When I was a kid, growing up in the 1930s on West 74th Street between Broadway and West End, the highlight of my day was ten in the morning, when Babe Ruth would emerge from his daily shave at the barbershop in the Ansonia Hotel, on my corner. Every day, if I could be there, I would stand on the street, and when the Babe appeared, I’d wave and say, “Hi, Babe.” He’d wave back and say, “Hi, kid,” and then get into his car. One day I got up the courage to ask him for his autograph, and he signed my book, date and all.