Free Babe & Me by Dan Gutman

the Yankees were staying—the Edgewater. The guy behind the front desk told us the hotel was all booked up because of the World Series, but Dad slipped him a ten-dollar bill and suddenly the guy was able to find a room for us.
    The room was nice. I started to complain that it didn’t have a TV, but Dad reminded me that television hadn’t even been invented yet. I turned on a big radio, though. The Lone Ranger was on.
    Dad didn’t want to hang around the room all night, so we took a walk outside. We found a little coffee shop and had some hamburgers, then Dad got me an ice cream cone to go.
    Chicago is on Lake Michigan, and we found ourselves walking along the lake. Dad told me his plan was to get to Wrigley Field during batting practice the next day, so he could scout out the centerfield bleachers and find the best place to catch Ruth’s called shot. After the game, we would have to go back home right away because Mom would be waiting.
    â€œStill have our tickets home?” Dad asked as we sat on a bench looking at Lake Michigan.
    â€œRight here,” I said, pulling out my unopened pack of baseball cards.
    â€œI’m not that bad a dad, am I, Butch?” he asked suddenly.
    â€œBest one I ever had,” I replied, and gave him a punch on the shoulder.
    Even though I’d slept a lot on the train from New York, I was still pretty tired, so we went back to the hotel. As I closed my eyes, I was hoping Babe Ruth was getting a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be one of the biggest days of his life.
    And mine.

13
Fathers and Sons
    WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, I COULDN’T HIDE my excitement. The newspaper slipped under the door confirmed it was Saturday, October 1, 1932—the date of the called shot.
    â€œReady?” Dad asked after he’d showered and dressed.
    â€œReady as I’ll ever be.”
    We decided to go out and get some breakfast, then head over to Wrigley Field. But as we stepped through the front door of the hotel, somebody tapped me on the shoulder.
    â€œHey, you boys want to grab some grub? I’m starved.”
    Dad and I turned around. It was Babe. He had his collar turned up and his hat pulled down over his eyes.
    â€œUh…well…”
    Dad and I looked at each other. We were hungry, but after what happened in the restaurant Thursday, neither of us really wanted to share another meal with Babe. We just wanted to get him to Wrigley Field in time for the game.
    We didn’t have to make up an excuse, because a man limped over to Babe and pulled on his sleeve. Babe ignored the guy, and asked us again if we wanted to go out to eat.
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Ruth,” the man said, “but my son may be dying.”
    That got Babe’s attention. He looked at the man. The man was wearing an old, tattered gray coat. There were holes in it. He had a sad, sad face, like life had really worn him down.
    â€œMy boy’s been listening to the games on the radio,” the man told Babe. “He’s your biggest fan. Can you spare a bat, a ball, an autograph, Babe? Anything from you would mean so much to him.”
    â€œWhere do you live?” Babe asked.
    â€œIn Joliet,” the man replied, “about an hour from here.”
    Babe looked at his watch, then at the man.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œTo Joliet,” Babe said. “To see your kid.”
    â€œBabe, you don’t have time!” Dad protested. “You have to be at Wrigley Field at noon!”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Babe assured him. “You boys want to tag along?”
    â€œI do!” I said, raising my hand like I was in school.
    â€œYou go, Butch,” Dad said. “I’ll meet you later, in front of the Wrigley Field sign.”
    â€œOkay, Dad.”
    â€œCome on,” Babe said, wrapping his big arms around me and the guy whose son was sick. “Let’s hit the