The Roaring Twenties are gone. In their place is the Great Depression, a crisis deeper and more painful than the Civil War, and the American public no longer wants a larger-than-life savior. They want escape. Baseball provides it, but the magic has dimmed.
Babe Ruth arrived in New York in 1920 just as the country was ready to worship a new kind of hero. Now, a decade later, his excesses—the home runs, the appetite, the sheer gusto—feel less like charm and more like a relic of a softer time. The country is hardened. Photos from this period show people staring into the lens with weary, knowing eyes. They have lost everything overnight. And so does the Babe.
The Stats Don’t Lie
Entering the 1933 season, Ruth knew it was coming. The end was near.
Sure, he had the “called-shot” home run against Charlie Root in the 1932 World Series. Sure, he had another championship ring. But age is a harsh dealer. Ruth admitted in his autobiography that his legs were getting tired. This was his 20th year in the majors.
Look at the numbers. They don’t lie.
His 41 home runs in 1932 were his lowest since 1925. He broke a streak of six straight American League home run titles. For the first time in a season where he played over 100 games, Ruth didn’t lead the league in slugging percentage. He batted .341, which is fifth in the league and just one point below his career average. But it was his lowest mark in four years.
He scored 120 runs and had 137 RBIs. Those are spectacular numbers for any player in history. For Babe Ruth, they signaled a decline.
Jimmie Foxx threatened his 60-home-run record in 1932. Lou Gehrig, his own teammate, was stealing the headlines. After 10 home run titles in 12 seasons, Ruth would never lead the league again. His legs were shot. Writers started calling his late-inning replacements “Babe Ruth’s legs” or “caddies.”
The tide was turning. But the Babe still had fun.
Hunting, Ham, and Hubris
After the 1932 Series win, Ruth went on a 10-day hunting trip to North Carolina with Frank Stevens, a concessionaire magnate. He was in high spirits. He brought three guns, a portable phonograph, and his entire record collection. He left his wife Claire in New York with 30 pounds of cakes because he needed the round tins to pack his long-playing discs.
The trip was a feast. He shot a turkey for dinner. Then he ate roast and boiled ham, potatoes, collards, cake, and pie. He returned to New York to shed the weight at Artie McGovern’s gym, sparring playfully with his daughter Julia.
He had no idea what was waiting for him.
The $50,000 Cut
Ruth was still the highest-paid player in baseball. But the country was standing in bread lines. You don’t demand raises in a depression.
The irony? The Yankees had just swept the Cubs in the 1932 World Series. Four games. A convincing win. Owners Colonel Jacob Ruppert and General Manager Ed Barrow used that victory as an excuse to cut salaries for 1933.
Barrow claimed the lack of a sixth and seventh game at the Stadium cost the club over $100,000 in refunded tickets. They reminded the players that the Depression showed no sign of ending. Ruppert was being frugal, even with Prohibition repeal bringing in beer profits.
Ruth’s salary dropped from $80,000 to $75,000 the year before. In 1933, the new contract offered $50,000. That is a cut of 33.3 percent.
Ruth was livid. He sent the contract back in January. Barrow asked him not to go public. Ruth didn’t listen.
“I don’t mind telling you and the world that the offer is $50,000,” Ruth told reporters. “That’s a cut of 25 grand, and that’s some wallop. I don’t believe Colonel Ruppert ever saw the contract… I expected to receive a cut, but I can’t believe Jake would go so far as a third off. I’ll never sign for that.”
Ruppert had approved the cut. He just didn’t admit it to the press.
When Ruppert ignored the complaints, Ruth cooled down a bit. “I can see a 10 percent cut or even a 15 percent cut,” he said. “But $25,000 is no cut, that’s an amputation.”
Ruth argued that he still packed the Stadium, drawing nearly a million fans. He left for Florida to play golf and work it out. “We’ll work this out in Florida. We always do.”
But it wasn’t always.
The times had changed. Ruth no longer had the bargaining power he once held. Ruppert knew he had Gehrig. He had Bill Dickey. He had Ben Chapman. Ruth wasn’t the dominant force he used to be. And the owner knew it.
The Contract Standoff and Public Backlash
Rumors of death traveled faster than a line drive. While George Herman Ruth sat in Florida waiting for a deal, newspapers printed bold claims that he had perished in a plane crash. Ruth’s response was typical: dry, self-deprecating humor. “Nah, I haven’t been in a plane in weeks,” he told reporters. “The worst accident I’ve had is that Yankees contract.”
The humor didn’t land on Ed Barrow or Jacob Ruppert. The Yankees’ management held the line. Ruth tried to negotiate, dropping his demand from higher figures down to $60,000, then $55,000. Ruppert’s counter was a cold threat: sign by March 29 or stay south for the exhibition season. The Colonel was clear. He would not pay more than $50,000.
The final agreement, signed on March 22, 1933, settled at $52,000. It was a concession, yes, but a minor one. The power dynamic had shifted irrevocably. Ownership now dictated the terms. Ruppert reminded everyone that Ruth was still the highest-paid player in baseball. Al Simmons, the star center fielder for the Philadelphia Athletics who helped lead them to three straight pennants from 1929 to 1931, made less than $40,000. The gap was widening, and the justification for it was crumbling.
For the first time, the public wasn’t entirely behind the Sultan of Swat. Babe had arrived when baseball needed a hero. Now, he was asking for more money while the Great Depression crushed the economy. Fans were struggling. Their life savings were evaporating in bank failures. They didn’t want to hear complaints from a man earning over $50,000 while they starved.
Yet, some things remained constant. A Salvation Army official in Manhattan surveyed 1,174 destitute men in a shelter. He asked if they knew any Americans who deserved to make $80,000—Ruth’s old salary. The results were telling. Ruth trailed only the President of the United States. He wasn’t alone at the bottom of the list. President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Albert Einstein, and media magnate William Randolph Hearst were also cited. The people recognized greatness, even if they resented the paycheck attached to it.
The 1933 Campaign
When the season started, Yankees fans faced a difficult question: was the 38-year-old in right field worth the price? The answer, statistically, was becoming no.
Ruth hit just nine home runs through May. Two were on the road. The rest came at Yankee Stadium. He looked slower. His range in the outfield had shrunk. But the Yankees didn’t collapse. They adapted. Lou Gehrig and the rest of the lineup carried the offensive load. New York surged, playing at nearly a .700 winning percentage and building a comfortable lead in the American League. The team proved it could win without its biggest star.
By July, the narrative shifted again. Connie Mack and fans voted Ruth into the starting lineup for the first All-Star Game on July 6, 1933. Many saw this as a gesture of goodwill rather than a reflection of current form. His numbers had declined sharply since the previous year. He was outperformed by other sluggers who made the cut. The selection was about legacy, not current value.
But the writing was on the wall. The decline was accelerating. And the next chapter would be even harder to write.
