Monday, May 16, 1927: Detroit

Miller Huggins’s Yankees

Myles Thomas
1927: The Diary of Myles Thomas
23 min readMay 16, 2016

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NNobody liked Miller Huggins much his first half dozen years as manager in New York, despite his winning three pennants in a row and one World Series. Not the press. Not the fans. And definitely not the players. From 1918 through ’25, Miller Huggins was the most unappreciated man in all of baseball. But it was worse than that. The abuse he took in the newspapers and from the players, and the pressure he felt managing the team, drove him to a nervous breakdown a few years ago.

At first glance, Huggins appears to be ill-suited to manage a team of large, ofttimes out-of-control personalities, situated in a city whose social temptations never sleep. But, in fact, he is the perfect manager for the team. And, since 1925, inside our locker room he has the respect and even affection of his players.

Still, in many ways, like Lou Gehrig, Miller Huggins remains a lonely soul.

Miller Huggins (center) with Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig

HHuggins is a solitary man. All of his life he’s been set apart by his size. The “Mighty Mite” is listed as 5-foot-6, but he can’t be more than 5-foot-3 — he might even be 5-foot-2.

Huggins is also set apart by his intellect. As a player in the major leagues for a dozen years it was his deep knowledge of how to play the game that made him a valuable second baseman, first for the Cincinnati Reds and then for the St. Louis Cardinals. His intellect also helped him obtain a law degree from the University of Cincinnati.

Like Gehrig, Huggins’s temperament seems out of sorts with his occupation. Although he looks at the baseball diamond like a chess board and is a master tactician, Huggins is more of an instructor than a fiery field general. He’s not the sort to emotionally rally his troops for battle. Nor is he a larger than life character who can intimidate his players into doing his bidding. And he’s far from the avuncular sort, like Brooklyn’s Uncle Robbie, who motivates his Robins through a sense of clubhouse fraternity. Perhaps because he doesn’t fit any of those molds, Huggins has become a new type of manager: strategist, coach, teacher, financial advisor, and father confessor.

“No other manager does as much for his players as Huggins does for you guys,” observes Paul Gallico, the writer for the Daily News. “His first concern is trying to understand what motivates each player, instead of just forcing you to be something you’re not.” He lights up a smoke. “Huggins is a new kind of modern manager.”

Gallico is musing about Huggins as we’re sitting in a coffee shop on the ground floor of the Book-Cadillac Hotel in Detroit. Along with Schoolboy and Sailor Bob Shawkey, the four of us are killing time watching the snowfall that has cancelled our game.

“I haven’t seen snow in the middle of May since I was shipped out to the North Atlantic during the Great War,” says Sailor Bob, toasting the weather by lifting his cup of joe toward the clouds. “It sure looks pretty, but it’s costing me a start. And I don’t have too many of those left in me.”

I go to grab the sugar but Hoyt gets there first. Schoolboy can get competitive about the most mundane stuff, especially on days when he’s not pitching.

As we’re killing time, Sailor Bob, whose concentric circles on the team contain more players than anyone else’s, starts listing off this evening’s itineraries. “Meusel, Dugan and Ruether are heading off to a new blind pig run by the Purple Gang. Gehrig, Combs, Moore and the rest of the movie crowd are heading out around 7:30 to see “It,” again. And — ”

“Jesus Christ,” moans Hoyt. “Again? They’re going to see ‘It’? Again? Really? Have those fellas no imagination?”

“And …,” Sailor Bob continues in a schoolmarm’s voice, wagging his finger to scold Hoyt for interrupting him, “The Babe will be hosting a two-stage soiree up in his suite. The first stage, the poker game will commence at 9 and end no later than 1:00 a.m.”

“And the fishing party?” asks Hoyt.

“The second stage — the much anticipated fishing party — will start at 10 and run until exactly midnight,” replies Sailor Bob.

Ruth is an avid hotel fisherman, and this morning he paid the manager of the dining room $300 to stock the tub in his hotel suite with 30 live walleye, and to fetch a half dozen fishing rods, a bucket of worms, and a chef who will cook ’em as they’re caught.

“Tonight’s rules,” continues Sailor Bob, “Ten dollars gets both boys and girls 10 minutes of fishing. Only one turn apiece. Whoever catches the most fish before midnight takes the pot. The curfew for the gentlemen, card sharks, fishermen, and the piano player will be at one o’clock.”

