But those gray balls had almost killed two guys last year. Honus Sukalowski had taken one to the temple and never talked right again. Bobby Kestler had also taken one to the bean and hadn’t swung a bat since. Whit Owens, the pitcher who’d hit Sukalowski, had left the game altogether out of guilt. That was three guys gone in one year, and during the war year to boot.

Standing in left, Ruth watched the third out of the game arc toward him like a Roman candle, a victim of its own brilliance. He was whistling when he caught it. As he jogged back in toward the dugout, God’s fingertips found his chest.

It’s a new game.

You can say that twice.

It’s your game now, Babe. All yours.

I know. Did you see how white it is? It’s so…white.

A blind man could hit it, Babe.

I know. A blind kid. A blind girl kid.

It’s not Cobb’s game anymore, Babe. It’s a slugger’s game.

Slugger. That’s a swell word, boss. Always been fond of it, myself.

Change the game, Babe. Change the game and free yourself.

From what?

You know.

Babe didn’t, but he kind of did, so he said, “Okay.”

“Who you talking to?” Stuffy McInnis asked as he reached the dugout.

“God.”

Stuffy spit some tobacco into the dirt. “Tell Him I want Mary Pick-ford at the Belleview Hotel.”

Babe picked up his bat. “See what I can do.”

“Tuesday night.”

Babe wiped down his bat. “Well, it is an off day.”

Stuffy nodded. “Say around six.”

Babe walked toward the batter’s box.

“Gidge.”

Babe looked back at him. “Call me ‘Babe,’ okay?”

“Sure, sure. Tell God to tell Mary to bring a friend.”

Babe walked into the batter’s box.

“And beer!” Stuffy called.

Columbia George Smith was on the mound for the Giants, and his first pitch was low and inside and Babe suppressed a giggle as it passed over the toe of his left foot. Jesus, you could count the stitches! Lew McCarty threw the ball back to his pitcher and Columbia George threw a curveball next that hissed past Babe’s thighs for a strike. Babe had been watching for that pitch because it meant Columbia George was stair climbing. The next pitch would be belt high and a hair inside, and Babe would have to swing but miss if he wanted Columbia George to throw the high heat. So he swung, and even trying to miss, he foul-tipped the ball over McCarty’s head. Babe stepped out of the box for a moment, and Xavier Long took the ball from McCarty and examined it. He wiped at it with his hand and then his sleeve and he found something there he didn’t like because he placed it in the pouch over his groin and came back out with a brand-spanking new ball. He handed it to McCarty, and McCarty rifled it back to Columbia George.

What a country!

Babe stepped back into the box. He tried to keep the glee from his eyes. Columbia George went into his windup, and, yup, his face corked into that telltale grimace it got whenever he brought the fire, and Babe gave it all a sleepy smile.