Pipe Dream
“What?! You met Babe
Ruth?”
“Yep. Met him twice.”
“Grandpa, why haven’t I heard this
story before?”
“Well, Lonnie … I guess you never
asked.”
He smiled again, obviously enjoying
the moment. My grandfather, Alton Blaire Jacobs, was a storyteller. He loved
nothing more than to hold you spellbound while he spun a good tale, and he
loved to take his time, every sentence punctuated by a few puffs on his
favorite pipe. In fact, when you see “…” below, you can read “puff puff puff.”
Now I was hooked. I had to hear
this story. But Gramps was having fun, toying with me, waiting for me to ask.
“Okay, Gramps, you’ve gotta tell
me. I’m all ears. How did you meet Babe Ruth?”
“Well … the first time was in
Chicago, October 1, 1932. I remember that date because it was the evening after
the third game of the 1932 World Series. I was just a kid, working as a busboy
at a restaurant called The Ivanhoe … It was just a few blocks south of Wrigley
Field at Clark and Wellington.”
“Yeah? So, what happened?” It was
clear that breaks to puff on his pipe were going to be a major feature of this
yarn.
“I was near the front desk, it was
still early, the dinner crowd wouldn’t start showing up till seven or eight,
and this man came through the front door with a big grin on his face. He was
about five nine with a powerful build, wearing a dark suit and a gray fedora,
and he clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Son, is Frank Pieper here?’ You
see, Frank ‘Pat’ Pieper was the maître d’ at The Ivanhoe … He was also the
field announcer for the Chicago Cubs and the Cubbies were playing the Yankees
in the ’32 Series. I said, ‘You mean Pat Pieper? Yeah, he’s in the back. Can I
give him your name?’ He grinned and said, ‘Yeah, tell him Francesco Pezzolo is
here to see him.’”
Gramps paused again.
“And? What then?” I felt like I was
pulling teeth.
“Well … I went into the back room
where Pat was getting ready, going over the reserved tables and such, and I
said, ‘Mr. Pieper, there’s a Francesco Pezzolo here to see you.’ He said,
‘Francesco Pezzolo? Well, I’ll be damned, it’s Ping! Ping Bodie!’ Pat hurried
out to the front, me right behind him, and he and Ping hugged each other like
long lost brothers. They were laughin’ and cuttin’ up and I couldn’t help but
smile to watch them … It turns out that Ping started his major league career
across town with the White Sox back in 1911. He was with the Sox through 1914,
and the two of them, Pat and Ping, got to know each other. Pat started with the
Cubs as a vendor at the West Side Grounds in 1904.”
“But wait, who was Francesco … whatshisname?”
“Ha! You see, Ping was born
Francesco Pezzolo and grew up in San Francisco. Now, Bodie, California, was a
rowdy mining town in the eastern Sierras with nearly as many bars and brothels
as citizens, a real tough place. This made a big impression, because Francesco
Pezzolo changed his name to Frank Bodie. ‘Ping’ was his nickname for the sound
of his fifty-two-ounce bat when he connected with a baseball.”
“Okay. So where does The Babe come
into this?”
“Be patient, Lonnie. I’m gettin’
there.”
My grandfather’s pipe had gone out,
and he took a minute to refill and light it. He always bought a special blend
of tobacco from a local shop and it had a sweet, pleasant aroma that filled the
room.
“Where was I? Oh … so, it turns out
after Ping left the White Sox, he eventually signed with the Yankees. Played
with the Yanks from 1918 to 1921. He was Babe Ruth’s first roommate. His first
roommate, Lonnie! And Ping’s the one who gave him the nickname ‘Bambino.’”
“That’s amazing.”
“So … Ping was in town for the World Series as
Babe’s guest, and he was at The Ivanhoe looking for a place where Ruth and some
of the guys could take their wives for drinks and dinner. Ping wanted to know
if Pat could handle a group of eight or ten later that evening. Remember now, this was right at the end of
Prohibition and alcohol was still illegal. But … The Ivanhoe had a cellar
speakeasy known as The Catacombs, one of the best stocked joints on the North
Side.”
“Geez, Gramps! You worked in a
Chicago speakeasy during Prohibition?”
“Yep. Served everybody from the
mayor to the police commissioner at one time or another … So, Pat said, ‘Hell
yes, tell The Babe to come on down. I’ll take good care of ’em, even if they
are the Yankees.’ They had a good laugh over that one, talked for a while
longer, and then Ping said goodbye … Well, Pat sent me off to make sure we had
plenty of the best Canadian whiskey and good local beer, and to set up a
private room down in The Catacombs where Babe’s group wouldn’t be bothered.”
Gramps took a few puffs and looked
off into space. I was on the edge of my chair. “So? What happened then?”
“It got to be nine, nine thirty,
and Pat was gettin’ worried. We were primed and ready. The kitchen was alerted.
