Babe Ruth punched a cripple, and now he's in front of a magistrate in a midtown courtroom. At least, that's what the cripple, Bernard Neimeyer claims.
After our four-game sweep of the Pirates, our locker room is full of backslapping and handshakes. "Any thoughts on the Pirates, Babe?" Ruth gives them a smelly answer.
I'm heading out the door to drive back to Manhattan after we crushed the Pirates in Game 3, and one of the locker room boys tells me, "Mr. Huggins wants to you in his office."
As we pull into Pittsburgh, Schoolboy and I grab a table in the dining car. Pittsburgh's not a town anyone on our team knows well, hell, even Ruth slept in last night.
It's a little before Noon, two hours before Game 1 of the World Series, and the Pittsburgh Pirates are taking batting practice. We have no idea what their players look like.
Two games left for the Babe to hit one home run, and break the record! That's all you heard: from the porter, the bellman, even the cab driver. Everyone except the players.
The Babe has become a beast, a beast feasting on the flesh of pitchers, and then tossing bits of their carcasses into the outfield stands.
Hours before the Dempsey-Tunney "Long Count," Ruth came to bat at Yankee Stadium in the bottom of the 9th. We trailed the Tigers, 7-6. Three pitches later the game is over.
Babe Ruth is a lot like Dempsey, which is why they get along so well. They're big kids-- with big punches. You could say the Yankees are a team of big boys and big punches.
Bix and I are on the balcony of the 14th floor of the Plaza, overlooking Central Park. Bix is playing his horn, smoking his Mary Janes and drinking at an alarming rate.
Miller Huggins was quoted in the papers near the end of our last Western trip saying he wouldn't smile until after we clinched the pennant.
The road trip came to an end when our train crept into Penn Station after midnight Thursday. The station is normally quiet at that hour, but it felt especially empty tonight.
Well it took a couple of months, but my pal Buddy Myer finally spilled the beans on why he was traded from the Senators to the Red Sox last May.
The second game against the Red Sox was rained out, so we left the city early Thursday afternoon. So Schoolboy and I missed the opening night of Stanwyck's play, "Burlesque".
Little Julie Wera, our self-pleasuring utility infielder, is a mathematical savant. He never made it high school but his head seems to be filled with numbers.
I woke up from a restless night with thoughts of Al Capone, Arnold Rothstein and Steven to hear those words being chanted in my room at the Book Cadillac Hotel in Detroit.
Since Capone left his office, I've been staring at his pile of newspapers with Steven and Rothstein's advertisement promising to make millionaires out of peasants.
We won our third straight against the White Sox today, 5-4 in 12 innings, with Wilcy Moore getting the win after relieving Shocker in the ninth.
Benny and I get back to the hotel just before midnight, having done our share of drinking while checking out Joe E. Lewis's comedy act at Capone's Green Mill Lounge.
There are police everywhere. Bombs are exploding in the New York subways ... in a church in Philadelphia ... in the mayor's house in Baltimore ... and everybody is on edge.