Free Babe & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

right through all the lights, whether they were green or red. The rules of the road were for other people, not Babe Ruth. And he just kept on singing, as if he were taking a drive in the country.
    â€œBabe, they’re going to take away your driver’s license!” I complained after he took a corner so fast the car nearly turned over.
    â€œThey can’t,” he replied. “They took it away five years ago.”
    Finally we got beyond the city limits. The buildings got smaller, until there were hardly any buildings at all. We were in farm country. Babe was going about seventy miles an hour, but at least we weren’t in danger of mowing down pedestrians. I unclenched my fists. My fingernails had made little white lines on the palms of my hands.
    That’s when we heard the siren.
    â€œ!@#$%in’ !@#$%!” Babe spat, as he slowed the car down and pulled off to the side of the road. “A cop. Now we’re gonna be late."
    The police car pulled up behind us, and the officer walked over to the driver’s side. He was holding a pad and pen. Babe took off his hat.
    â€œLemme see your driver’s license,” he said gruffly.
    â€œNice day for a drive, huh, officer?” Babe said cheerfully.
    The cop looked at Babe and did a double take.
    â€œY-you’re Babe Ruth!” he said, awed.
    â€œYes, sir!” Babe replied. “Is there something wrong, officer?”
    â€œN-no, Babe,” the policeman said, holding out his pad. “Can I have your autograph?”
    Babe signed the pad and handed it back. While the officer stared at his autograph, speechless, Babe said good-bye and hit the gas. I turned around to look out the back window as we peeled away. The cop was still staring at the autograph until he was too far away to see anymore.
    We got a little lost, but eventually we found the hospital. Instead of looking for a parking place, Babe just pulled up to the front of the hospital with a screech. There were no parking signs all over.
    â€œHey!” a guard shouted. “You can’t park there, mister!”
    â€œI just did,” Babe replied simply.
    When the guard realized whom he was speaking to, his mouth dropped open. We all hopped out of the car and the guard rushed to open the door for Babe.
    â€œWhat’s your kid’s name?” Babe asked Decker as we approached the information desk.
    â€œMatthew Decker.”
    â€œWe’re here to see Matthew Decker,” Babe told the lady behind the desk. Her mouth dropped open, just like the guard’s did. She couldn’t get any words out, but she did manage to point to a hallway. Babe rushed off in that direction.
    Decker found the room his son was in, and he opened the door quietly. The boy was sleeping. He looked like he was around my age or maybe a little older. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with him. There were no tubes going into him, and he wasn’t hooked up to any machines. But he had bruises on his face and he looked like he was in bad shape. Babe tiptoed to the boy’s bedside and pulled up a chair.
    â€œHe fell off a horse last week,” Decker said softly. “Landed on his head. The doctors aren’t sure he’s gonna make it.”
    â€œI’ve landed on my head a few times myself,” Babe replied, glancing at me.
    â€œMatt,” his dad whispered in the boy’s ear, “I have a surprise for you.”
    Babe leaned over Matthew’s bed and held the boy’s hand. He opened his eyes.
    â€œHiya, kid!” Babe said.
    â€œBabe Ruth!” he croaked.
    â€œIn the flesh, kid. Say, you look like you’re a pretty good ballplayer. You rest up good, and pretty soon you’ll be outta this joint, ridin’ horses again, playin’ ball, and havin’ fun with your friends.”
    â€œIs the World Series over?” Matthew asked.
    â€œWe won the first two games,” Babe explained. “Game Three is this afternoon.