by John Holway
When I went to the Grays in ‘43, they wanted to know, “Where did you get this young fellow out there doing all that hitting?” They thought I was young, because I was still running. Ric Roberts, the sportswriter, said, “I heard about Cool Papa Bell, played in ’32. He scored from first base twice in one ball game on a single. Are you any kin to him? Are you his son?”
I said, “No, I’m the same Cool Papa Bell.”
He said, “You couldn’t be the same man.”
I said, “I am.”
Ric Roberts didn’t believe that. He thought I was the son or the grandson of the man did that.
Buck Leonard was a great hitter on the Grays, but he didn’t hit the curve ball as well as he did the fast ball. I said, “If you knew what was coming, could you hit the ball?” He said, “Yeah.” I said, “Well, I bet I can tell you every time a curve’s coming. If it’s a curve and I’m on first, I’ll stand with my hands on my knees. If it’s a fast ball, I’ll stand straight up. And if I don’t know, I’ll sort of swing my arms to say I didn’t catch it.” How did I do it? It’s easy. Every time a curve is coming, what would the catcher do? He’d move his right foot over a little to be ready to catch it, wouldn’t he? I remember the 1964 World Series, the Cardinals and the Yankees. I kept telling the guy next to me, “It’s a curve, it’s a fast ball.” Heck, all I did was watch the catcher.
In ’45 I was sick. I had arthritis, I was stiff, I couldn’t run. I hit .308, the lowest I ever hit in my life. I couldn’t throw—I could throw but it wouldn’t take off. I read in this book where some guy said I had a weak arm but I could get the ball away. I had a good arm! But that one year, 1945, when I was sick, I don’t know, I was just tight. My arm wasn’t sore, but the ball wouldn’t go anywhere hardly, it wouldn’t take off. But before then I had an arm just as good as anybody. I didn’t have the strongest arm in baseball. I had a brother had an arm twice as strong as my arm. But I could throw you out. But some of those younger fellows didn’t see me until I had played twenty-two or twenty-three years.
The doctor fixed me up a remedy. He asked me if I drank, I said no, but he had this remedy made up of lemon and gin and rock candy. Next year I came back. I still was sick, but my arm loosened up, I could throw; my legs were loose, I could run. I hit .411. But that year took something from me. I never did feel right anymore. If I hit an inside-the-park home run and another double or triple, I was through. When I was young, I could hit three home runs a game and it wouldn’t bother me, but I was old.
Sometimes we’d play in Philadelphia Saturday night, get in the bus and ride all night, get to Washington, go to the park—couldn’t get any rooms—play a doubleheader, then go down in Virginia someplace. I said, “You let me play Saturday night and play a doubleheader Sunday, let me rest Monday.” But Vic Harris [the Grays’ manager] was putting me in all those games anyway.
Jackie Robinson was with the Monarchs then, and we played them one night in Wilmington. Dizzy Dismukes, the Monarchs’ road secretary, came to me and said, “Robinson will be signed in organized ball; he wants to play shortstop.” But he didn’t think Robinson would make it at short. He could make it at first base, second or third, but not shortstop. And if he missed his chance, I don’t know how long we’d go before we’d get another chance. Because, you know, he’d tried out up there in Boston and they’d turned him down. That’s what had been happening all the time. They’d have a tryout and then say, “We didn’t see anybody worthwhile.” Well, we wanted to show Jackie that he should try out at another position.
So Dismukes said, “I want you to hit the ball to his right, because Jackie can’t go to his right too well. He can’t throw you out.” I was the kind of hitter, nine out of ten times I could hit the ball to any field I wanted to hit it. So the first time I hit the ball to Jackie’s right. Jackie caught the ball all right, but you have to backhand it, you can’t take an extra step, you have to catch it and throw. But when Jackie goes over to the right to catch the ball, he’s got to take two steps before he pivots. So I beat that throw. Then I stole second base. He caught the ball and I just slid under him. Next time I came up and hit the ball the same way. He caught the ball, couldn’t throw me out. I stole second base, slid by the base, reached back and tagged it. The next two times I walked both times. I stole four bases that night. He’d hold the ball down for me to slide into, I’d just step around his hands. I said, “See that? They got a lot of guys in the major leagues slide like that. You can’t get those guys out like that.”
