Time: July 31, 1915
Place: The Offices of The Saturday Evening Post
Ring Lardner’s most famous story, Alabi Ike is published. Today we print the first part of the story. The YouTube is a radio show. This show from 1937 was based upon the whole thing.
His right name was Frank X. Farrell, and I guess the X stood for “Excuse me.” Because he never pulled a play, good or bad, on or off the field, without apologizin’ for it.
“Alibi Ike” was the name Carey wished on him the first day he reported down South. O’ course we all cut out the “Alibi” part of it right away for the fear he would overhear it and bust somebody. But we called him “Ike” right to his face and the rest of it was understood by everybody on the club except Ike himself.
He ast me one time, he says:
“What do you all call me Ike for? I ain’t no Yid.”
“Carey give you the name,” I says. “It’s his nickname for everybody he takes a likin’ to.”
“He mustn’t have only a few friends then,” says Ike. “I never heard him say ‘Ike’ to nobody else.”
But I was goin’ to tell you about Carey namin’ him. We’d been workin’ out two weeks and the pitchers was showin’ somethin’ when this bird joined us. His first day out he stood up there so good and took such a reef at the old pill that he had everyone lookin’. Then him and Carey was together in left field, catchin’ fungoes, and it was after we was through for the day that Carey told me about him.
“What do you think of Alibi Ike?” ast Carey.
“Who’s that? ” I says.
“This here Farrell in the outfield,” says Carey.
“He looks like he could hit,” I says.
“Yes,” says Carey, “but he can’t hit near as good as he can apologize.”
Then Carey went on to tell me what Ike had been pullin’ out there. He’d dropped the first fly ball that was hit to him and told Carey his glove wasn’t broke in good yet, and Carey says the glove could easy of been Kid Gleason’s gran’father. He made a whale of a catch out o’ the next one and Carey says “Nice work!” or somethin’ like that, but Ike says he could of caught the ball with his back turned only he slipped when he started after it and, besides that, the air currents fooled him.
“I thought you done well to get to the ball,” says Carey.
“I ought to been settin’ under it,” says Ike.
“What did you hit last year?” Carey ast him.
“I had malaria most o’ the season,” says Ike. “I wound up with .356.”
“Where would I have to go to get malaria?” says Carey, but Ike didn’t wise up.
I and Carey and him set at the same table together for supper. It took him half an hour longer’n us to eat because he had to excuse himself every time he lifted his fork.
“Doctor told me I needed starch,” he’d say, and then toss a shoveful o’ potatoes into him. Or, “They ain’t much meat on one o’ these chops,” he’d tell us, and grab another one. Or he’d say: “Nothin’ like onions for a cold,” and then he’d dip into the perfumery.
“Better try that apple sauce,” says Carey. “It’ll help your malaria.”
“Whose malaria?” says Ike. He’d forgot already why he didn’t only hit .356 last year.
I and Carey begin to lead him on.
“Whereabouts did you say your home was?” I ast him. “I live with my folks,” he says. “We live in Kansas City–not right down in the business part–outside a ways.”
“How’s that come?” says Carey. “I should think you’d get rooms in the post office.”
But Ike was too busy curin’ his cold to get that one.
“Are you married?” I ast him.
“No,” he says. “I never run round much with girls, except to shows onct in a wile and parties and dances and roller skatin’.”
“Never take ’em to the prize fights, eh?” says Carey.
“We don’t have no real good bouts,” says Ike. “Just bush stuff. And I never figured a boxin’ match was a place for the ladies.”
Well, after supper he pulled a cigar out and lit it. I was just goin’ to ask him what he done it for, but he beat me to it.
“Kind o’ rests a man to smoke after a good work-out,” he says. “Kind o’ settles a man’s supper, too.”
“Looks like a pretty good cigar,” says Carey.
“Yes,” says Ike. “A friend o’ mine give it to me–a fella in Kansas City that runs a billiard room.”
“Do you play billiards?” I ast him.
“I used to play a fair game,” he says. “I’m all out o’ practice now–can’t hardly make a shot.”
We coaxed him into a four-handed battle, him and Carey against Jack Mack and I. Say, he couldn’t play billiards as good as Willie Hoppe; not quite. But to hear him tell it, he didn’t make a good shot all evenin’. I’d leave him an awful-lookin’ layout and he’d gather ’em up in one try and then run a couple o’ hundred, and between every carom he’d say he’d put too much stuff on the ball, or the English didn’t take, or the table wasn’t true, or his stick was crooked, or somethin’. And all the time he had the balls actin’ like they was Dutch soldiers and him Kaiser William. We started out to play fifty points, but we had to make it a thousand so as I and Jack and Carey could try the table.
The four of us set round the lobby a wile after we was through playin’, and when it got along toward bedtime Carey whispered to me and says:
“Ike’d like to go to bed, but he can’t think up no excuse.”
Carey hadn’t hardly finished whisperin’ when Ike got up and pulled it:
“Well, good night, boys,” he says. “I ain’t sleepy, but I got some gravel in my shoes and it’s killin’ my feet.”
We knowed he hadn’t never left the hotel since we’d came in from the grounds and changed our clo’es. So Carey says:
“I should think they’d take them gravel pits out o’ the billiard room.”
But Ike was already on his way to the elevator, limpin’.
“He’s got the world beat,” says Carey to Jack and I. “I’ve knew lots o’ guys that had an alibi for every mistake they made; I’ve heard pitchers say that the ball slipped when somebody cracked one off’n ’em; I’ve heard infielders complain of a sore arm after heavin’ one into the stand, and I’ve saw outfielders tooken sick with a dizzy spell when they’ve misjudged a fly ball. But this baby can’t even go to bed without apologizin’, and I bet he excuses himself to the razor when he gets ready to shave.”
– from Alabi Ike by Ring Lardner