An invitation arrives announcing that the Babe Ruth Museum will celebrate the Babe's 100th birthday today with the opening of "Babe Ruth -- An Artistic Perspective."
Reading the exhibit's impressive title, I see Jidge's wide grin beaming down from the eternal Elysian fields. Removing the cigar from his lips, he asks "Hey, keed, what's all this perspective stuff anyhow?"
"Babe, see, it's like this," I tell him. "It's the centennial of your birth, and today's academics and the press are about to dissect your character, your humble roots, your role as America's greatest hero -- you know -- examine your philosophy of life -- that sort of thing."
"Well," he says, winking, "just tell 'em I swung big, with everything I had. I hit big and I missed big. I lived as big as I could."
Although I don't pretend to live big, Babe and I do have two things in common. We both are far removed from America's ivory towers like Hofstra University, where a Ruth conference will be held later this year. Babe hangs out on the diamond in the sky; I'm among the stacks as an elementary-school librarian.
And like Ruth, I get tremendous joy from being around children. I listen to my students. They teach me a lot -- like what is a hero. They've taught me that heroes do not have to fit the molds often formulated by adults. And they have taught me that almost 50 years after his death, Babe endures as their greatest hero.
Some would say that George Herman Ruth was an unlikely candidate for that high calling. Born in a 12-foot-wide Emory Street rowhouse, he was the son of a Baltimore saloon keeper in Pigtown and later admitted, "I was a bum." His parents realized they could not provide their son with adequate supervision and placed him in St. Mary's school for boys when he was 7.
Like Babe, my connection to baseball began in Maryland. Although the career of the Hall-of-Fame slugger, Jimmie Foxx, had ended when I came into this world, Double X and I both hailed from Sudlersville on the Eastern Shore. As a child I was in awe of Foxx. each time I stepped on the village's baseball field, I wondered if Foxx's feet had touched that spot.
Now I walk through Ruth's neighborhood on my way to ball games at Camden Yards. I am filled with that same sense of childhood wonder knowing that Babe once played on those streets. Each afternoon I drive up Paca Street on my way home from work, usually catching a red light at Franklin. I gaze up at the Kernan Hotel's white brick facade. I see the 19-year-old Babe making his way there during a February blizzard in 1914 when he joined a group of pitchers bound for spring training with the Baltimore Orioles.
What would it be like if Ruth played today? Ken Burns, producer and director of the documentary film, "Baseball," observed, "We are a society that actually doesn't have heroes. We cynically dispose of them. In fact, our greatest activity collectively is the bashing of people who have the potential to be heroes, of finding their tragic flaws or their dark sides."
But every society needs heroes, especially its youth. As a child, I heard as much about Jimmie Foxx's drinking as I heard about his home runs. But I had the good sense to separate his achievements from his shortcomings. One did not diminish the other.
Kids possess an innate wisdom in understanding that heroes are not perfect. Babe's problems off the field cost him his greatest dream, to become a manager when his playing days were over. Children can draw their own conclusions about the consequences of his human flaws.
Books and movies chronicle Babe's life, but few provide a balanced perspective. Some depict him as a saint, while others paint him as just a wanton clown. He was neither. He was himself, without pretense, guile or concern about his image. His record-breaking slugging combined with his generosity, warmth and kindness to endear him to the entire world. He was known even where baseball was not. He never did a mean thing to anyone. He adored children and they knew it and adored him.
Two generations have grown up since Ruth hit 60 home runs in 1927. Today's kids love Cal Ripken, Ken Griffey and Frank Thomas, but when I mention the Babe, I still see the wonder in their eyes. Many have seen the movie, "Sandlot," from which they learned to recite the litany of Babe's nicknames. "Yeah," they exhale in a hushed tone of reverence. "He was the Babe, the Bambino, the Sultan of Swat, the King of Crash, the Colossus of Clout."
I look up to heaven. "They still love ya, Babe." He looks down, pushes the Yankee cap back on his head (sorry Boston), and winks, "I know, keed, I know."
Lois Nicholson's biography, "Babe Ruth, Sultan of Swat," is published for the Bambino's centennial today.