There were so many people didn’t want Jackie to make it. But he happened to be that guy that had that determination. He was good, but he wasn’t our best player.
Monte Irvin was our best young player at that time. I gave him my batting title in 1946 in order for him to get a chance in the majors. He had been sick in the Army, but he went to Mexico, won the batting championship there, came back and hit .389. But they reversed it to read .398. I was hitting .402. We had a doubleheader left. The paper came out before we played and said Irvin had won the batting championship. But the fans knew better. They kept a-hollering. They said, “Irvin hasn’t won, they’ve got these two games to play here. Bell’s leading.” I played in the first ball game, got two hits and two walks, and ended up with .435. The second ball game they wouldn’t let me play, said I didn’t have enough games for the title. The fans were mad, but they didn’t know what we were doing. We were doing that to give Irvin a better chance to have a tryout in the majors. After the season they were supposed to give me $200 for giving Irvin my batting championship. But the owner, See Posey, said, “Well, look, Irvin won it”—they wouldn’t give me the $200.
That’s three championships I won, taken away from me.
But we would rather pass something on to help the future of the black man, because so many things were kept from us. If it did help some young fellow, I’d rather have him get the credit, because I couldn’t go back. I didn’t have a future, I was too old. And I wasn’t the only one who kept the average down.
In 1948 Satchel Paige wanted me to manage the Kansas City Monarchs’ farm team. He told me, “You never made money in baseball. This may be your chance to make some money.” I was supposed to get one-third of every ballplayer that they sold to the majors that I found and developed. Satchel was on my team—he pitched to draw a crowd—when the Cleveland Indians took him.
We sold thirty-eight ballplayers; twenty of them were ballplayers that I had found, but I never got anything. I said, “Here’s a boy I want, just out of high school here in St. Louis—Elston Howard.” And I said, “I’ve got another boy I want in school in Dallas—Ernie Banks.” I recommended him to Buck O’Neil, the Monarchs’ manager, but he said he didn’t need a shortstop. I said, “Just look at him work out,” and that’s how they found him. I offered Howard and Banks to the St. Louis Browns, but they didn’t want them. The Cards also tried out Howard, but they didn’t take him either, and I said, “If they don’t want those two boys, who do they want?”
Later they sold Banks to the Chicago Cubs. I didn’t get anything. They said I didn’t have a contract. All I ever got was a basket of fruit when they sold Banks. A basket of fruit!
I retired after that. I figured it was time to find a steady job before I was too old. I went back to St. Louis, went to work for the city, first as a custodian and then as a night watchman. Even after I quit, people still were after me to play. The Browns in 1951 tried to get me to play. I went down there to see Satchel Paige. Bill Norman, who used to play against us before going to the major league, saw me, said, “You want to play ball?”
I said, “No.”
The secretary for the Browns came over. Norman said, “Yeah, man, he plays better than anyone we got out there now in the outfield.”
The secretary said, “Is that Bell you’re talking about? Cool Papa Bell?”
Norman said, “Yes.”
He said, “Come on over here and sign this contract, and I’ll put you on the field right now.”
&
nbsp; I said, “I don’t want to play.”
He said, “Can you hit?”
That’s all I could do then. My legs were bad, I had varicose veins, I couldn’t run. He said, “What are you hitting?”
I said, “I’m hitting .700 there with this farm team. All I can do is hit now. I can’t catch the ball the other fellow hits.”
He tried to get me to play, but I couldn’t play then. I mean, I couldn’t run, I’d get tired. I was forty-eight years old at the time! They said, “You mean you’re older than Satchel Paige is?”
I said, “Yes, I’m older than he is.”
People told me I should have tried for the job just for the money, but I couldn’t do it just for a paycheck. I never had any money, so I never worried about it. I just didn’t want the fans to boo me, and if I had played at that age they sure would have. Sometimes pride is more important than money.
