He's pitching a ghost ball in a ghostly ball game every hour on the even hour on the tiny stage in Hubert's Museum. He's pitching it with a dead arm and a paunchy bulge at his waistline, pitching it out of the memories of an autumn day. long ago when, truly, he was Alexander The Great. Sandwiched in among a card trickster, a floating lady and a jitterbug band, old Pete is playing over and over—íor five cents admission—the seventh game of the 1926 World Series when he fanned Tony Lazzeri with the bases loa and two out. He is doing this three miles from the Yankee Stadium where the Series was played and a short ride from Cooperstown, N. Y., birthplace of the game where Old Pete's name goes up this spring in ba: ball's hall of fame.
Before he went o with his act, asked him where what he had been doing since swift swing of the seasons had dropped him out of the big leagues.
I was with the House of David team for a while," he said in his lazy drawl. "I guaranteed to pitch an inning a day. Then last year I went out with a sem pro club that fi I organized. We didn't do so good.
Got out in the part of the country where the farmers had been hard hit and they didn't have any money to spend on ball games. Right now I got some irons in the fire but none of them are very hot."
Had he been behaving himself?"
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.