CHAPTER I

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.

Many people thought I was an orphan. I wasn’t. My folks lived in Baltimore and my father worked in the district where I was raised. We were poor. Very poor. And there were times when we never knew where the next meal was coming from. But I never minded. I was no worse off than the other kids with whom I played and fought.

I don’t know how I happened to be sent to St. Mary’s school. As a matter of fact it wasn’t so much a school as it was a home where kids like me could be cared for and trained and taught as they should be. All I remember is that I was a loose jointed, gangling dirty-faced kid in knee pants playing in the street, where one day a round-faced pleasant little man in clerical garb came over to talk to me.

I thought he was a priest and I called him Father, and tipped my cap when I spoke to him.

“Not Father,” he said, smiling, “Just Brother—Brother Gilbert.”

Then he told me that I was to go with him, that I would be given a fine home and taught things that would make me into a useful citizen. I didn’t want to go. I liked the freedom of the street; liked the gang of youngsters I played with and prowled with.

But I went.

For a while I wasn’t happy. I missed the crowds, and the dirt, and the noise of the street. I missed the other kids. I even missed the policemen and the beatings that came from the shopkeepers when we were unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches. As I look back at it now I realize that I must have been a real problem to the Brothers.

But Brother Gilbert stuck with me. I owe him a lot. More than I’ll ever be able to repay.

It was Brother Gilbert who finally struck upon the thing to hold my interest and keep me happy. It was baseball. Once I had been introduced to school athletics I was satisfied and happy. Even as a kid I was big for my years, and because of my size I used to get most any job I liked on the team. Sometimes I pitched. Sometimes I caught, and frequently I played the outfield and infield. It was all the same to me. All I wanted was to play. I didn’t care much where.

As I grew older, Brother Gilbert encouraged me more and more. At sixteen I had developed into a pretty good catcher and was beginning to hit pretty well. I was tall and skinny in those days, and from some of the pictures that still hang on the walls over at school I guess I must have been about as funny looking a kid as ever got a trouncing for cutting classes to go fishing.

There were a lot of fine men connected with the school in those days. In addition to Brother Gilbert, there was Brother Mathias. What a friend he was, as I found out during 1924 and 1925 when things were breaking bad and I needed friends as I never had needed them before. Then there were Brother Albin and Brother Paul—men whom I still see frequently and who never fail to send me letters of congratulation every time I do something worth while. These men are among the very few people who call me George. To the rest of the world, and particularly to the baseball fans I’m “Babe” and have been ever since I broke into baseball. To the members of the Yankee ball Club I’m “Jedge.” That’s a name that Benny Bengough tacked on me some two or three seasons ago, and it has stuck. But to the Brothers down at St. Mary’s I’m George, and always will be.

It’s a funny thing, incidentally, how many times a year I get letters asking me how I got my nickname. Some of the newspaper boys made a pretty good yarn out of it one time. They said that when I was a little kid I always wanted to play ball with bigger boys, and when they wouldn’t let me play I’d cry and howl until I had the whole neighborhood disturbed. The big boys, according to his story, nicknamed me “Baby” because I cried so much, then shortened it to Babe, as kids will.

It’s a shame to spoil a good yarn like that, but as a matter of fact the story is all wrong. A man named Steinam, who was coach of the Baltimore Orioles when I joined the club in 1914, gave me the nickname. The first day I reported at the clubhouse he said, “Well, here’s Jack’s newest Babe now.”

And the name has stuck. I’ve been “Babe” ever since and I suppose I will still be “Babe” when I’m an old, old man with wobbly legs and long whiskers. They tell another story about the way I happened to get into league baseball, too. According to some of the newspaper men, the brothers at school tried me out at everything in the world. They had me doing work in the garden, and they tried me out at carpentry. They had me try bookkeeping for a while, and about everything else they could think of. But I couldn’t seem to get the hang of any of them. Finally (and don’t forget this is a newspaper yarn and not a confession) Brother Gilbert sent for Jack Dunn, owner and manager of the Baltimore club. Dunn came over and according to the story Brother Gilbert got him off to one side and said:

“Jack, I’ve got a young fellow here that I want you to look over. I don’t know that he’s a ball player, but I’m sure he must be. They say every boy can do something well and I’ve tried this youngster at everything else. It must be he’s a ball player.”

True or not, you’ve got to admit it’s a good story.

