Voices from the Great Black Baseball Leagues

by John Holway

  But they were great guys. We won the World Series in 1926, beat the Bacharachs of Atlantic City. After the series they all came out to my house in Philadelphia and I had my wife cook chicken and biscuits for two days.

  Bill Gatewood had been pitching on the ball club the first year I went to Chicago. Next year Rube released him, sent him to Birmingham. Next spring Gatewood brought Satchel Paige up. Gatewood said to me, “Mac, that old boy can throw hard—don’t know where he’s throwin’ the ball, though. And he got no kind of move, he can’t hold nobody on first base. I told him you got a good move, I want him to watch what you’re doing.”

  I said to Satchel, “First thing, you can’t come all the way around here when you’re winding up. You kind of got to watch your target. And if you do this to throw home, you got to do this—the same thing—to throw to first.”

  He said, “We didn’t do that way in my home.”

  Gatewood said, “Now listen, Satchel.”

  “We didn’t do that way.”

  Always what he wanted to do. But a guy that threw hard like that, Rube’s gonna bunt him to death. Get him tired in here, in his stomach. Bend him. One over here, one over there. Drop that ball down.

  From Chicago I moved up to Little Falls, Minnesota, in the Northwestern League to play with a white team. It was a semipro league then. It had been in organized ball, then dropped out and later came back. At first I was the only Negro there. I succeeded John Donaldson, a great left-handed pitcher. He had made quite a reputation. John was fading out then; he was much older than I was. By him talking about me, this committee came to Chicago to talk to me. His name was Donaldson, mine was McDonald. They thought we were related.

  Seven hundred fifty a month, that was my top salary there. That was what lured me: from $350–$400 to $750, with expenses and transportation included. I was the highest salaried man in the league—they never paid two people that much. And after that first year I could pitch in those tournaments, make $200–$250 a game: Winnipeg, Moose Jaw and the Denver Post tournament.

  We traveled by auto, sometimes by train: through all those big Indian reservations, Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Then we’d drop back over the border to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and back to Little Falls. We beat everybody those years. In four years up there my record was 25–3, 27–2, 26–1, and 20–2.

  John Van, a Negro out of Kansas, was my catcher there for one year. But he wasn’t the man they should have chosen, he shouldn’t have been out there. My next catcher was Sylvester Foreman, from the Kansas City Monarchs. A very good boy, a good man.

  The newsmen used to ask me, “How do you feel, playing with a white team?” I’d say, “I’m a person, a human being, an American. I’ve gone to school with whites, I can command respect.” All my life I’ve had to make my way and learn to live with people. I demanded respect, nobody pushed me over.

  The only time I ran into trouble was in a little place up in the oil fields on this side of the border—Plentywood, Montana. There’s a lot of Southern people from Texas working in those oil fields. One night we got in late, 12:30 or one o’clock, to this little hotel. There were about twenty of us, and I was the only colored. The clerk looked over, saw me and wanted to know who I was. “Oh, he can’t stay here.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t stay here, none of us stay here.”

  I said, “Look, let the boys go to bed. I’ll sit down in the station.”

  The club manager said, “If you don’t sleep, they don’t sleep.” They got places in private homes for us—two here, two there, three or four at the Y. It was two or three o’clock before we got situated. They blackballed that hotel. The next year the hotel was begging for business, but we wouldn’t stay there.

  After the season was over up there, all the colored clubs back east would contact me to barnstorm with them against the major leaguers. I used to help Cum Posey out with the Homestead Grays. I stopped in Pittsburgh and barnstormed with him. I waited to hear from everybody before I decided. I made a good salary up there—in those days it was a good salary. When I came home, I wasn’t hungry. I waited to see.

  You know what they used to do? I’d say, “Look, I’m not going to play in the series, I’m going to take my vacation.” They’d lose two or three games and they’d gang up on me, they’d make me go down and pitch.

