In the golden ’20s, the years of the big names-the years of Dempsey, Tilden and Bobby Jones-Babe Ruth was the biggest draw of them all. He didn’t need all that he was color itself-a fellow built on heroic, swaggering lines, an enormous head on a barrel of a body. Sportwriters knocked themselves out thinking up new names and superlatives for him: The Sultan of Swat, the Bambino, The Colossus of Clout. The spell lasted until the Babe had trotted around the base paths, taking mincing steps on his small feet, tipping his cap to the mighty, reverent roar from the stands. And the times when his big bat did connect were baseball’s biggest moments. His swing whirled him around until his slender legs were twisted beneath him.
He was unforgettable, even when he struck out.