As a matter of fact Brother Gilbert was responsible for me getting a chance. He used to coach our baseball team, and he liked the way I did things. Lots of times he would point me out as an example to the other boys, as a baseball player you understand, and finally, when I was eighteen he wrote a letter to Jack Dunn telling him about me and asking Jack to come around and see for himself.

Now baseball managers don’t usually look for prospective players on schoolboy teams. And I imagine if St. Mary’s hadn’t been convenient and handy Jack wouldn’t have paid any attention to the letter. But it was only a few steps from his office to the school and he had nothing else to do so he came over.

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.

“Wait a minute, George,” he said, “this is a serious business. Boys play baseball for fun, but you’re a man now and you’re taking a man’s job. You know playing professional baseball isn’t like playing on the sandlots. You’ll find the men on the Baltimore team know a lot more baseball than you do. And it won’t be easy. Besides,” he added, “I want you to understand all the arrangements. Mr. Dunn has agreed to pay you $600 for the six-months season. That’s approximately $25 a week. Will you be satisfied with that?”

Looking back now of course, six hundred dollars doesn’t look like much money. But that day, there in the school office, it sounded like a fortune. And twenty-five dollars a week! Why I’d be as rich as Rockefeller, I thought. And for playing baseball! I never even hesitated. If Brother Gilbert expected me to do any serious thinking he certainly got a disappointment that day.

“Sure, I’d like it,” I said, and said it fast too, for fear Dunn might change his mind. And so it was arranged. A contract was drawn up, and I signed it. Then I beat it out of doors to tell the rest of the boys.

In the years that have gone by I’ve had a lot of thrills. I got one when I pitched my first world series game. I get one every time I hit a ball over the fence and I got a big one that day last fall when I hit my sixtieth home run and broke my old record. But none of these could compare to the thrill that came the day I paraded out to the playground and told the rest of the boys that I was signed to a contract—a real, honest-to-goodness professional baseball player!

Less than two years ago I sat in Colonel Ruppert’s private office in New York and signed my name again—this time to a three year contract calling for $70,000 a year. The newspaper boys were on hand, and the photographers, and the whole baseball world made a great ado about this signing. But honestly, that new contract for the largest salary ever paid a ball player didn’t give me half the kick I got that afternoon back in 1914 when I signed with Jack Dunn to play ball with the Baltimore Orioles at $25 a week.

Speaking of that last contract signing, reminds me of a good laugh I had at the expense of the newspaper boys. There were a couple of dozen of them sticking around when I signed, some of them fellows who had been traveling with the Yankees for several seasons; fellows whom I know intimately and well. Yet in their stories, every one of them wrote about me signing that contract with my left hand and some of the papers even ran pictures showing me signing left-handed!

How they managed it I don’t know—for as a matter of fact I write with my right hand now, and I always have. I’m left-handed in everything else I do, but when it comes to writing I’m just as right-handed as any right-hander you ever saw. It just goes to show that people take a lot of things for granted. They don’t observe things closely, particularly things about which they feel confident.

Most of the rest of my story everyone knows.

I went with the Orioles and was fortunate enough to make good. In fact I never for a moment thought that I wouldn’t. I don’t believe I was cocky and I don’t believe I was any fresher than the average rookie who gets a chance to sign a contract—but I was confident.

I played for Jack Dunn for a month and at the end of that time he raised my contract six hundred dollars more, just doubling the original amount. At the end of the second month he added another six hundred. And right here let me say one thing. I’ve heard a lot of talk and read a lot of stuff in the newspapers about club owners being tightwads and all that sort of thing. If they are I have never discovered it. In my baseball experience I’ve found them fair at all times, always willing to pay a man what they considered he was worth. Never in my life have I ever been a serious hold-out, and never have I had any very bitter salary arguments with my owners.

Of course Colonel Ruppert may be an exception. Many people tell me he is. And he is the only man I’ve had to do business with since I’ve been in the big-money class. But he certainly has been fair and square always, in all his dealings with me. The tip-off on that is the fact that it took us less than twenty minutes to agree to terms in 1927, when I signed my last contract.

In 1914 Jack Dunn sold me to the Boston Red Sox. I was in the big leagues sure enough.

I’ve never been back to the minors since. In 1914, after I reported to the Red Sox I got into four ball games. Not many, but a start, at least. The next year I was in forty-two. Since then I’ve never been in less.