Pat had his best waiters standing by. He’d even called the Sun Times to let their man-about-town columnist know that the
Yankees would be coming to The Ivanhoe. Finally, a little before ten, there was
a big commotion in the foyer. The Babe and his group came on like Gang Busters.
I’ve never seen an entrance like that, before or since. I tell you, Lonnie, it
was something.”
“Is that when you met him?”
“No … that came later, when Babe
was looking for the men’s room and I showed him the way. I told him I was a big
fan, even though I was for the Cubs in the Series. He was in a great mood, with
the Yanks up three games to none, and he just laughed and shook my hand, asked
me what I was up to besides working at The Ivanhoe. I told him I was a student
at Northwestern, working my way through college. Boy was that the right thing
to say. After that, every time I came near their table, to refill water glasses
or pick up plates or something, they were stuffing my pockets with dollar
bills. It turned out to be the best payday of my young life.”
“So, who was there, in Babe’s
party?”
“There was Babe and his wife
Claire. And Ping Bodie, of course. Lefty Gomez, Tony Lazzeri, Frankie Corsetti,
and their wives. Bodie, Lazzeri, and Crosetti were all from San Francisco, and
Gomez was also from the Bay Area. Those guys all came up through the Frisco
Seals in the Pacific Coast League.”
“That’s some group.”
“And ya know, for all the stories
about Babe Ruth and his shenanigans, they were a well-behaved bunch. Oh, they
were tellin’ stories and laughin’ loud, but nobody was out of line, Lonnie. Not
a one.”
“But didn’t they have a game the
next day?”
“Oh, yeah. But that didn’t bother
’em. And you know, the Yanks won the fourth game to sweep the Series. But I’m
just getting to the best part, Lonnie … There were some guys from the press
that dropped by during the evening to have a drink and hang out with The Babe.
One of ’em was Joe Williams who was with the New York World Telegram. He came over to talk with Pat, and I was
there stacking plates. He said, ‘Hey, Pat, what about Ruth’s home run in the
fifth?’ Pat said, ‘Hardest hit ball I’ve ever seen at Wrigley, Joe.’ Williams
says, ‘Yeah, but did you see him point to the stands before the pitch?’ ‘Hell
yeah, I saw it! I had the best seat in the house. I not only saw him point, I
heard him barkin’ at Guy Bush in the Cubs dugout. That’s two strikes, but watch this, you s.o.b. Charlie Root came in
with a fat one and wham, it was gone.’ Williams said, ‘Wait till you see my
write-up tomorrow morning, Pat. Ha! I tell ya, this story has legs.’”
“So, what did Williams write,
Gramps?”
“The headline was ‘RUTH CALLS SHOT
AS HE PUTS HOME RUN NO. 2 IN SIDE POCKET.’ And that’s how it was christened the
Called Shot Home Run. I picked up the World
Telegram at a newsstand near the ballpark the next day, and if I had any
sense, I would have saved it, Lonnie. There’s always been controversy. Some
folks say Babe called his shot, others say he didn’t. But I’ve always believed
Pat Pieper’s account. You know his station with the brand-new public-address
system at Wrigley was on the field, next to the backstop on the third base
side. He really did have the best seat in the house.”
“So that was the first time. When
was the second time you met The Babe?”
“You know, Lonnie, all this talk is
makin’ me thirsty. There’s some Canadian Club in the cabinet over there. Will
you join me?”
“Sure, Gramps. How do you take it?”
“Two fingers, three rocks. Glasses
are in the kitchen, ice is in the freezer.”
He smiled as I hurried away to fix
the drinks. It wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t heard this story. My grandfather
finished his career with McDonnell-Douglas in St. Louis in the late seventies.
He decided that Chicago was home and that’s where he retired. I’d grown up in
Southern California, and though we saw him and Grams two or three times a year,
I’m sure there were a hundred tales I hadn’t heard.
I brought the drinks into the
living room and settled in to hear the rest of the story. He raised his glass
to me and did his Bogart impression, always good for a laugh.
“Here’s looking at you, kid. Now,
where was I?”
“You met Ping Bodie and Babe Ruth
on October 1, 1932, Joe Williams coined the phrase Called Shot Home Run, and
Pat Pieper swears he not only saw it, he heard it.”
“Yep, that pretty well sums it up,
all right … So, move ahead to March 1948. The Babe had been retired for a dozen
years or so, and he’d been diagnosed with throat cancer. Hollywood was rushing
to make a movie of his life, The Babe Ruth Story, starring William
Bendix. I was working for Douglas Aircraft in LA. at the time and I’d kept in
touch with Pat Pieper over the years, birthday cards, Christmas Cards and the
like. Pat was taking a vacation trip to California before the start of the ’48 season
and he got in touch, invited me to join him for lunch at the Brown Derby on
Wilshire. And guess who else was coming to lunch?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Ping Bodie, who was working as an
electrician at Universal Studios, and The Babe himself. He was in LA to visit
the movie set.”
