"Hello, Kid"

He was unforgettable, even when he struck out. His swing whirled him around until his slender legs were twisted beneath him. And the times when his big bat did connect were baseball's biggest moments. The spell lasted until the Babe had trotted around the base paths, taking mincing steps on his small feet, tipping his cap to the mighty, reverent roar from the stands.

Sportwriters knocked themselves out thinking up new names and superlatives for him: The Sultan of Swat, the Bambino, The Colossus of Clout. He didn't need all that; he was color itself--a fellow built on heroic, swaggering lines, an enormous head on a barrel of a body.

Handsome Living. In the golden '20s, the years of the big names--the years of Dempsey, Tilden and Bobby Jones--Babe Ruth was the biggest draw of them all. With his big bat, he put baseball back on its feet and back in the hearts of the fans after the 1919 "Black Sox" scandal.

He began his big-league career as a crack southpaw pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. But he was also a slugger without peer, and when he clouted most of his record 714 home runs, he wore a New York Yankee uniform, played the outfield. Son of a Baltimore saloonkeeper, he was brought up in a Baltimore school for delinquents, and he never quite grew up. In his first years in baseball, he scoffed at training rules, took his drinks where he found them, abused umpires, once chased up into the stands after an abusive fan.

His emotions were always out on the surface, which was one reason all the fans thought they knew and understood him. Even when the late Jimmy Walker gave him a talking-to before a banquet, the Babe gulped, and with enormous tears rolling down his enormous face, promised the kids of America he would reform. He tried to. But nothing could stop him from living handsomely.

He made more than $2,000,000 and spent most of it. He once confessed: "I lost $35,000 on one horse race alone." Ban Johnson, late president of the American League once said with asperity but accuracy: "Ruth has the mind of a 15-year-old boy." The Babe couldn't-even remember the names of his teammates. He greeted everybody, old or young, with his famed welcome: "Hello kid."

Bedside Manner. One day, when a stranger asked the Babe to autograph three baseballs, the Babe said: "Who for?" For a bedridden boy, explained the stranger. "Where is he?" asked the Babe. He insisted on riding the twelve miles to deliver them in person. The boy's mother led the big fellow into the sickroom, and broke into tears as her son sat up in bed. "He's been delirious," she said, "and he thinks he's dreaming."

"No, mama," said the boy. "It's Babe Ruth himself, isn't it?" "You'll be all right, kid," said the great Babe.

When he got to 40 and his legs gave out, he wanted to manage a big-league ball club but he never got the chance; nobody could be sure that Ruth could manage himself.

Two winters ago the Babe went to the hospital. He was desperately ill--cancer--and sport editors everywhere prepared obituaries. But he got back on his feet. Ghostly but smiling, he was well enough to attend a Babe Ruth Day at Yankee Stadium. The Babe said a few words before a damp-eyed throng of 58,339. His speech was piped into baseball parks the U.S. over.

Hollywood, sniffing drama and dollars, decided to get in on the act by filming The Babe Ruth Story. It turned out to be a mawkish tribute that left out everything that was robust about the man. Last week, back in the hospital again at 53, the Babe was deluged with letters wishing him well; newspapers were swamped with calls asking about his condition, ballpark crowds stood in silent prayer for his recovery. This week death came to George Herman Ruth.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.