Voices from the Great Black Baseball Leagues

by John Holway

  After the game we’d go to the office and Mr. Morrissey had our statement made out, the visiting team’s statement was made out, how much went to the revenue man, how much went to the visiting team, how much our end would be. The money was baled up with the statement sheet. Everybody’s sheet was separated—our sheet, the visiting team’s, the revenue man’s. We’d go there, look at our statement, pick up our money, leave. He would even tell the visiting team how to operate their business. Mr. Morrissey was the greatest help, not only for the Homestead Grays but for Negro baseball, period.

  We used to play ball in Griffith Stadium by the football lights! Remember when they had the football lights? That’s what we used to play by. Griffith Stadium had no lights then for baseball. I remember one night we were playing, it was kind of foggy, drizzling rain. And we used to go to Cleveland to play—Municipal Stadium, Cleveland, as big as that is—football lights. The ball would go up and you just could see it. You couldn’t get a good jump on a good line drive to left center or right center. Or get a good jump on a ground ball. The lighting wasn’t there. A high fly would go up by the catcher, go up higher than the lights, go up in the dark. He’s standing there waiting for it to come back down.

  Then during the war we had portable lights that we put in the parks. We’d install them about six o’clock or 6:30 on poles all around the field. A big dynamo out there in the outfield generated the electricity for the lights. After the game was over, we would take down the poles. We used to have trouble with outfielders running into the poles. Jerry Benjamin ran into a pole up in Niagara, New York, one night and broke his ankle. He ran into one of the guy ropes while chasing a fly ball.

  Sometimes we thought the belt was slipping in the dynamo. The lights would dim and then get bright, dim and get bright. We had to stop the game about five minutes so they could pick up a little. We’d put some belt dressing on the belt that turned the wheel, to keep the belt from slipping. Some people said they were giving us about as much light as we were paying for. They said we must have owed them some money, teasing us, you know.

  One speedballer had a record strike-out one night under those lights.

  Down in Jacksonville they used to have a team, the Redcaps. They were redcaps in the railroad station and played ball too. Skindown Robinson, Preacher Henry, Albert Frasier and a catcher named Brown who got killed. They were riding in a car and had a flat tire one night, and he got out and was standing behind the car fixing the flat tire. Someone was standing in front of the taillight, and a car came and ran right into the back of their car—killed three of them.

  Until the late years of the league, we never kept any statistics. Roy Campanella is on the committee to name old-time Negro stars to the Hall of Fame. He says the other members of the committee told him, “If only you could prove these things, if only you had figures.” But the way it is now, it’s all word of mouth.

  White papers in Pittsburgh said, “If you mail the scores to us every night, we’ll run them in the paper.” But sometimes we weren’t near a mailbox where we could mail it in every night. So that idea never really worked out.

  When the Elias bureau began keeping statistics, we’d give a player the job of keeping the box score. Maybe he didn’t know how to keep it. Or in the middle of the game he’d have to go in and pitch and some other player would have to finish the box score.

  One Negro newspaper sent a reporter to be our official scorer and travel with the team. The paper paid his salary, but he said he couldn’t live on it, so the team had to add a little something to it. But he wouldn’t get to the game on time. He’d show up in the third inning and ask one of the players on the bench, “What happened in the first inning? What did this man do? What did this guy do?” Maybe the player couldn’t remember. And if the guy didn’t see what happened on the field, he’d put down “singled to center” or “flied out to center.” Next day the newspaper story was filled with things like “he singled to center,” so finally we gave him the nickname “Single-to-Center.”

  Or he’d come in, say, “Got a pencil?” What would we be doing with a pencil? The score would be about 6–0. He’d ask, “What did this man do? What did that man do?” They’d say, “So-and-so doubled to right, so-and-so walked, so-and-so flied out to center....” An none of that was true! None of it was true!

  Ballplayers back in those days were bad. They’d tell us where to go and where not to go, but you know ballplayers; you tell them not to go somewhere, and that’s where they’re going. Ballplayers a long time ago, their characters were low, they’d do anything to win. They’re a little more refined now than they were then. Back then, when the season started a ballplayer already owed all the money that he was going to make during the summer. At that time baseball players were gamblers—they were rough. We’d be riding along the highway, I’d try to keep everybody quiet. They’d say, “What’s there to be quiet for? Aw, you old-timers.” It’s not what’s right and what’s wrong, it’s what you can get by with—that’s the way they talked. When you talk about religion or the Bible or something like that, well shoot, that was foreign, that was foreign to them guys.

  Vic Harris was our manager and he was a nasty slider. They used to get even with me for Vic Harris. Vic was playing left field and they couldn’t get him, but they’d come over first base and step on my foot. We fellows who played infield, we didn’t rough anybody, because they could pay us back. But those outfielders we had, they were rough. I don’t know whether Ted Page told you or not, but he was one of them that used to cut fellows sliding into base.

