The Galloping Ghost by Gary Andrew Poole

Author:Gary Andrew Poole
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Back in the dark and comely Astor Hotel on Broadway and 44th Street, where the Bears were encamped, Red fought a chill, soaking his limbs and then adding to his bank account. George Halas and Red had come into Charlie’s suite and damn, C. C. was happy, grinning as he shaved. Pyle had every right to feel confident. On the rare nights that he wasn’t out with a lady friend, Charlie was going through the hundreds of telegrams, most of which asked Grange for one thing or another. Outside, on Broadway, was “tremendous jazz interpreted by light,” as one writer put it, the flickering penetrating the curtains. Charlie always watched Red like a trainer studying a Thoroughbred in the paddock before a race. “Son,” said Pyle, brandishing his straight razor, “this is the blade that knows no brother. We are going to take a deep cut at the dough on Old Broadway, let the gyps fall where they may.” Pyle was an opportunist with a hint of crudeness, but the newspaper writers did not treat him sanctimoniously because they knew his type. They worked in or about Times Square, a bustling den packed with burlesque shows, roulette rooms, heroin pushers, Gypsy phrenologists, midget troupes, $5-at-the-door stag parties, where “$30 Scotch,” mostly embalming fluid, could be had along with down-on-their-luck chorus girls. The beauty, for Pyle, was that the companies were coming to him. Their checkbooks were wide open. In a lifetime of trying, it was the easiest money he had ever made. Within two hours Pyle collected $25,000 in certified checks for Red Grange endorsements. He had to turn down a bonanza from a cigarette company because Grange didn’t smoke. “That Grange would have been the perfect football player if he had only learned to inhale,” said a laughing Pyle, who gave Red a $50,000 check.

Babe Ruth, the most popular athlete in the world, paid Red a visit, too. Red could hardly believe it. Babe was a hero.

“Kid, I’ll give you a little bit of advice. Don’t believe anything they write about you, good or bad. And further, get the dough while the getting is good, but don’t break your heart trying to get it. And don’t pick up many checks. Don’t let them birds get you down, kid. You’ve got to expect that in this business. All you gotta do is run for another touchdown and they’ll yell their brains out for you.”

It had been quite a day for the Wheaton boy. New York. The game. The money. Thus far 181,000 had watched him on the tour, and he was just getting started. Every time he showed his face there was a screeching frenzy. But there was more. That night, just after ten, he went on WEAF, which was being hooked up with radio stations in a dozen other cities, including St. Paul, Cincy, Washington, Philly, and Pittsburgh. “Hello, folks,” he said. He coughed. “I caught a little cold up at the Polo Grounds this afternoon, so if I’m not quite as clear as you would like I’ll have to ask you to pardon me.

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