From Seymour Hersh's memoir:
As we drove to the ballpark, Hall learned I had spent much of my childhood playing baseball and going to games at Comiskey. So he defied the apparent office dicta about being anything but civil to a rookie and told me about one of his early experiences covering the Yankees in Chicago. It was a year or two after Babe Ruth, in his prime, had broken all records for hitting home runs. As usual, the Babe was playing catch in front of the first base dugout before a game. Somehow a kid had gotten past the ushers and was parked near the dugout, constantly begging the Babe to sign his scorecard. The kid was about twelve years old, as Harry told it, with a leather cap and the smudged look of the street. The kid’s mantra, said over and over again, as he waved the scorecard, was “Sign my card, Babe…Sign my card.” He was indefatigable. Finally, after half an hour or so of the bleating, the Babe, totally irritated, told the kid to scram and added, “I don’t sign scorecards, kid. I only sign balls.” With that, the kid flung the scorecard away and, using both hands, emphatically cupped his groin and said, “Oh, yeah. Well, sign mine.” As Harry told it, the Babe fell to the ground in laughter and, once the game began, glanced before each at bat toward the dugout where the kid had parked himself, and could not stop smiling. The mighty Babe, Harry added, went 0 for 4 that day.
Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold. — Jesus Christ to Judas Iscariot