“Geez, unbelievable.”
“Yep … Well, we met at the Brown
Derby and Pat and Ping looked great. Healthy, full of P-and-V. But Ruth looked
bad. He was a big man, you know, six two, two fifty. But he looked smaller,
he’d lost a lot of weight, and his voice was just a rasp. Still, he had that
mischief about him, always ready for a laugh. I mostly kept my mouth shut and
listened to the three of them tell stories. But I did get in a question. I
said, ‘Babe, what do you think of William Bendix playing you in the movie?’ He
laughed and said, ‘Hell, they got the homeliest guy in Hollywood to play me. Am
I that ugly? Don’t answer that!’ We were all laughing then.”
“Go on, Gramps.”
“Well, The Babe left the table for
a few minutes and I asked Ping what it was like to be his roommate. Ping said,
‘Oh, I never saw much of the Bambino. He always had somewhere to go, somebody a
lot prettier than me to be with. Hell, I mostly roomed with his suitcase.’
That’s a great line, eh Lonnie? I laughed hard at that one.”
“And then?”
“That was about it. We were
standing on the sidewalk out in front of the Derby and Ping said, ‘Where you
headed now, Pat?’ Pat said, ‘Up to Northern Cal. I’ve got three sisters living
up there in a shipyard town called Vallejo.’ Ping said, ‘The hell you say! My
son and his family live there. He works on the shipyard.’”
“Wow, what a small world.”
“That’s quite a tale, Gramps. And
it’s all true?”
“Just like I told you, Lonnie.” He
smiled and winked. “The right side of a great story.”
***
That visit with my grandfather took
place in 1999 when he was eighty-seven years old. I’ve checked everything he
told me and I can’t find any holes. It’s all plausible. Just four guys—Ping
Bodie, Pat Pieper, Babe Ruth, and Alton Jacobs—and some shared history. So, I
tell my grandkids, “You know, I met Bill Gates one time, at a bridge tournament
in Sacramento. But your great grandfather met Babe Ruth. Twice!”
Believe me, they’re impressed—with
Bill Gates.
***
Author’s note: Frank Bodie and I met in 1952 when we were drafted onto the same Little League team. We reconnected in 2008 and became close friends. The two of us collaborated on this story, which revolves around the question: did my uncle, Pat Pieper, know Frank’s grandfather, Ping Bodie? They were part of the Major League Baseball community in Chicago at a time when that community was very small. With fiction, anything is possible. And so, we decided they not only knew each other, they were good friends. My dear friend Frank passed away in March 2017. This story is dedicated to his memory.
A fine story and tribute to a great pal Chuck. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Tom. Much appreciated.
DeleteWhat struck me most about this fictionalized story based on what seems to be very probable facts is that people are walking around with treasure chests full of memories of what is now legitimately classified as "history." In a world where "fake news" has become an unfortunate and ubiquitous meme or theme of our times, it makes even fictionalized stories the closest to “primary sources” we have.
ReplyDeleteJust last week, on Ira Flatow’s “Science Friday,” a comment by retired astronaut Cady Coleman, author of “Sharing Space, an Astronaut’s Guide to Mission, Wonder, and Making Change,” made a comment that seems relevant to the lesson of this “Pipe Dream.” https://www.sciencefriday.com/segments/cady-coleman-astronaut-book-sharing-space/
At the very end of the interview, Ira Flatow asks Cady Coleman for her advice to young people wanting to follow in her footsteps. Her advice, paraphrased below, applies.
‘I’d like to assign them homework,’ the astronaut continues: ‘Every adult you see probably has something to teach you. It’s your job to tug on their sleeves to find out where you fit in the future. You’ll need help to know that…some knowledge…don’t hesitate to ask people. It takes some bravery, but IT’S YOUR JOB!’
It’s their job! It’s our job!
I’d like to argue that asking questions requires less bravery than patience. We want information, and we want it fast. But people who’ve been around a while are used to telling stories at the pace of their early years. It’s just their style. I can tell you, however, they are wishing, hoping, you’ll ask them questions, not because of a selfish need to tell their stories, but in the realization of what they missed in not being patient enough to ask their own parents for the stories that are invariably now lost forever. Their desire is also based on the sense that somehow, some way, the stories they have to tell will be helpful to you, perhaps in some meaningful way, or if for nothing else, just for the fun of having heard them.
Very insightful, Billie. My Uncle Pat swore the Called Shot happened, and he really did have the best seat in the house. The Cubs finally moved him to the press box when he turned 80.
DeleteFun story about my cousin Frank’s grandpa.
ReplyDeleteFrank and I had fun writing it!
Delete