Voices from the Great Black Baseball Leagues

by John Holway

  We played the Baltimore Orioles every year. They won the pennant in the International League seven years straight. Rossiter offered to play the whole team intact, winner take all, but they wouldn’t play. No. Wouldn’t play us. The Orioles! And we drew more people than they did. Sure! They come out there to Westport Park to see us play. Half the crowd was white. We had 7,000 to 8,000 in that little park. That thing was filled up every Sunday. That’s how Rossiter made his money, how he could pay us all those good salaries.

  In 1929 I was traded to the Hilldale Daisies. Then I went out West again in 1930 and played with Detroit. The first lights I ever played under was in 1930 in Hamtramck Stadium. The Kansas City Monarchs had those dynamos, three of them: one in right field, one in center, one in left. They were pretty good, but those high hit balls to the outfield, you couldn’t hardly see ’em. You had to guess where they were coming down. The infield was good. But very seldom you hit a fast ball with those lights. I called them candle lights.

  I played with the Black Sox again in ‘31. Joe Cambria used to scout for the Washington Senators; he bought the ball club in ’32 and moved to Bugle Field—he had the Bugle Apron Company, a laundry. Then the league broke up and I went to the Black Yankees in New York, semipro. There weren’t any salaries then. They played on percentage, dividing the receipts among the players. Yeah, we made some good money up there then.

  I retired in 1937. I was playing up in Albany, New York, then. We had one colored team in the league and all the rest were white, but we won the championship. After that I came back to Baltimore and umpired the Elite Giants’ games.

  Satchel Paige was the toughest pitcher I ever faced. He didn’t have nothing but a fast ball, but he had such great control. Yes sir, and he was so tall, when he turned it loose, it was on you. That ball looked like an aspirin tablet. You knew he was going to throw nothing but a fast ball, but you couldn’t hit it. I tried all sizes of bats to try to hit him—big bats, short bats, light bats—but still couldn’t do anything with him. Before you could swing, the ball was by you. Oh, he was a great pitcher. I would have liked to see him in the majors when he was in his prime.

  Those were great players back then. But nobody knows about us anymore. If you put all these stories in the sporting pages, they could read all about it and understand how it was. But that’s lost history, see? It’s just past, that’s all. Nobody’s going to dig it up.

  Chapter 5

  WEBSTER McDONALD

  The gentlemanly submarine-ball hurler, Webster McDonald, earned his reputation as a giant-killer against the best big-league stars of his day. His victims included Dizzy Dean, George Earnshaw, Eddie Rommel, Buck Newsom, Earl Whitehill and Jim Weaver.

  “He could beat them any day of the week,” says Bill Holland, who himself was one of the game’s best black pitchers. “He could pitch a whole week because he didn’t use much energy. He pitched underhand, and he had a good fast ball. Then he had this curve ball that comes in low, then breaks up. His curves used to rise and his fast balls would sink. Then he’d slow it up. Put McDonald on those big-league stars and they couldn’t do a thing with him. He had them helpless.”

  McDonald’s first recorded victory over the big leaguers came in Pittsburgh in 1928, when he scored a 5–1 victory over an all-star club that included Jimmy Foxx, Harry Heilmann, Bing Miller, Steve O’Neill and pitcher Jack “Picus” Quinn. Mac’s best year against the big leaguers was 1930. Playing in Baltimore after the regular season, McDonald won five straight games on successive Sundays. He started with an 8–5 victory over the Yankees’ Roy Sherrid, followed that with a 4–0 victory (pitcher unknown), and then a 10–0 shutout of Jim Weaver, holding Frankie Frisch of the National League champions to one hit. A week later he beat Eddie Rommel of the world champion Athletics 1–0, and finally beat Rommel again by a 5–3 score.

  “When he had one of his good days, there wasn’t anybody going to lick him,” says ex-shortstop Paul “Jake” Stephens. “When he’d throw that fast ball, that thing jumped, and that curve ball would come in like a whip.”

  The curve was still crackling in 1932 when Mac beat George Earnshaw, a twenty-one game winner for the champion A’s, 3–2. Jimmy Foxx smacked McDonald for a triple, but Mac himself banged out a triple to help win his own game.