I just didn’t worry about money too much.
Now when we played in California, they would bill Satchel and he would get 15 percent. When they billed me, they had those wagons all going around saying “Bell’s going to be here tonight.” I didn’t ask for anything; I only got a cut like the rest of the ballplayers got.
Those were great times back then. We used to play a night game Saturday, get in the bus and play a doubleheader Sunday, then play another night game Sunday night. You show me a ballplayer in our old league and I’ll show you a guy that can sleep standing, sitting or walking. We didn’t know how bad it was until some of our guys got into organized baseball. Then we could compare things.
We didn’t play in those big-league parks all the time. That was weekends when the home team was out. Other times we just played out in little playgrounds; the ground was hard and rough, and I used to slide a lot. I would get all skinned up a lot. I would get a sponge and just cut a hole out of it, put a tape around it and put it over the sore to keep my pants off it. My knee would be all skun up on both sides from sliding. It would bother me a lot of times, but I could run after I got loosened up.
Now they’ve got Roy Campanella on this committee to name Negro players to the Hall of Fame. But he only knows those he played against; he never saw some of the older ones. Most of those fellows were in their late years when he played against them.
If some of those fellows don’t get into the Hall of Fame, it’s no use putting anyone in there. I’d put in four, five, six at one time. But I’d rather put in a guy who’s living first, because the dead won’t know it anyhow. Then at least the guy would know he’s finally being honored.
Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson in the Dominican Republic
In pitching we had guys would win more games than Satchel. I’d put him in with Smoky Joe Williams, Joe Rogan, Bill Holland and some others. These guys were fast, they were smart, they knew how to pitch. But Satch made the majors, so they picked him over everybody.
Now Satchel was the fastest pitcher I ever saw. But he was in the league four or five years before he learned how to pitch. I used to say, “Look, Satchel, why don’t you learn how to pitch? You don’t throw the curve, you don’t have control of it. And you have to have a change-up. As hard as you throw you’d really fool the batter.” In 1938 his arm got sore and I told him, “See, Satchel, you’ve got to learn to pitch.” I showed him how to throw the knuckle ball, and he was throwing it better than I was. That’s what I liked about him, he didn’t want anybody to beat him doing anything.
Josh Gibson I’d put in with a group of four or five catchers. Some of those others might do more than he could. The long ball was the only thing he could do better. Like Johnny Bench, I don’t count him a defensive catcher. Dick Dietz of the Giants, I don’t see any catcher better than he. But with the home run hitting, naturally they’re going to rate Bench over everybody. Now Campanella could do everything a catcher should do, but Josh couldn’t. That’s how I rate them.
Our greatest all-round catcher was Biz Mackey. Or take Bruce Petway, or Larry Brown—he was a great little catcher too.
They had another boy used to catch on the team with Larry Brown named George Hamilton. He could hit the ball too. He wasn’t as smart a catcher as Brown, but he could throw that ball. He was the toughest catcher for me to steal on. He wasn’t even counted in baseball much—he was a second-string catcher—but that boy threw me out more than anyone. It might have been I didn’t try to get the lead on him, ’cause he didn’t have a name like Brown, but he had a great arm.
I used to play ball with Donn Clendenon’s daddy. He used to catch with the Nashville Elite Giants, which later became the Baltimore Elite Giants. He was a good catcher and hitter.
Now I couldn’t pick an all-time all-star team. It wouldn’t be fair. Who would you leave off? Who would I put at third base? Oliver Marcelle was supposed to be the greatest third baseman of all time, but he couldn’t hit too well. All around, Judy Johnson was better than Marcelle was.
Now Willie Wells was the greatest shortstop in the world, but the older fellows would say Pop Lloyd. And at second base who would you pick? Sammy T. Hughes or Bingo DeMoss?