“And the curfew for the women?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“They will have after-hours privileges,” notes Sailor Bob. “As they always do.”

Huggins doesn’t know the exact details of our nightlife, but he has a better idea than many of the players assume. Back when things were completely out of control in ’25, the Yankees hired a private eye to pose as a fan and follow the players, and even take pictures. It wasn’t Huggins’s idea, but he keeps a framed copy of one of the after-hours photos — of Ruth, Meusel and some of the other bad boys hoisting their bottomless mugs at Capone’s main brewery — in his office at the Stadium as a reminder to everyone, including himself, that those were not successful days. It’s the perfect Huggins touch.

Miller Huggins and John McGraw (1924)

Unlike John McGraw, who’s aptly nicknamed the “Little Napoleon” because of his martinet ways and his height, Huggins leads through reason.

He’s not constantly shouting at players to move this way or that, or demanding they all bat the same way, or trying to dictate every moment of their uniformed existence. Instead, during our games he’s constantly talking strategy to us and giving individual players verbal quizzes, to see if our heads are in the game, instead of in the stands beaver shooting.

McGraw’s ideal team is made of puppets whose strings he can pull day and night. Huggins’s ideal team is one that he coaches, drills, and instills with a sense of how to play the game — he lets the players take more of a lead than other managers do.

Unfortunately, until last season Hugg didn’t have players that could be counted on to think of the team first and put their own selfish desires second.

As we carry on our conversation about Huggins and share a pack of smokes, the snow leaves a slick white sheet on the streets of Detroit.

Right outside our window, two cars on Michigan Avenue slide into each other. Nothing serious. But both drivers get out with guns drawn. Makes sense. It’s Detroit, and we’re at the Book-Cadillac, home of the Purple Gang. The four of us dive under the table. “Shit!” Just the sort of thing that happens when you have snow in May, in Detroit.

Sailor Bob finds a five dollar bill on the floor. Schoolboy, Gallico and I agree this means he has to pick up the tab for lunch.

After a few minutes, the coffee shop manager gives the all-clear and everything quickly returns to normal. Our waitress comes by to refill our coffee cups and hand out menus. The one she gives Hoyt has her phone number in it.

Miller Huggins in the dugout with Umpires during the 1923 World Series

“W“When Hugg arrived in ’18,” Sailor Bob recalls, “he inherited a team of losers that for almost 20 years had been happy to lounge in the second division.”

“He tried hard to bring the team a sense of professionalism,” says Hoyt, with more than a bit of remorse. “But we didn’t show him enough respect.”

“We had the wrong type of guys back then,” says Sailor Bob, not absolving Hoyt for his part in making Huggins early years painful ones.

“The real winning didn’t start until Ruth arrived in ’20,” Gallico says, lighting up a cigar. “You know, it was Huggins who pushed for the Yankees to get Jidge, and not just because of his bat. Hugg saw — before almost anyone else — that the Babe was going to change all of baseball.”

Sailor Bob and Gallico have talked with Huggins at length about his ability to foresee how Ruth would revolutionize everything about baseball. “Huggins never felt threatened by the game changing from Cobb’s slashing play to Ruth’s long ball fireworks. His intellect is fierce, and he saw it as a great new challenge,” says Gallico. “He’s not ruled by emotion the way John McGraw is — McGraw has never been able to accept that Ruth eclipsed his beloved inside baseball.”

Gallico is a Columbia University boy and a rarity in the press box, a true intellectual — his father was a concert pianist — but he’s also a tough New York City kid. He made his way through Columbia tutoring Manhattan schoolboys and working as a longshoreman. He was one of the first to appreciate Huggins.

“What’s even more impressive is that Hugg saw that it wasn’t only the way the game was being played on the field that was going to change, but he also saw what was happening in the stands. He saw how the fans were reacting to the Big Bam and his home runs. Huggins believes this is a game for the fans, not just for the managers. I’ve heard him say a dozen times, ‘The Yankees are a team built not just to win. We built this team for the New York fans, to match their temperament.’ That’s what makes it so cruel that the fans don’t appreciate him.”

