People are still debating what happened that fine October day in 1932, but it hardly matters anymore. Babe Ruth’s exquisite moment of triumph is cemented in our national mythology.

They were playing Game 3 of the World Series in Chicago, and the hatred was so intense that Cubs fans actually spat on Ruth’s wife at the airport when she arrived. Throughout the game, the crowd was mercilessly jeering at Ruth, pelting him with lemons from the stands. Unbowed, he taunted Cubs pitcher Charlie Root with demands that Root throw strikes, not balls, relishing the catcalls and returning them. By the fifth inning, the entire stadium thundered with vitriol. It was then, with two strikes already against him, that Ruth paused, pointed at the stands, and hit the next pitch in what appeared to be the same spot, farther than anyone before had hit a baseball at Wrigley Field. In the parlance of billiards, he called the shot, and made it, brilliantly. The stadium went suddenly quiet.

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Why do we revisit this moment in movies, paintings, and rec-league fields every summer all over the country? Why do we so love the spectacle of Ruth’s excellence? Because the haters, as they say, are going to hate, and we all feel pelted by lemons sometimes. In his 1948 autobiography, Ruth wrote, “As I hit the ball, every sense I had told me I had never hit a better one, that as long as I lived nothing would ever feel as good as this.”

Babe Ruth’s ‘Called Shot’ Jersey Steps Up to the Plate at Heritage Auctions, May 21, 2024

This post is part of The American 250, a series featuring 250 objects made by Americans, located in America, in honor of the country's 250th anniversary. 250 words on 250 works, from January 1 to December 31, 2026.

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