I was there when Babe Ruth died.
Thin and frail, there in is bed.
He could barely speak. Barely breathe.
There were boxes of Cuban cigars piled up in the hall, unopened.
Cases of whiskey and bourbon and so much beer, stacked up in the garage.
He could barely speak. Barely breathe.
But he managed to say “Good to see you.”
And it was. It was good to see me.
“One last thing,” I said, and I set aside my scythe.
I got out a card, his rookie season card, and a pen.
He was too weak to sign it.