“It was his own fault,” says Sailor Bob, “Once Ruth arrived, right from the start, Huggins publicly gave the Babe too much credit. And Ruth — rightfully, but selfishly — took almost all of it.”

“And because you boys up in the press box write day and night only about the Babe,” Schoolboy says, giving Gallico the needle, “to the fans Huggins only looks like the little man handing the umpires a lineup card — even when he’s handing it to them during the World Series.”

Babe Ruth’s 1923 World Series Champions Pocket Watch

In ’21 and ’22 the Yankees won the pennant, but both times lost the Series to McGraw and his Giants. Then in ’23 Ruth — and Huggins — led them to a third pennant in a row and a third World Series against McGraw’s Giants. This time the Yankees won it all, four games to two. But hardly anyone, except for our owner Colonel Ruppert and Ed Barrow, gave Huggins much of the credit.

“Even after we won the Series,” says Sailor Bob, “Huggins was still seen by the press and the fans as the little man with the lineup card — and, worse, someone who could never come close to winning without Ruth.”

“Hey, a bunch of you players felt that way, too,” adds Gallico, defending his press box buddies.

“Huggins tried to treat the players like men, but even when we were winning they acted like bums,” Sailor Bob says, shaking his head at the memory. “In fact, winning made that crowd worse. Carl Mays, Joe Bush, Sam Jones and most of all Ruth, they all hated Huggins and constantly belittled him in the clubhouse, and tormented him out on the field. It was awful to watch.”

Pitchers Sam Jones, Carl Mays, Babe Ruth and Bullet Joe Bush.

“D“Don’t forget me,” says Schoolboy. “I was part of that crowd. I was an angry young man. Mays and Bush enjoyed that part of me, and the three of us enjoyed sharing the bottle together. They didn’t lead me astray, that was my own doing,” he says, taking a small dramatic bow for his sins. “But those three were poison.”

Another waitress brings us our order. Hoyt’s sandwich comes with her phone number under it.

How can a guy live a life like that and still be so goddamn competitive? If I had Schoolboy’s talent and charm, I’d be satisfied just taking what the world was handing me — I wouldn’t be driven to try and grab more. But not Schoolboy. He puts the second number in the same pants pocket as the first one.

“Bullet Joe hated Huggins so much, he threw a World Series game,” says Gallico, blowing perfect smoke rings with his cigar smoke, as is his wont. “Threw. It.”

His words shoot through the smoke.

Some say Bush did it because he hated Huggins, others say Bush did it because gamblers got to him. We’ll probably never know, especially now that Commissioner Landis has declared that dirty baseball officially died in 1919 and his office no longer will listen to any stories from the past. That’s part of why Cobb and Speaker were sent packing to new teams this year, to put an end to their old associations, and the old rumors about them.

“What exactly happened with Joe Bush and Huggins?” I ask the table.

“In game five of the ’22 Series,” recounts Sailor Bob, “we’re leading 3–2, with two outs in the eighth, but the Giants have men on second and third. Huggins signals for Bush to walk the next batter to load the bases — it’s the only move, even a child would have called for a walk — and Bush just looks at Huggins from the mound and shouts, ‘Go fuck yourself.’ Everyone in the Polo Grounds hears him. Hell, everyone in Manhattan hears him. They argue, and finally Bush walks the guy, as instructed. Then he purposely grooves one to High Pockets Kelly, who singles in two runs. Giants win the game 5–3 and sweep the series.”

“The inning’s finally over,” says Hoyt, “and Bush calmly walks back to the dugout, sits down between Mays and me, and loudly announces, ‘Well, the little man got what he wanted.’”

“After that is when Huggins had his breakdown. He told Fred Lieb all about it,” says Gallico. “By the end of that season he had stopped sleeping. He’d just sit up in his bed smoking his pipe all night, trying to figure out how to get through to his players. He was exhausted. His weight was down to 105 pounds. It took him over a month upstate to recover.”

No smoke rings.

Miller Huggins and Yankee Owner, Colonel Jacob Ruppert

“That’s also,” Gallico points out, “when Colonel Ruppert finally bought out Cap Huston to get control of one hundred percent of the team. The first thing he did after that was announce to the press, ‘There isn’t a man on the club who is going to be bigger than Huggins.’”

