The Babe

Oh, Mickey Cochrane, the old, the old Mike of Detroit, looking fit again.

And The Babe, genial.

He was wiping his face a moment ago in a blue serge suit.

He sits in a box right down below us beside the Yankee dugout.

With him is Mrs. Ruth and his daughter.

Jacob Rupert, genial, handsome, smiling, with Mayor La Guardia.

Uh, Mr. Rupert stood and shook hands with The Babe while the photographers took their pictures.

Cheers and excitement, the comments running like fire through the stands, uh, have been, uh, egging us on since noon when the audience followed DiMaggio, Gehrig, Dickey, Selkirk, Moore, Ott, all the sluggers as they dropped their long drives into either left or right field stands.

I've got, um...

I'm reading The Babe by Robert Creamer right now.

Ooh, a good book.

Yeah, it's, uh, really good.

It's...

I'm reading that along with, um, my count, the games, you know, 'cause it's chronological.

You know, whereas The Babe is obviously about The Babe's whole life.

Uh, so I'm kinda reading those two.

Back in the '80s, uh, when I worked here, Major's looked completely different.

Uh, it's now The Babe.

And seriously, this is where the line would go, all the way down here.

I mean, not every night, but most nights, yeah.