This week, two paragraphs about the differences between Gehrig and Babe Ruth and Gehrig's competition with himself.
By mid-summer some newspapers were predicting that Gehrig would not only win the home-run derby but go on to shatter all the Babe's records. His youth and superior conditioning, they said, would carry him long after Ruth tired. The pressure of these expectations must have been enormous, but Gehrig handled it well. He never tried to convert his celebrity status into a more prominent position in the teams' social order. He never tried to cash in on endorsements. He never made demands of management. When each game ended, he sat on a stool in front of his locker and dressed as quickly as he could, while Ruth held court before the media a few feet away.
All his life, Gehrig wrestled with his ego. He was built to conquer, yet programmed for failure. He had a subtle and active mind, yet he lived and worked in an environment in which the expression of deep thoughts often incited teasing. Now, only in his third year with the Yankees, things were going better than he could have hoped. Babe Ruth, his hero, had become his friend. He was batting fourth and starting at first base for a winning team. He had the complete trust of his manager and the respect of the fans. Still, Gehrig did not so much set aside his self-doubt as manage it. He learned once again that he could always count on his body, that his brawny legs, wide chest, and enormous shoulders could be trained to do almost anything. The young man who once wanted to be an engineer now treated baseball as a mechanical affair. See the ball; hit the ball. He developed a smooth, simple swing -- one much more compact than Ruth's -- until he became almost frighteningly consistent. It was inside the straight white lines of the batter's box that he seemed most comfortable.
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