Babe Ruth Visits Billy In Hospital

by

William Kitcher

Radios crackled from Corpus Christi to Iqaluit as the announcer began. “Hello, baseball fans and radio listeners all across the U.S. of A., and on ships at sea, and those places in Canada that have radios. This is your roving reporter, Mutt Singleton, coming to you from New York City, and what a great treat we have in store for you. This program is brought to you by the First National Bank of Syracuse where our motto on deposits is: ‘You put it in, and you take it out when you’re satisfied.’ Ladies and gentlemen, what an honor it is for me to tell you that Babe Ruth, the Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, the Monarch of Mash, the King of Crush, is returning to St. Jude’s Hospital, where little Billy Johnson has no idea that the Babe is coming back to visit him after promising to hit a home run for him, and delivering on that promise. Yes, St. Jude’s Hospital, named after the patron saint of lost causes. And here are Babe and one of the beautiful nurses at the door of little Billy’s hospital room.”

The nurse, who really wasn’t that beautiful but it didn’t matter as this was radio, opened the door to little Billy’s room. “Hi, Billy, you have a visitor.”

The little boy sat up in bed and grinned from ear to ear. “Gee whiz, it’s the Babe! Hiya Babe!”

Babe, who never remembered anyone’s name (you could look it up), said, “Hiya kid, how are ya?”

“I’m just swell, Babe. Even sweller now that you’re here.”

“Isn’t that touching, ladies and gentlemen?” said Mutt, who thought he ought to say something.

The Babe went over to the bed. “I brought you an autographed bat, ball, and glove, kid.” He didn’t actually have them because, as I said, this is radio. But the kid didn’t seem to notice.

“Gee, that’s swell, Babe. Where’s the autographed jockstrap?”

“Next time, kid.”

Billy was broken-hearted and pouted. “Ah gee whiz.”

The nurse broke in. “I’ll get it for you, Billy.” No one knew what she meant by that.

The Babe sat down on the edge of the bed. “You know, kid, last time I was here, I promised to hit you a home run.”

Billy brightened. “And you sure did, Babe. Pow! Into the rightfield bleachers. Just like you said you would.”

“Just like the time I called my shot in the ’32 World Series in Chicago.”

“You didn’t do that, Babe. You just made that up.”

“Shut up, kid.”

“Sorry, Babe.”

“Anyway, kid, I wanted to tell ya somethin’. When I promised to hit that home run for ya, I also promised that the Yankees would donate ten dollars for every home run the team hit, to diabetes research, so that other kids wouldn’t have to go through what you’ve gone through.”

“I know. That was swell of you and the other boys, Babe.”

“Well, it wasn’t our money, kid. It was the owner’s. But that’s beside the point.”

“What are ya gettin’ at, Babe?”

“Well, ya see, kid, it’s this way. The Yankees didn’t hit that many home runs this year.”

“I know, Babe, but you’ll do better next year.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point either. You’re not too bright, are ya? You see, kid, we don’t have enough money so you’re not gonna be able to keep your leg.”

“Ah, I don’t mind, Babe. Just as long as I have one leg to stand on.”

“That’s just it, kid. You can’t keep your other leg either.”

“That’s tough, Babe. But that’s OK, just as long as the other kids get to keep theirs. Bobby and Johnny and Jimmy and Scooter—” Billy broke off and he seemed to have figured out what was going on. “What are ya lookin’ at me like that for, Babe? Ah, not them too, Babe?”

“Yeah, them too, kid.”

“But Babe, you have lots of money. You make more money than the President of these United States.”

“I had a better year than he did.”

“So couldn’t you give some of your money, Babe?”

“Well, kid, I got my own family to think of. My wife. And daughter. And I drink a lot, kid, and eat a lot of hot dogs. And cigars. And then there are the prostitutes.”

“What’s a prostitute, Babe?”

“It’s a necessary expense, kid.”

“Ah, that’s OK, Babe. I understand. You’re the greatest.”

“Tell ya what, kid. I’ll get Lou Gehrig to come in to see you.”

“Lou Gehrig! Gee, that’d be swell, Babe!”

“He’s startin’ to get sore muscles or somethin’, kid, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see ya.”

“Gee whiz, Babe!”

“Ooh, Babe! Roll me in pine tar,” said the nurse. No one was sure what that meant either.

Mutt took over. “And there, Mr. and Mrs. America, another heart-warming story ends. A little boy just happy to see his hero. This has been brought to you by Sugar Frosted High-Fructose Glucosarinos, the energy food of little boys since 1873. This has been Mutt Singleton reporting. Now, back to the studio.”