[SelzShoes]

The room came into slow focus; hazy--enough to make him believe the doctor's request he wear spectacles, then melting into soft clarity. Just like every other morning for as long as he wanted to remember. His wife still lay motionless; her constitution was unfamiliar with the rigors of such celebrations. She was not dry, just not accustomed to the lifestyle. Truthfully, his body was not as young as it once was. Back in the Twenties, last night's celebration would have been a warm up; a Tuesday night. Now, he really felt like an old man. Bones and muscles cricked and cracked as he lumbered towards the basin.

It was hard to believe anyone could have slept with all the celebrating; a city, a nation, had exhausted itself with the collective explosion of joy. People were offering champagne, the real thing, in beer glasses to strangers. Hell, he had passed out at least a dozen of his best cigars to random people. Gave them a great story: "Yeah, the Babe gave this smoke to me, can you believe it! Peach of a guy, said not to be surprised if he's managing the Yankees next season. Still looks like he could clout 30 easy." Imagining the last line made Ruth chuckle slightly. With all the weight he had lost, he doubted the power was still there. But he did still strike an impressive figure moving through the city in his camelhair coat. Amidst all the confetti and huzzahs people would reach out to him; not to shake his hand or pat him on the back--just to touch him. Hell, to come close to touching him.

He dried his face while aches and pains shot through all the usual places. He tried to clear his throat; damn tickle was back. Babe buzzed his manservant, "Bring me a hot brandy." It had been years, the glory days of Murder's Row, since Ruth had drank this early. The throat pain however had not flamed so intensely in months. "Damn, just overdid it".

The end of the war was great, no more of our boys dying to protect freedom. But, a twinge of guilt sat there and nagged at his selfishness. The first thought when the news came was not joy for victory, but joy for knowing baseball would be coming back. That damn red Roos-e-velt tried to kill the game; telling Landis the players were needed to fight Hitler and the Japs. Krauts and Nips; America could have taken them without sacrificing the game. Most of the players ended up on service teams anyway. It was great for the boys who got to see the games, but it was a shame the fans missed out.

Could not let the fans down; no matter never let the fans down. That is what made all this possible; the comfort and security. Even with rationing it was sometimes hard to tell a war was going on, but he had played the part of a good citizen. The Babe had worn more cotton shirts rather than silk in the last four years since he came to New York. The people needed to know their hero was standing with them. A lifetime of giving them what they wanted, now it was his time to want.

The game is coming back, he thought as the hot brandy hit the back of his throat. Burning the pain away. The game is back and it would need him. He had waited for the call to manage since he retired. "Ten years is a long time," he said to no one. His eyes darted back to the phone; this time it would ring. The greatest game's greatest player leading the greatest team. No more of Fuchs' Funnies and the Dodgers' lies about a future position, "This time it will ring," he assured himself. The tickle in his throat came back (damn summer cold) he called for another brandy. "Can't be sick when they name me manager of the Yankees," he winked at his manservant.

"Of course, sir."

He told himself not to be too impatient. The F------g moneymen would have to bicker about contracts and player assignment and all that sort of crap. Sooner than later, the phone would ring and the Yankees would be asking, no begging for him to manage. After four years of no baseball, they would pull out all the stops to bring the fans back.

"It just has to happen," he said quietly, ignoring the tears in his eyes.