Going to the Red Sox was a great break. In those days the Red Sox were as much kings of the baseball walk as the Yankees are today. Then I was on the same club with Bill Carrigan, one of the finest chaps I ever knew, and one of the best coaches of young pitchers there is in the game. With the Red Sox I really began to learn a little baseball. We had a great pitching staff in those days. Joe Wood, Dutch Leonard, Ernie Shore, Hugh Bedient, George Foster—what an array that was! And chaps, all of them, who not only know how to pitch themselves, but fellows who could teach others as well. Joe Wood was so good as an instructor, in fact, that he’s still at it—coaching baseball up at Yale where I see him quite often.

A young fellow couldn’t have been with a better outfit to learn the game. While I didn’t realize it at the time, I was learning some real baseball from two other fellows on the club, too; learning lessons that were to help me a whole lot later on. These two were Harry Hooper and Tris Speaker. I’ve always maintained, and I still believe, that Harry Hooper was one of the greatest outfielders who ever lived. As a defensive player I believe he rated even higher than Tris Speaker, and that’s going-some. It was from these two that I learned a lot about playing the outfield, and it was their coaching and their example which made it easy for me to switch to the outfield later on when I joined the New York club.

In the Red Sox days I didn’t think much of becoming a slugger. I liked to hit. All fellows do. There isn’t a man in baseball today who isn’t happiest when he’s up there at the plate with a stick in his hand. But it was pitching which took my time in Boston. And one of the proudest records I hold to this day is that of having pitched the most consecutive scoreless innings in world series play.

And another accomplishment of those Boston pitching days which still makes me grin every time I think of it, occurred in a game I pitched in Detroit. In that game, in the ninth inning with nobody out and the Red Sox holding a one-run lead, I struck out Bob Veach, Ty Cobb and Sam Crawford in a row. No home run in the world ever brought a greater kick than that.

As to my home run hitting—well, I suppose I get a hundred letters a season asking me about my first home run. To tell the honest truth I don’t remember exactly when I made it, or who was pitching at the time. I suppose it’s all written down in the records somewhere, but I’m honest when I say I don’t remember. I know it was sometime in 1915.

During my playing days in Boston I made a lot of friends and liked the place a lot. When I was sold to New York I left with a great deal of real regret. Even now when I go back to Boston for a series it’s just like going home. I don’t believe I have any more real friends any where, or any more boosters, than I have up there at Fenway Park where I started my big league career.

I went to New York in 1920 and I’ve been there ever since. I hope I can remain there and finish my big league career with the Yankees. New York has been mighty good to me. Like all young fellows, I’ve made mistakes. Several times I’ve got away on the wrong foot. Once or twice I’ve been in bad with the baseball authorities. I’ve figured in rows with the umpires and fights with fans. But those days are over. I know better now.

Tommy Connolly, the umpire, and I hold one joint record. The last time Tommy was forced to kick a player out of the ball game was back in 1922. I was the player. Tommy has had a clean record since that day. So have I. That’s the last time I have had a serious run-in with an umpire.

During the years that I’ve been in the big leagues, stories have been printed about me that were complimentary—and a lot of things have been said which weren’t exactly compliments. I’ve had my ups and my downs, and there have been times when it looked as though my baseball career was over and finished. In 1925 when I collapsed in Asheville, during the spring training trip, a lot of people figured I’d never put on a uniform again. That sickness taught me a lesson. It was my own fault. I took life easy all winter, put on a lot of fat and overweight, then tried to boil and fast myself into shape in a couple of weeks. It can’t be done.

All through the years though, from first to last, I’ve had one lot of friends who have stuck by me. That’s the kids.

I’m proud of my record in baseball, and I’d be ungrateful to say otherwise. Every time I drive in a run, every time I hit a ball over the fence or hear the cheers of the bleacher fans ringing in my ears I get a great kick. I suppose I always will.

The first year I broke into baseball I got one fan letter—and that one was from Brother Gilbert.

Last year there were 20,000 letters in my mail, from every part of the globe and every state in the Union. I had a letter from a Brahman priest in India, and I had a letter from a condemned man in a Cuban jail. I had a letter from an eight year old boy in Germany and another from a college professor in Japan.

To answer them all would be impossible. But I like to get them. Seems to me as though they’re part of my pay. But I’m not kidding myself. The “razz-berries” are just as easy to collect as the cheers. The people who cheer me from the stands or write me letters aren’t interested so much in Babe Ruth as they are in something else. They’re interested in baseball.

All ball players realize that sooner or later.

What a game it is!

No wonder a fellow gets a kick out of being in it and part of it. No wonder we’re proud, all of us, to be ball players!