  That same year Mac finally lost to the big leaguers. Fred Frankhouse beat him 8–2, and Buck Newsom defeated him 9–6, although Mac won some revenge by beating Newsom in relief 9–8. The next year Mac ran up three more victories and suffered one defeat against lineups that included Moose Solters, Buzz Arlett, and two .300-plus hitters with the champion Washington Senators—Joe Kuhel and Buddy Myer.

  Mac’s best year may have come in 1934. During the regular season he bested Satchel Paige of the powerful Pittsburgh Crawfords 2–1 while pitching and managing the Philadelphia Stars to the Negro League pennant. In the World Series that fall against Chicago, Mac won a crucial game 5–3 against Chicago’s ace, Willie Foster, and the Stars went on to win the black championship of the world, four games to three.

  On top of the black baseball world, Mac sallied out against the best in the white world —Jerome “Dizzy” Dean, thirty-game winner for the world champion St. Louis Cards. Two times they faced each other, and two times McDonald came out the winner. The scores were 7–1 and 1–0. In ’35 Mac beat Diz again, 7–1 and 11–1. Philadelphia manager Connie Mack watched the games with envy.

  Buck Leonard, the so-called “black Lou Gehrig,” was another who respected McDonald. “He had good control. Wherever your weakness was, he’d throw the ball there. If you swing the bat real fast like you were really anxious to hit, he’d slow the ball up on you. It just would get up there. If you go to the bat dragging around—bam—he’d throw a fast one. The way we used to do, we used to go to bat dragging around, looked like we weren’t ready—but we were ready. And as soon as he’d throw that fast ball, bam, we’d hit it.

  “He couldn’t field his position so good,” Leonard continues. “We used to bunt on him a little. But I don’t know anyone who was a more experienced pitcher than he, or anyone who had better control. He was cool, never got excited, never argued with the umpire. Well, a ballplayer who has good control has no need to argue with the umpire.”

  “He was always dignified, a perfect gentleman,” Jake Stephens says. “The only time I heard Mac swear, we were playing in Philadelphia. I had a strawberry on my leg, and Mac gave me the signal to steal. I didn’t go. He gave me the sign again; I still didn’t go. The batter hit into a double play. So when Mac got in the bus after the game, I never will forget. Rap Dixon and Chaney White had the time of their life. Mac said, ‘I ain’t gonna call no names, but next time I give a signal for a steal, there’s one certain fella in here, if he don’t steal, I’m gonna sock him right in the puss.’ And everybody knew who he was talking about. Only time I ever saw Mac get mad.”

  McDonald’s best game against the big leaguers—perhaps the best of his life against anyone—would come in 1939 By then thirty-nine years old, Mac had long since retired from full-time playing. Thus he was sitting on the bench in Baltimore as the black all-stars took the field against a white club that included Washington first baseman Mickey Vernon, Philadelphia catcher Frankie Hayes and Boston outfielder Doc Cramer. The black pitcher quickly got in trouble, yielding three runs and loading the bases in the second. Mac yanked him and shuffled to the mound himself. He retired the side and left the runners stranded, then for the next seven innings pitched perfect baseball. Not one big leaguer could get a hit. In the ninth, still losing 3–1, the blacks loaded the bases, but a double play and a great catch against the outfield screen ended the rally. Mac didn’t win, but he had pitched one of the classic games of black baseball history.

  McDonald was working at Philadelphia’s Liberty Bell Racetrack when I interviewed him in his apartment in 1970. He poured a drink and spoke melli-flously, fondly of the old Philadelphia Stars and the many friends he had in baseball.

  Webster McDonald Spe
aks . . .

  Jimmy Foxx used to say all I have to do is throw my curve out there and they’re beat. He used to hit the curve in the American League like nobody’s business, but I’d throw him a change-up, looked like you could catch it with your bare hands, and the umpire would call a strike. The next pitch I’d push him back a little with a fast one. Biz Mackey, my catcher, would tell Foxx what was coming, and Foxx would say, “Throw me something I can hit, don’t throw me that bender.”

  You know, Mickey Cochrane could hit that ball too. Foxx told him, “McDonald’ll throw you a curve ball and you ain’t gonna raise no sam with it.” They had a $25 bet. Well, I didn’t know anything about the bet, but the first three times Cochrane came up, I’d break one curve ball down, I’d break the other one up. Cochrane was swinging here and the ball was coming in there. I struck Cochrane out three times with my curve ball. After the game he shook my hand, says, “That’s the funniest breaking thing I ever seen.” So Foxx won his $25. He gave me $12.50 of it. He said, “Look, nothing made me feel happier.” He got such a kick out of that bet.