  We were playing on percentage, eighty-some bucks, you know. Jimmy Foxx, Mickey Cochrane, George Earnshaw, they said, “You should be getting the same money we’re getting, boy. Don’t you come back until you get your money. People come out to see you.” So I stayed away one Sunday. Them guys, that “bleacher gang” in Baltimore, they raised so much sam, they broke chairs and everything. Frank Warfield, the Black Sox manager, called me, said, “Look, I want you down here Thursday. You’re going to get your 150 bucks, all expenses. I’ll get the money and put it in my pocket for you.” Warfield said, “Come on out here, come out on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue, let’s walk up and down. The people will know you’re here, it will be all over town by next Sunday.” And I got my 150 bucks that time.

  I pitched against Dizzy Dean in Shibe Park once. I threw my little nothing ball up there, had the guy set up for it. Josh Gibson was catching, caught it with his bare hand. I said, “Don’t you ever humiliate me like that again, catching my ball in your meat hand.” He said, “You ain’t got nothing on it anyway.”

  Who’s that man played right field for St. Louis, won the batting championship in the American League? Heinie Manush. He said, “You ever stop throwing that little nothing ball, I’ll hit it out of here.”

  Remember Don Heffner, went up from Baltimore to the majors? A little hot-headed guy. Everybody was wrong but him. He stood on top of the plate, and I pushed him back with a pitch. He’d get right back in there. He was determined to dig in and stay on top of that plate. I said, “What you gonna do about it, ump?”

  He said, “Go ahead and push him back. Push him back.”

  Boy, Heffner was gonna whip me! I said, “I can whip five little guys like you.” He was a pain in the neck.

  But Jimmy Foxx and I were very close, we were good pals. Earl Mack was their business manager, and we were good friends too. I kept our boys under control and he kept his. We made good money. We had a good thing going there. We played until the snow was on the ground.

  In 1931 my wife was sick and I didn’t want to go back out west. I made more money out there, did less work, but having a sick wife at home, I had to be near her. She said she couldn’t go in those hotel rooms anymore. I came back east, with the Hilldale Daisies, pitched a string of twenty-seven scoreless innings.

  In 1933 I helped organize the Philadelphia Stars with most of the players from the old Hilldale club. Johnny Drew, who had taken over Hilldale, didn’t last long. He didn’t believe in some of the systems we had in our league. See, back then most of the teams would come here to Philadelphia to play us because we had a park exclusively to ourselves in Darby, south of town. We could play three games a week at night. And we’d also play a six o’clock twilight game somewhere against one of those industrial teams. Most weekends we were playing each other in league games. But on a Sunday when some of our teams weren’t booked against each other, we used to have some good spots in New York against the Bushwicks. Anyway, a booking agent booked you to play where you couldn’t book yourself, to keep your team from being idle, and you had to pay him 10 percent. And that, Johnny Drew refused to do. He said he would sit down and pay his ball club for the season even if he didn’t play a ball game, rather than play an exhibition game. So he finally dropped out.

  In 1933 Ed Bolden (founder of the Hilldales) came to me and Dick Lundy, the shortstop—he wanted to get Lundy back into baseball—and he said, “You two can do it, you can form a new team.” Lundy was supposed to be the field manager, and I was the business manager. Bolden said, “Eddie Gottlieb will be in back of us.” You know who Ed Gottlieb was? He was the man who organized the SPHA’s (South Philadelphia Hebrew Association) basketball te
am, the guy who made Wilt Chamberlain. Gottlieb was a booking man, and he and Bolden went together on the Stars. That’s how we started, Bolden and Gottlieb, two partners, one colored, one white. When other clubs were hitting it rough, our ball club was playing every day.

  Bolden said, “We can’t pay any salaries, the boys will be on percentage.” He said, “Now Gottlieb’s gotta take his 10 percent off the top, after that each player takes his cut.”

  As the season started, we started to make some money. Gottlieb said, “I guess Chief [Bolden] has already talked to you. We got plans for you. You’re handling the money, you’re playing, we want you to manage the ball club too. You’ll be on salary.” I did all three jobs until 1937.

  The ballplayers believed in me. They trusted me, they respected me. If I told them something, they could depend on it. And I made the owners live up to their agreements. So I said, “Now, I can get most any player I want,” because we were out of the league then. I could have a championship club. In ‘33 I organized the club, and in ’34 we won the championship. I developed some mighty fine ballplayers.