“When Hugg came back the next season, he knew he had the Colonel’s full backing. And he started to put the guys in line,” Schoolboy says. “I’ll never forget when he cut Carl Mays down to size. He wouldn’t take him off the mound in a 13–0 loss — I think Mays gave up over 20 hits.

“Shit,” says Sailor Bob, “Huggins just hung him out to die on the mound like you’d hang a guy in the town square. Then he traded his ass to Cincinnati, to the National League so he’d never have to see him again.”

That was 1922, but it was only after the disaster of 1925 that Huggins really got control of the team. That was the year the train ran completely off the rails.

And it all began, as almost all things involving the Yankees do, with Ruth.

“In 1925, Ruth came to spring training a mess,” remembers Schoolboy. “Over 250 pounds of mess — he must have been 40 pounds overweight. Hell, Jidge was just a giant bag of bad food, bad booze, bad women and a bad marriage. All he did was cat all night. After spring training, when we took the train north to New York, he had to jump off at every stop to get lost and find something to fuck.

“One night we’re in Savannah — and it’s criminally late — Jidge, Steve O’Neill and I come back to the train around 4:00 a.m. — and Huggins is out on the platform waiting for Ruth. Before Hugg sees us, I get a whiff of his pipe smoke and quickly run around to the other side of the train to hide, but Ruth just parades loudly onto the platform.

“When Ruth sees Huggins is waiting up for him, he gets so angry at the sight of Hugg that he wants to jump him. I’m already on the other side of the train about to climb back on board when I hear them yelling at each other.

“I quickly strip down to my underpants — so it won’t look like I’d been out with Ruth and, instead, will appear like I’ve just woken up and jumped down from my berth — and then I run to help O’Neill wrestle Jidge to the ground to keep him off of Hugg. A bunch of guys fall off the train and grab Ruth, and drag him stumbling back to his compartment.”

“Don’t forget Hugg’s parting words to you,” says Sailor Bob, laughing.

“Oh, yeah. Before Ruth gets back on the train they go at it one more time, and somehow — I don’t remember, I was too drunk — I end up holding back Huggins. Next thing I know, everyone’s left the platform except me and Hugg — but I’m still holding him from behind. And I’m still only in my underwear. And I’ve still got my arms around him. And he’s still shaking ’cause he’s so angry. And I’m still shaking ’cause I was petrified that Ruth was gonna kill him if he landed a blow. Then Hugg ends the night by saying, ‘You can let go of me now, Schoolboy. Thank you very much.’ And as we start to walk back toward the train he calmly says, ‘And don’t forget to pick your clothes off the tracks before you go to bed.’”

“Jesus, what a train ride,” laughs Gallico. “That’s the same trip where Ruth and Meusel held Huggins off the back of the car while it was moving out of the station.”

“Never happened,” counters Sailor Bob.

“They both threatened to do it. They were raising hell and they were banging on his door. Huggins just sat locked in his compartment smoking his pipe, like he always does, and eventually the bears went away.”

I can’t tell if Sailor Bob’s covering for someone or not. Same thing with Hoyt, who says he slept through that one, but has told me in the past that he thinks the story might be true. The fact that it was only two years ago and no one can say if it definitely happened or not tells you what a haze of insanity that train ride north must have been.

Then, Ruth got deathly sick in Asheville, North Carolina, and had to be rushed to the hospital. When the Yankees arrived in Washington without him, a rumor spread that he had died. It spread so quickly and so far that the London papers, which publish ahead of the American ones, actually printed a banner headline saying Ruth was dead.

By the time a special train had brought Ruth to New York, he almost was.

TTwo months later, Ruth left the hospital. “His weight was down to something like 180 pounds,” Sailor Bob says. “None of the players in the locker room would touch any of his towels or cloths, we were convinced he had some form of venereal disease. The team even hired a male nurse to take care of him in the locker room.”

Jidge quickly set about making up for lost time, at least off the field. He might not have been in prime playing shape, but his primitive and carnal appetites were out of control. According to Hoyt, one night in Chicago Ruth was with a half dozen different women. “It got to the point,” Schoolboy told me, “where I really felt like I was watching the gradual disintegration of Ruth, the man.”

This all led him to his final confrontation with Huggins. It’s a story I’ve read about, but I’ve never heard it told by anyone who was there. And Sailor Bob and Schoolboy both experienced it first-hand.

