submitted on Tue, 10/09/2007 - 02:58 in Baseball in the Usa Group by artrustjr 
Reflections on Babe Ruth (Part 2)
…I’ve heard another story about the Babe. There was a good friend of the family, Sydney Stubbs, who knew Ruth. This friend was from Kingston, Jamaica – tall, slim, handsome, dapper and for those times well educated….So when this guy, my father’s friend, tells me that he and Babe Ruth were friends, I have to believe that to the degree in which it was presented. This friend said that there was never any doubt in his mind that Babe was Black. They drank together, played cards together on 136th Street between Fifth and Lenox avenues. The Babe was always visiting a good-looking Black woman on 136th Street. But again, I’ll question it but not deny it. Harlem was in vogue in the late twenties, and it was the chic place to be, perhaps. However, Stubbs says that Ruth used to bring a little light-complexioned girl to stay with this Black woman on 136th Street when he was out on the road. What does this mean? I don’t know!
All of this was confirmed by another friend of my father’s who bartended at the La Mar Cherie, an exclusive watering hole on Sugar Hill. The bartender had told my father about the story when Charles Root, pitcher for the Chicago Cubs in the third game of the 1932 World Series, started yammering something at Ruth. At that point Ruth pointed to the stand, where he said he was going to hit the ball, and Ruth did it. The bartender said he was there, he spoke to Ruth later, and the latter told him that Root had called him a nigger. Babe was determined to fix him, and he did. Biographer Robert W. Creamer in the book Babe states, “Root said something from the mound, and Ruth said something back.” Again, who knows?
The last time I saw the Babe was April 27th, 1947. He had that damned cancer, and they gave him a day at Yankee Stadium. That afternoon Philadelphia Athletics right fielder Elmer Valo made one helluva catch off Yankee Tommy Henrich. He caught a drive, banged up against the wall, and knocked himself out. Athletic center fielder Sam Chapman ran over, pulled the ball out of the unconscious Valo’s glove, and showed it to the umpire, who then gave the out sign.
I was there with my pop. Of course Ruth had on his trademark camel’s hair coat and cap – but he supported himself with a cane. When I saw him, I immediately thought back to his robust days. I watched the thin, colorless man state gracefully how much he appreciated the support of fans and how much he loved baseball. I cried. I cried with him, for him, and for the things that might have been, should have been.
He died on August 16th, 1948, and they displayed his remains August 17th and 18th at Yankee Stadium. On the eighteenth I went to view the body. Again I cried. The stadium was so packed that it was impossible to count the number attending. The estimated range was between 75,000 to 200,000. There was eeriness about the whole thing. The silence of so many people, except for the sounds of occasional sobs and moans, made it seem as if a great god had died. At that point I really didn’t give a good damn whether he was white, Black, or a mix-up. The only thing I knew was that a great athlete was gone forever.
