted to the Yankee bench “you think you’re quite a guy—suppose you catch this one.” And Ty drove a foul right into our dugout, so close that Shocker could almost have reached out and caught the ball.

The 1927 world series proved that baseball men don’t come any smarter than Miller Huggins, manager of the Yankees. Hug pulled three things in that series that stood out like the warts on a pickle.

The first one happened the day before the series opened. We were to work out in the Pirate Park, and the Pirates had their workout just before we took the field. We came out from the club house. Most of the Pirates had dressed and were sitting in the stands to watch us go through our practice.

Hug spotted them at once. He called Pennock and Shawkey over.

“Listen,” he said. “Those fellows are out here to watch us so we’ll show them something. You two fellows will pitch hitting practice. When you go in there lay that ball right down the middle. Don’t put anything on it. Let’s show those fellows some real hitting!”

Combs was the first man up. He plunked the first pitch into the center field stands. Koenig swung twice, bouncing one ball off the right field wall, and the other off the left field barrier.

Then I came up. Bob laid them right down the middle, with just enough speed to make them perfect. The first ball I hit over the roof of the right field grandstand. I put another one into the lower tier. Then I got hold of one and laid it in the center field bleachers.

I was about to quit but Huggins walked over past me.