In Haste: The Babe

Certain vague one-liners stick with me.

Remember the day Michael Richards drowned himself in infamy. His racial slur rant concluded with a repeating and repeating of a strange little phrase; "these words, these words..." He was, in one fatal swing, taking down his worth, tossing aside his public image. It seems to me that he somehow knew that he was enslaving himself by a resounding anthem of utterances. "These words, these words..."

The Babe is not a good film. It seems a victim of the early nineties. Despite its shortcomings, it ends on a resonant tone.

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He hit three home runs that day. He could barely trot, but he could hit. He was a whale. A mammoth. A titan and a genuine fatso.

He hit three home runs that day. His days with the beloved New York Yankees were over. His return to Boston had come, but not to the infamous Red Sox, that plagued team who traded the Bambino to their worst enemy. No, his return was to the unknown Boston Braves.

He hit three home runs that day. No one had ever hit a ball outside of the park there. No one. He hit three home runs that day and one of them was out of the park.

As he slumped off the field, a fan ran up to him. The fan wanted some attention, and, seeing the sloppy disposition of his icon, summoned the courage to encourage the Babe. He reminded him that he hit three home runs. He reminded him that he was unparalleled in baseball. He reminded him that he was the Great Bambino, the Sultan of Swat.

And the Babe replied, "I'm gone... I'm gone."