“Late in the season, we’re in St. Louis,” says Sailor Bob. “And Ruth’s been out all night. And by the time he finally makes it into the locker room, all the players except for Schoolboy over here were already out on the field.”

Schoolboy picks up the story. “As always on days when I start, I was the last man to leave the clubhouse. So, I was there when Ruth walked in.

“Huggins, once again, has been waiting for him. Hugg is sitting on a bench in the locker room smoking his pipe, his right knee is bobbing up and down, in that way it does when he’s anxious. Finally, Babe bursts in late for batting practice and looking a mess. Hugg stands up and calmly tells him, ‘You don’t have to dress today.’”

“‘Why not?’ asks Babe, already getting pissed.”

“‘Because I’ve suspended you,’ says Huggins. ‘I’m fining you five thousand dollars and I’m sending you back to New York, alone.’

“‘Fuck you! You little piece of shrimp shit!,’ Ruth starts shouting. ‘You can’t get away with this! I made you, you runt. I just wish you were my size — if you weighed 200 pounds, I’d beat the shit out of you!’

“Huggins walks right up to the Babe and says, ‘Yeah. Well, I wish I did weigh 200 pounds. ’Cause then I’d box your ears off. This conversation is over. Your ticket is in your locker. And your train leaves tonight.’

“Huggins walks out of the locker room, and I go galloping out to the field to tell the guys the news. No one wants to go back inside, ’cause they don’t want to piss off Huggins, or have Ruth try to pull them onto his side. That whole day, Huggins just acts like nothing has happened — except every time he sits down his knee can’t stop bobbing up and down, like a goddamn piston.”

Telegram to American League President Ban Johnson, notifying him of the suspension of Babe Ruth by Miller Huggins

Gallico calls over a waitress, buys another pack of smokes for the table and tells me what happened next.

“Huggins told the Babe to go home to New York, but the Babe says, ‘The hell with him,’ and instead he goes to the House of the Good Shepherd, where he spends that night and most of the next day wearing out the girls, trying to screw out his anger. Then he heads to Chicago to see Landis, but the commissioner is out of town.

“By now the story is front page headlines in every paper in the country, and each of those papers has sent a reporter to follow Ruth. And Ruth is talking to them all, mouthing off about how Huggins is a lying little piss-ant.

New York Evening World, August 31, 1925

“But what Ruth doesn’t get is that by going public and saying Huggins is lying about him, he’s now opened the door to every reporter to write the truth. So, for the first time, everybody is writing about Ruth’s philandering and his excesses. For the Babe, it’s like a dam filled with newspaper ink has been breached, and now he’s drowning in story after story about his worst behavior.”

More smoke rings.

“Suddenly there’s pictures of Ruth’s girlfriend Claire Hodgson, side by side with pictures of his wife, Helen, on front pages across America. Newspapers love that shit — and so do their readers. They couldn’t write about it before, but now Ruth’s made it legitimate news for them to cover.”

“You really think so?” I ask Gallico.

“Sure. I respect a guy’s privacy, but if the most famous person in the world publicly accuses his boss of lying about what he’s been doing off the field, well, now it’s a different story. Now it’s legit news. You may not like it, and I may not like it, but that’s just the way it is. And it wouldn’t be fair to our readers, or to Huggins, to cover it any other way.

Gallico gives me a look to see if I agree. I’m not sure I do. I like Paul a lot, he’s talented, full of integrity, and we’re friends. But a good portion of the press box is filled with hacks and drunks, many of them both.

“What’s remarkable is all this time Colonel Ruppert is telling all of us reporters, ‘I’m behind Huggins to the limit. And I want you boys to print that.’”

The first waitress is back, and clearing our lunch off the table. “You want anything else?” she asks Schoolboy, as if he were the only soul in the restaurant. It’s amusing and infuriating at the same time. “What do you have for dessert?” he asks her, in a way that’s pretty clear he’s not expecting her answer to be on the menu. She blushes and says she’ll bring us back our menus. Who knows, maybe this time her sister’s phone number will jump into Hoyt’s pocket.

“Ruth gets back to New York and he invites the whole press mob up to his apartment in the Ansonia because this thing has started to hit home,” says Gallico. “His wife’s in the bedroom having another nervous breakdown — I think it’s her third since they’ve come to New York from Boston, I’m pretty sure she’s been hospitalized twice — and she’s completely tranquilized.”

