Babe & Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

guy on the shoulder who nodded his head and pointed to a nearby store. The sign on the front said: J. B. MILLER, HABERDASHER .
    â€œIs a haberdasher the same as a bookie?” I asked as I followed Dad to the doorway.
    â€œNo,” Dad replied. “Betting on baseball is illegal, so bookies set up regular businesses and take bets quietly, when the cops aren’t looking.”
    A haberdasher, I discovered as soon as we walked in the door, is a hat salesman. I had never even seen a hat store before, but it occurred to me that every man on the street in 1932 was wearing a hat. This place had hats all over the walls. Dad leaned over to the fat guy behind the counter.
    â€œI need to speak with Ralphie,” Dad said.
    â€œI sell hats,” the guy said. “Who sent you?”
    â€œMike sent me.”
    â€œI’m Ralphie.”
    â€œI want to place a bet on the World Series,” Dad said.
    â€œI’m listening,” Ralphie replied.
    â€œI want to put down five thousand bucks on the Yankees to win in four straight.”
    Ralphie laughed. He laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach with one hand and wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks with the other.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” Dad asked, annoyed. “You’re a bookie, aren’t you?”
    â€œBuddy,” Ralphie said, “I wish I could take your bet. But nobody’s betting on the Cubs. Everybody knows the Yanks are gonna mop the floor with them in Game Three and Game Four.”
    â€œI’ll give you good odds,” Dad said.
    â€œIt don’t matter, mister. Nobody’ll take your action.”
    â€œI even know the final score of Games Three and Four.”
    â€œForget it, pal. Take my advice. Save your money and buy yourself a hat.”
    We left the hat store and continued walking in the direction of Seventy-fourth Street and the Ansonia Hotel.
    â€œStrike two,” Dad said, a little dejectedly.
    â€œYou’re not out yet, Dad,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Hey, why don’t you bet on the presidential election? Franklin Roosevelt is going to win, isn’t he?”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea, Butch,” Dad replied. “But then we’d have to hang around here until Election Day to collect our money. That’s next month. I promised your mom I’d have you home within three days. Besides, I have one more idea that could make us a pile of money. This one is sure to work.”
    â€œDad, are you calling your shot?” I teased.
    My dad struck a batting pose and pointed across the street the same way Babe Ruth supposedly pointed to the centerfield bleachers. The sign on the window said: DAVIS SPORTING GOODS—BASEBALL EQUIPMENT. GOLF CLUBS. DUMBELLS .
    Dad must have realized he wasn’t going to make a fortune by putting money in a bank for seventy years or by betting on the World Series. To be honest, they both sounded like crackpot ideas, once I took the time to think them through.
    We walked across the street to the sporting goods store and went inside. It didn’t look like any sporting goods store I’d ever seen. There were nosneakers, treadmills, or roller hockey gear. They did have these things that looked like leather beach balls. When I went to pick one up, it was so heavy I couldn’t lift it. Dad said it was called a “medicine ball,” and people exercised by throwing them at each other. It sounded like the dumbest thing in the world to me.
    Dad marched up to the counter with a determined look on his face.
    â€œDo you sell baseballs?” he asked.
    â€œCertainly, sir,” the clerk replied.
    â€œGood. I want to buy a hundred of your best baseballs.”
    â€œA hundred, sir?” The clerk looked like Dad had just asked for a hundred fresh dinosaur eggs.
    â€œThat’s right,” Dad repeated, “a hundred.”
    The clerk looked flustered and said he’d have to check the