  In the pitching staff I developed Frank Holmes, Paul Carter, and this kid Stuart Jones from Baltimore, one of the sharpest little left-handers you ever saw—tall, lanky, like Satchel. I made a great pitcher out of him. And I had Rocky Ellis, a little guy who could throw hard, and a great big heart. Could beat anybody. He’s the one run Josh Gibson out the ball park. Josh couldn’t hit Rocky. He said, “You put that old wild crazy guy up there. He’s cutting the ball. I’m gonna take it out on you!”

  I said, “No you’re not. I’ll walk you. I ain’t gonna let you hit!”

  Biz Mackey was our catcher, the best in baseball bar none.

  Outfield was Pete Washington, Chaney White and Rap Dixon.

  Dewey Creacy to Jake Stephens to Dick Seay to Jud Wilson, that was our infield. Stephens and Seay were the best double play combination in baseball. I called them “the acrobats.” Stephens was fast, aggressive. He could jump like a cat. But he was controversial. The fans were 100 percent for that guy, but sometimes he’d burn you up. Jake was temperamental. Sometimes I’d roast him because out of a clear blue sky he’d argue with the umpires. He’d swear he was right. I’d say, “Jake, look, all the umpires can’t be wrong, some of them gotta be right.”

  I never used bad language. In fact, I got rid of a lot of good ballplayers because they used bad language. I’d trade them, give them away. I didn’t like that kind of language. But they burned me up one time, Stephens and Seay. One Saturday night they looked bad. I said, “I don’t know what you boys are doing, but it don’t suit me.” On the bus going back to the Y, yes, I swore at them.

  Jud Wilson was my captain. He was temperamental too—oh boy. He’d bang you in the jaw in a minute—anybody. One of our greatest ballplayers. But when I turned my back, he’d go into battle, and I didn’t want that. People didn’t understand how I handled him as well as I did. I made him captain to calm him, to curb him—give him responsibility. It helped, and he appreciated it.

  The Philadelphia Stars—that team did everything for two years. We had some good base runners: Stephens, White and Seay. When we needed a run, get one of those guys on base, you could just bet Mackey or Wilson or one of the other guys would hit ’em in. We had a few hitters, but when they didn’t hit, we had to run those guys Stephens and Seay to death.

  Eddie Gottlieb liked to gamble. He said, “When we’re playing in Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, I want Slim Jones, I want both of you to pitch.”

  I said, “I’m tired. I got Rocky Ellis, I got Holmes. I want those boys to work.” No need of me managing the ball club, pitching every other day. I would pitch every other day during the week in twilight games, but on big days, on weekends, I wanted Slim or Rocky, those boys, in there. I said, “Don’t you think I get tired sometimes?”

  He said, “I want you to pitch the doubleheaders in New York.” No rest for the weary. And after a ball game he says, “After you get dressed, come on back to the office.” He’d keep me there till three or four o’clock in the morning talking. Going over and over things he wanted me to do.

  Bushwick Park, Brooklyn—that was another place, every time we went I had to pitch that first ball game. When you walked into that park, you were playing a major league ball club; most every fellow who played on that club had been in the majors or was going up. Phil Rizzuto came up through those ranks. And those gamblers: The “landlords” sit over this side, $100 bills pinned on their lapels. The “tenants” sit over there, with $50 bills. And they used to really give me a working out. I never lost a game in that ball park. I used to walk in Bushwick Park and just throw my glove on the ground. That was it, the game was over. The nearest I came to losing was when somebody dropped a little fly ball. We went eighteen innings—I pitched the whole eighteen innings. I beat Socks Siebold, used to pitch for Philadelphia, in Bushwick one day. I beat Stan Baumgartner, who pitched for the Phils.

  We were playing a day game once, and were going to play in Dexter Park, the Bushwicks’ park, that night. Gottlieb said, “Look, here’s $250, split it up with the boys” He said, “If you win that second game, here’s 500 bucks.” We beat Bushwicks 3–2 in twelve innings! After the ball game I went to the office to get the money. He said, “You looked mighty good, mighty good.” So I took 500 bucks, split it up among the boys.