“Helen just couldn’t cope,” says Sailor Bob, who, like Hoyt, knows Babe well. “She heard all the talk, and she couldn’t take it any more. Hell, some of Babe’s women would even phone their home. I’m sure Claire did. I’m surprised she just had a breakdown and didn’t try to take her life.”

Gallico continues painting the scene at the Babe’s apartment in the Ansonia. “Ruth is in his living room and he’s begging us, saying, ‘I’d really be much obliged if you boys stuck to my baseball troubles and left my marital affairs alone.’ And it’s tough on us, because the Babe’s treated the press better than anyone who’s ever worn a uniform — maybe better than anyone who’s ever walked the planet — he’s been great to us, and now he’s begging us to leave his wife and girlfriend out of our stories. But they are a big chunk of the story.

“Then Christy Walsh makes the mistake of telling the photo boys that the Babe wants them to take a picture of him and his wife. So they go inside to their bedroom and the Babe sits on the bed with Helen. He puts his head down to hug her, and she just throws herself at him and grabs him by the neck, and she won’t let go. She just starts sobbing. And then the Babe starts to cry. He’s bawling like a kid. He doesn’t care who’s there, or that they’re still taking pictures. He just breaks down.

Babe and Helen Ruth (1925)

“Finally, he gets himself under control and walks back out to the living room and says, ‘I’ve got to go up to the Stadium to talk to Jake,’ because Ruppert’s told Ruth on the phone that he’ll meet with him. ‘Then I’m going to put on my uniform and take batting practice, even if I’m suspended, ’cause I’m not going to sit around and get out of shape.’ For the first time since Cleveland, there’s no anger directed at Huggins in his voice.

“Ruth takes a cab up to the Stadium, and he’s followed by about a dozen other cabs full of reporters and photographers. And when he gets there, Ruppert hears him out, and then he firmly tells him that Huggins is running the team. He tells Ruth, ‘I’ve told Mr. Huggins that I have no problem paying you for not playing. It’s about the team, Babe. It’s about what’s best for the team. And I’ll let Mr. Huggins decide that. Now, you need to go and apologize to Mr. Huggins.

“The Babe walks out of the Stadium and tells us, ‘Colonel Ruppert has given me a new view on things. I know I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t have. I hope Hugg and I can settle things square.’

“He goes to see Huggins,” says Sailor Bob, “and Hugg just cuts him off and says, “Ruth, when I want to talk to you, I’ll let you know.’ And Ruth’s begging him, ‘You mean I can’t play today?’ And Huggins says, ‘No, sir.’ And Ruth asks, ‘Can I practice?’ And Huggins says, ‘No, sir.’ Hell, Huggins wouldn’t even let him apologize to the team.

“Jidge comes over to where Dugan and I are playing pinochle and just picks up my hand and starts to play. ‘I’m licked. I know it,’ he says. Then he goes upstairs to see Ed Barrow and begs Barrow to please let him take batting practice, but Barrow says, ‘It’s not up to me, Babe. It’s up to Huggins. He runs the team.’”

The waitress comes back with our dessert orders. We’ve all ordered the same thing, chocolate cake. Hoyt’s piece is twice the size of everyone else’s. It probably tastes better, too.

Sailor Bob says, “This went on for a week. Huggins needed to string it out that long. He told me, ‘I had to make Ruth emotionally miss the game. I had to remind him how much he loved baseball. I had to remind him how important it was to him — he had to feel it slipping away. The Babe had to see that I wasn’t the one taking the game away from him — all of his drinking and whoring was doing that. He had to see that I was the one who was going to help him hold onto it.’”

Since that episode at the end of 1925, the team has been Miller Huggins’s Yankees. He is the quiet leader. The most respected man in the clubhouse. Even by the Babe.

”And that,” says Gallico, “Is what makes Miller Huggins different from any other manager who’s ever worn a uniform. I just hope one day he’s appreciated.”

Miller Huggins (center) with Waite Hoyt, Babe Ruth, Silent Bob Meusel and Sailor Bob Shawkey

The snow has stopped. The cake is gone.

And so are Hoyt and both waitresses.

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