I couldn’t say who really was the best hitter. How can you name the best hitter? You can’t name him. To tell you the truth, we had so many guys could hit: Buck Leonard, Josh Gibson, Jud Wilson, Wells, Dobie Moore, John Beckwith, Charleston, Torrienti, Chino Smith, Turkey Stearnes. Every team had four or five great hitters on it, and I don’t know who was the best.
They can’t put them all in there in the Hall of Fame. I’m one of the lucky ones, and I appreciate it. When they called me up to tell me I’d been elected, I said, “If it isn’t asking too much, are any of the other boys going in?” They said, “No, they’re only going to pick one.” But there are a lot of old ballplayers they don’t say much about. I wouldn’t be satisfied if they just put in three, four or five, even if I would be in with those. I still wouldn’t be satisfied, because I know some of those guys were great ballplayers. I’d like them to put Rube Foster in, because he was the father of our baseball. And Turkey Stearnes was a great boy, but I didn’t even hear them call his name.
They got good players today in the major leagues, just as good as the ones back then. But I wouldn’t say they were any better than those fellows. But they got the records to show; we didn’t have all that.
I’ve got no kicks, no regrets. Of course it would have been nice to play in the majors, but I have my memories. I’m not the guy wants to be praised too much. I never wanted to be a big shot. I don’t have enough money to go around to these places where an outstanding guy should go. If I know what I did, I’m satisfied.
I have a season pass from the president of the Yankees, Michael Burke. I met him here when they had this big affair for Elston Howard. Howard was a batting instructor for the Yankees, and he told Mr. Burke all about me, said I had given him a lot of tips on hitting. So Mr. Burke sent me a pass and said I would be a special guest of the club.
My greatest thrill? Well, everyone has his own favorite day. But I’ve got to say my biggest thrill was when they opened the door to the Negro. When they said we couldn’t play and we proved that we could, that was the biggest thrill to me. There were more guys before me who didn’t have a chance, and I wanted us to prove it to ’em all, black and white alike.
Cool Papa
Cool Papa Bell
JAMES “COOL PAPA” BELL
Bell
Cool Papa Bell
Cool Papa Bell
Ted Page, third from left, with Crawfords Hall of Famers Oscar Charleston, Josh Gibson, and Judy Johnson.
Chapter 8
TED PAGE
Though overlooked on a team of Pittsburgh Crawford stars alongside Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, Oscar Charleston, Cool Papa Bell, and others, Ted was a fast, solid .300 hitter in the Negro Leagues. And he did even better against white stars after the regular season was over.
Page could hit an occasional long ball—he slammed a homer off Jim Winford of the Cardinals in 1935.
Ted was unrelated t
o the more famous Satchel Paige, but in their few match-ups, Ted hit Satch like a “cousin.” “Don’t let anyone tell you he couldn’t hit!” Satch whistled. “Ted could hit—and bunt too. He was pretty near a .400 batter. He could hit that ball, and he could get away from the plate.”
Page was also a fleet base runner. “They called me fast,” said Cool Papa Bell, “but I don’t know who could beat Ted Page running.”
Page was courtly off the field, but he played savagely on it. “I tried to pattern my sliding after Holloway,” he said.
“He was a Ty Cobb slider,” winces Buck Leonard. “He was always stepping on me at first base. My toe was swelled up like two toes.”
Page’s slide into third baseman Tom Finley in 1933 caused hemmorhaging that took Finley’s life.
Frankie Frisch, the Hall of Fame second baseman, felt Page’s spikes in Baltimore just after the 1931 World Series. “He bumped into me and gave me a charley horse,” Frisch said. “He rammed my right leg, and oh gosh, how that hurt.” Forty-one years later Frisch and Page met again, this time at Cooperstown, for Buck Leonard’s induction. “We had a lot of fun in the dining room,” Frisch said with his Irish grin. “I said, ‘So! I finally found the guy that bumped me and knocked me down.’”
I met Page in 1971 in his comfortable home high on a Pittsburgh hilltop. He was mild and soft-spoken, with the cultured, well-modulated diction of a radio announcer. He kept himself in excellent trim as a bowler and looked far younger than his almost seventy years.