In 1947 Jackie Robinson 
broke the baseball color line.

In the movie “42” Ben Chapman,
The Alabama Flash, 

who had played for the Yankees 
before being displaced by Joe DiMaggio 

and was now managing the Phils, 
kept up a stream of racist abuse 

until Robinson stole bases 
and scored to win the game.

Then the famous photograph, 
the two men making nice.

But in 1952 Chapman was at it again, 
coaching third base for the Cincinnati Reds.

“Here boy, here Jackie boy, 
come over here and shine my shoes.”

Robinson walked toward third, 
“Say one more word, Chapman,

I’m gonna kick the shit out of you.”
Robinson had been a star 

four sport athlete at UCLA – 
he was big and fast and tough.

Chapman shut his mouth.
Sometimes the real story beats the movie cold.
                        

I met Babe Ruth in my dream last night. 
He remembered my name, which was strange, 
as he called most guys “keed”
and sometimes tipped his teammates, 
mistaking them for bellboys. 
“Stevo,” he said, “Let’s go for a ride,” 
and of course we crashed just over the bridge 
in New Jersey, but we beat it out of there 
before the cops came. 
The moon was up over the water 
and we stared at its reflection for a while. 
Later, at the bar, he told me he was going 
to the Yankees, but not to pitch. I told him 
he’d be huge there, but he just shrugged. 
I pitched for him, throwing high and hard. 
He smashed a lot of balls into the upper deck in right. 
That year he hit .376 with 54 home runs, 
led the league in runs and RBI’s.  
“I always wanted to play the violin,” he said, 
shaking his head as if that dream would never come true. 
“Me too,” I said, and we wept softly in our beer
for the skills that would break our mortal hearts.