  I was strictly a submarine pitcher, a lot of junk. I had a good fast one, but I didn’t throw it when I didn’t have to. With the hard hitters, I’d time them. I’d throw mixed pitches—“Fifty-six Varieties” they used to call me. And then when I showed them a good fast ball, they weren’t ready for it. I’d say, “See, you weren’t ready.”

  I was born January 1, 1900, at 2:30 A.M. in Wilmington, Delaware. At the playground around the Y, I used to play second base. That’s where I got into the habit of throwing underhand and sidearm.

  Danny McClellan had the Madison Stars in Philadelphia at that time. He was a left-handed pitcher, one of the great ones. He had played on the Cuban X-Giants with Pete Hill back in 1900—I was just born then. He came to the playground and picked me, and he got Judy Johnson. We were the youngest ones on the club. We were too young to go in the Army, so we just took over.

  The best colored club in the East then was Hilldale in Philadelphia. But they had so many good pitchers—Phil Cockrell, Nip Winters, Red Ryan—I couldn’t break in with them. We were sort of Hilldale’s farm club. Hilldale wouldn’t play some of those teams around there. They wanted the big part of the meat, and we took the little end. We played percentage ball, made four or five dollars a game. Sometimes we made more, it depended. But back in those days a few dollars was a few dollars. I was a youngster in my teens, wasn’t thinking of getting married, but I had to send the money home.

  Back in those days there was a lot of twilight ball. We’d play in New Jersey Saturday nights, and we had a ball. If you didn’t get that ten o’clock ferry back, you just stayed in Camden. We’d sit there all night waiting for the first ferry in the morning.

  The next year I joined the New York Lincoln Giants, with Joe Williams as manager. They sent me down to the Richmond Giants to help that ball club. Anyone ever mention Rats Henderson to you? He was terrific for a while until his arm went bad. His career was short, but he was great. He was with Richmond then too. We were mostly all rookies and we raised hell with the league, just like the Mets. We upset the apple cart. Here’s a clipping with my won-lost record: I won fifteen and lost four.

  McDonald, sitting far right, with Northfield, Minn. team.

  In 1923 I went with the Philadelphia Giants. That’s when I first met Dizzy Dismukes. He was another great pitcher, came here to play with the ABC’s of Indianapolis. He was an underhand pitcher, and he’s the man I learned it from. Who’s the boy with the Yankees hit that boy and killed him? Carl Mays. Dismukes taught him how to pitch in World War I overseas. He was a very studious kind of person, he was a writer. Dizzy Dismukes used to talk to me, say, “Don’t try to throw sidearm.” He slung his more than I did. I went all the way down, my hand once in a while touched the ground.

  When Dismukes would get to town he’d look me up, and we’d go out and have lunch and dinner together. And he’d tell me things. He worked on me about control. He taught me how to be more relaxed, to find my stride. Then you have better control and better stuff on the ball. He talked to me so much that later on I taught my young pitchers to make them hit what you want them to hit. If you have control, you don’t have to have as much stuff on the ball. Or you can change the pace. Every hitter’s not a good change-up hitter. I won twenty-seven and lost three that year.

  We played up in New England—Jake Stephens, Bill Yancey and myself. Bill Jackman pitched for us, out of Boston. I taught him my underhand delivery. We belonged to Hilldale; when Hilldale needed somebody, they’d call us. We covered the waterfront up there, all down East, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Maine.

  McClellan made me watch the gates. He showed me a lot of things, how to take the starting numbers on the ticket rolls, watch out they don’t switch rolls on you. He showed me how to figure the money for the club’s share. Later, when I became manager, I knew all this. He’d pitch me when he got ready to pitch me, but he wanted me to stay on that gate. The other fellows would walk off. He’d say, “I want somebody who’ll stay there.”

  My last year up there was ’24. In 1925 I pitched for the Wilmington Potomacs.

  Next year Rube Foster of Chicago, the daddy of Negro baseball, contacted me: “I want you.” See, the East was stealing Biz Mackey, Oscar Charleston and all those players from the West. So he stole me from the East. I got my best money and publicity out in the West, which I couldn’t get here because there were too many pitchers ahead of me.

  A lot of our boys were going south of the border, and they were barred for five years. So when the Chicago American Giants wanted me to jump my club and pitch for them, I told them that if I left my league, they’d have to give me a five-year contract, and that they did.

