afternoon of the babe
by J.D. Finch

Our famous neighbor, The Babe finally stopped by today. He told me he was concerned when he saw me up on the big front porch, my leg propped up on the railing, covered from toe to hip in plaster.

He made me laugh when he said: "You'd be a great partner for the three legged race at the church picnic, but a poor prospect for base running".

Steve Adams who was there with me - trying to make time I think, though I couldn't be sure because he's so...well, timid I'd say - he just snorted at Babe's joke. Boy did that make me uncomfortable.

I believe he was disappointed that Babe showed up. Diary, can you believe that any boy-any real boy-could feel that way?

But I snuck a peek at him as Babe was coming up the walk and he had a look that was... Oh, it's a word we learned last week in vocab class...

Crestfallen, that's it. He had a look like something in his boy's world had crashed and burned like the Hindenburg. But who knows, Diary? He is a little younger than me and maybe he's going through "those kinds of growing pains", if you know what I mean.

But Diary, YOU know how I felt: thrilled and completely tickled Babe visited me. He lives just the other side of the tracks and he always waves when he passes on his way to the stadium. I always wished he'd stop, but I know he's a very busy man.

Today he signed my cast and cracked his jokes. Even threw a couple in Steve's direction. Steve smiled a bit: nobody can resist Babe's charms. But it was plain that he had other things on his mind.

I can't tell you what, Diary. What DO high school boys think about if they're not thinking about sports? Radios? Rockets? Being a detective like Dick Tracy? It seemed like Steve was more interested in the movie magazine I'd been reading - this month's issue with Joan Crawford on the cover - than The Babe in the flesh right in front of him.

But Diary, like I've said (and will probably say again) Steve Adams is a different sort of boy. Don't get me wrong, he knows a lot about The Babe. But it's stuff from the gossip columns, not the sports pages. I usually like most things about Steve, but I think that's kind of icky.

photo by Michele McCarthy

After Babe left us, Steve said, "Why didn't you ask him to hit a home run for you in tonight's game?"

I was sure I heard a whisper of sarcasm in his voice.

"I think it's swell to have such a fine neighbor," I said defensively, though I didn't want a fight. I've seen Steve get nasty.

"He's not our neighbor," he said, his face snarling as he nearly barked the words out. "That's only what the adults around here tell us kids. I know he's got a woman in town he visits every time the Yanks play the stadium."

I sent Steve home after that. If there's one thing I hate it's liars. They never make good friends.

I listened to the game tonight on the Philco and to no one's surprise
Babe hit a home run. I imagined it was for me. I felt kind of bad that Steve wasn't there listening along with me like usual.

Diary, when the doctor takes this cast off in October I'm going to put it in a nice strong box and keep it forever.