  I used to tell the boys—they already got their eatin’ money for the day—“If you win this ball game today, I’ll buy steak dinners for you.” Out of my pocket. Those guys would rather beat me than the other team! Every time I made one of those kind of bets, they beat me. They’d eat everything! Dick Seay would sit near me, he knew I wasn’t going to eat all my food. He’d finish it.

  We won the Eastern division in ’34, went out to Chicago for the play-off. They beat Slim the first game. Next game, Rocky Ellis—they beat Rocky. Now Mr. Bolden said, “Mac, you gotta pitch the third game.”

  I said, “No, Chief, wait. We gotta go back East. I want to pitch Holmes in this ball game.”

  He said, “No, I want you to pitch. You’re the manager, but I want you to pitch.” All right, I go in there and I beat Bill Foster 3–1. That made it two games to one, they’re leading. We got to play one more game out there. They won that. They won three games.

  We come back East. I say, “Slim, how you feel?”

  He said, “Mac, I’m feeling good.”

  Mackey was begging me: “Pitch Slim, pitch Slim.” Slim went in and pitched the first game. We were in a doubleheader because of a rain-out. We were trying to get it over with to keep from going back to Chicago. Slim pitched the first game, shut ‘em out 2–0, come back, pitched a doubleheader, beat ’em 2–1. That’s when Boojum Wilson got in so much trouble slugging the umpire. Ronald was our commissioner. Overnight Bolden and Gottlieb had Ronald down to the hotel, trying to let Boojum play. Ronald says, “Yes, he’s going to play.”

  Malarcher, the Chicago manager: “Jiminy Christmas!” he says, “He knocked the man down! What’s he have to do to put him out of the ball game?”

  Go back the next day for the rubber game. Rocky Ellis pitched like a master. He could pitch, you know. He had heart. He won the championship for us.

  Roy Campanella was a kid in Philadelphia then. On Sunday mornings when we’d go down to Baltimore to play the all-stars, he’d say, “Mac, gonna take me along?”

  I’d say, “Yes, you can go along with me.” Sunday morning, six o’clock, he’d be sitting there on my front steps waiting till I come out. In case somebody got a bad finger in the game, he would be there. I’d get him in the game somehow. He liked to play third base too, and boy, he was right in there. I wanted to get him on the Stars, but Bolden said, “You already got two catchers, Mac, you don’t need the third boy.”

  At that time Mackey was managing Baltimore. He said, “Mac, I’d love to get that boy.”

  I said, “They won’t let me have him.”

  He said, “Tell’em I’ll take hi
m with me.”

  I was tickled to death to let Mackey get him. I said, “What a combination that will be! Mackey’s gonna teach him everything he knows.”

  I had to manage and do my secretarial work on the road at the same time. I couldn’t see every play. In 1937 I made up my mind it was too much work. They had talent, but the disposition of those players—I don’t want any more headaches like that! I made my decision it was too much work, so I went into government service. But I was still available to the team until 1942. I’d manage weekends and handle personnel and pitch a few games now and then.

  I retired altogether in 1942 and put in twenty-six years with the post office. Here’s my certificate of service. Now I work for Liberty Bell Racetrack. I’m head of the linen department. I spend about $1,000 of my boss’s money, buy all the linen for the track. This is the first year a colored man has been in this job. My boss said, “Mac, I need somebody I can trust.” Oooh, I don’t have any time anymore. But I love my work, I love to meet people. It keeps you alive.

  I have some raggedy newspaper clippings. I sent a lot of stuff to the Hall of Fame, got a beautiful letter from the Board of Directors. They really appreciated those clippings.

  I’m not bitter about missing the big leagues. What were you going to do at the time? You know what the situation was. All my life I’ve had to make my way and learn to live with people. How did I get along? Just like anyone else. You treat me like a man, I’ll treat you the same way. I let them live their lives, I lived mine.

  The year after Dizzy Dean won the pennant in 1935, I beat him 7–1 here in Shibe Park. Next Sunday, Satchel beat Paul Dean 3–1 in Yankee Stadium. Monday night Diz came back to York, Pennsylvania, and I beat him 11–1 that night. That was the day Connie Mack came in the clubhouse while I was under the showers. He wanted to congratulate me, my control, my delivery, my concept of the hitters. He said, “I’m sorry to say this, but I’d give half my ball club for a man like you.”