  Rube had been an underhand pitcher too. Today those trainers, those coaches, they don’t have any particular strike zone. But with Rube Foster, on the 3–2, you better break something. You better break that curve ball. And you better break it over the plate, and not over the heart of the plate either.

  Rube didn’t rely on the catcher. He sat in the dugout, did that [flicks his wrist] for a curve ball, or this [another motion] for a fast ball. If he did this [motion around his ankles], he meant throw that ball in low, make him “skip rope,” hit him in the shins. He’d give the signals. The catcher’d get down there, waggle his fingers around, don’t mean nothing. Rube just told me what to throw.

  Remember old Jim Brown the catcher? Mean, ornery guy? He’d get down there, give you something, but I already got my signal from Rube. I know what I’m gonna throw. Brown come dragging up to the mound, going to give me hell. I said, “Jim, Rube told me what to throw.”

  “Damn Rube!”

  I said, “Well, you tell him that, don’t you tell me.” I said, “You may as well get ready, I know what I’m going to throw.” If there’s a good hitter up there and the count’s 3–2, he knows Rube’s gonna call for a curve ball. Jim don’t want a curve ball, Jim don’t want to move. I said, “Well, you make up your mind. I’m ready.”

  He’d drag on back behind the plate. The hitter’d probably strike out or pop up, retire the side. Get into the dugout. Rube said, “Jim, go to the clubhouse, take my uniform off.” Jim, you know, he was a big strong guy. He went to the clubhouse. Rube waited. When Jim was getting ready to go in the shower, Rube went in there and he told Jim, “Lock the door.” He whipped Jim! When he told you to go in the clubhouse and “take off my uniform,” that’s what he meant. Rube was tough. He was tough!

  People say to me, “How do you throw it over the plate in spots where you want to throw?” I say, “Every time you walk on the ball field, everything you do should have a purpose. Watch hitters go to the plate, watch how they stand and how they stride. If you get a hitter swinging low, don’t pitch low. Raise the ball up on him. Watch his stride. Watch whether he’s standing on the plate, whether he drags his front foot back to pull.” I tried to figure hitters, their stride and their swing. I’m going to give them something bad before
I give them anything good.

  Many a good hitter’s said to me, “How do you throw that type of pitch and get away with it?” I say in a joking way, “Well, maybe I’m throwing and praying.” But I tried to figure the hitter’s stride, the way he lunges in. Does he pull, or does he step straight toward the pitcher’s box? A flat-footed hitter’s your toughest hitter to get balls by. He slaps it. But if he’s up on his toes when he bats, I mean he’s my man!

  Oscar Charleston could hit. And rough. Reminded me more of Ty Cobb than anyone. He hit long balls, he hit any kind. He hit to all fields. Yeah, he hit me too. Charleston hit anybody, pretty good. I tried to trick pitch him, more or less soft stuff. You couldn’t get. any hard stuff by him. Now with me he always looked for something slow, a curve ball. He had a terrific eye, but I would always catch him in that big motion. He used to be always moving his bat, always moving, too energetic, I used to say I’d keep slowing it up, slowing it up on him. Throw him three balls and then try to even it up—you know he’s going to look at one or two. I’d kind of dangle it around, make it a bad pitch, and then come back and nip one in there while he’s waiting. Get him arguing with the umpire, he’d keep looking back at him, you’d get him upset. But if it was a close ball game, of course, then you’ve got to walk him.

  Rube Foster had gone together with Johnny Schorling, the brother-in-law of the Comiskeys who owned the White Sox. He had a lot of power and money, and when we traveled we had a private Pullman car. They’d bring our meals back to us, the whole car was ours. Of course we stayed in colored hotels.

  We had quite a team: Bingo DeMoss, second base and captain; Bobby Williams, a great little shortstop; Dave Malarcher played third, a very intelligent man; Bill Foster, Rube’s younger brother, was pitching. Jelly Gardner in right field was some character. He was a big man on the team, took me around. Of course, he was a little too fast for me. He was a night-lifer. Cristobel Torrienti in center field was one of the best Cuban ballplayers, a big left-hander, a great hitter. But he liked to clown. Those were the playboys on the club—Gardner, Torrienti and Jim Brown. Always at the nightclubs. Rube used to take their money away from them. When they had a bad day, Rube said he’d take their money, suspend ’em.