  We used to tell Vic, “Look, don’t step on that fellow’s foot, don’t slide into that fellow at second base, because he’s going to step on my foot trying to get even with you.” The ones who were worst at it—Crush Holloway, Rap Dixon, Oscar Charleston, Ted Page, Chaney White, Vic Harris—they were all outfielders. I don’t know a single infielder who would do that. That’s right, Ty Cobb was in the outfield too.

  Those fellows came up the hard way and they believed in playing hard. They said it wasn’t dirty, it was hard baseball but clean. We said it was dirty. We said all of us are trying to make a living—our livelihood would be cut off if we were taken out of the game.

  When we played semipro teams they supplied the umpires. The winner would get 60 percent of the dollar and the loser would get 40. So naturally each umpire was trying to make his team get the 60. One time we were playing in a town outside Norfolk, Virginia. Every time we got in front the umpire would fix it so they’d tie the game. In the ninth inning we were leading by a couple of runs; our owner went in there and got the 60 percent. They tied the game in the last of the ninth inning; he went back in there and they split the money. We went out there and we got in front again; he went back in there and we got the 60 percent. They tied us again, and he split the money again. We were getting ready to go back out on the field again when we said, “Wait a minute, there’s no way in the world we’re going to win.” We said, “Let’s split it and we’ll play no more.”

  I’d say Satchel Paige was the toughest pitcher I ever faced. I couldn’t do much with him. All the years I played there, I never got a hit off him. He threw fire, that’s what he threw. Satchel had an exceptional fast ball. That was his main pitch. It would get up to the plate and just rise a little, just enough for you to miss it. If you finally did get a piece of it, it wasn’t much. A little later, when his arm got sore, he developed a curve ball. I remember July 4, 1934, he pitched a no-hitter against us.

  Another thing about Satchel. One time we were playing the Crawfords and Satchel an exhibition game in Monessen, Pennsylvania. The people wanted to see Satchel pitch. Well, he pitched a couple innings. Then they wanted to see him play outfield, and Satchel went into right field. Just messing around. And somebody hit a high fly up in right field, and we rushed around and looked in the outfield for Satchel to be standing under it. Satchel was standing on the sideline getting a light on a cigarette from a fellow—getting a smoke! Wasn’t even in ri
ght field! Over there on the sidelines getting a cigarette. That just goes to show you how comical he was.

  I remember one game in Guayama, Puerto Rico, in 1940. Satchel had only been there about a week. We had three men on base in the first inning, two outs, and Bus Clarkson, the shortstop, came to the bat. Satchel told the catcher to get out from behind the plate, he was going to walk him. The catcher said, “No, you can’t walk him, three men on base, you’re gonna walk a run home.” Satchel said, “Well, I’d rather walk a run home than have him hit three or four home, so let’s walk him.” The manager came running out: “No, no, don’t walk him, don’t walk him.” Satchel said, “I know what I’m doing.” So the catcher stepped out to the side and Satchel threw four balls and the run scored. Satchel said, “Now, that’s all you’re gonna get today.” And that’s the only run we did get. He beat us about 8–1 or something. We always kidded Satchel about how he walked that run home.

  I played for Mayaguez that winter, and Roy Campanella was playing for Caguas. We were tied for the home run leadership. Here’s what it says in the newspaper: “Both connected for eight home runs.” Luis Olmo, used to play for the Dodgers, had four. In the play-offs Campanella hit one—we didn’t get in the play-offs—and they gave him the trophy. I didn’t think they should have done it. We laughed about it. It says, “Buck Leonard was also the leader in two-baggers.... Perucho Cepeda”—the father of the Cepeda that’s with Atlanta now—“was the leader in the department of runs driven in.”

  Cepeda was a shortstop, and a good shortstop—big. Good hitter. Very good—exceptional. I guess it’s a toss-up between him and his son. Both of them good, both of them about the same size. But we never could get him to come to the United States to play.

  In 1941–42 I went to Cuba that winter. Here’s some of those batting averages: Roy Partlow .441; Javier Perez .432; Pep Young .426; Orlando Cepeda .421; Frank Coimbre .401; Jud Wilson .395; Buck Leonard .389; Neil Robinson .382; Lenny Pearson .360; Johnny Hayes .358; Leon Day .338; Roy Campanella .263.

  Campanella was just a kid at that time. The first time I saw him was about 1936; he was about fourteen or fifteen, catching batting practice for the Baltimore Elite Giants. They just carried him around to catch batting practice, and he learned how to catch that way. At one time Campanella couldn’t hit a curve ball. But when you play winter baseball, you improve on everything. And he turned out to be a heck of a catcher, as we all know. But I wouldn’t say he was as good as Josh Gibson. He could only do one thing better than Gibson, and that was stay in shape.

  In 1943 I went out to the West Coast to play the big-league all-stars. They had fellows like Peanuts Lowrey, Andy Pafko, Lou Novikoff, Johnny Lindell, Junior Stephens, Buck Newsom. Satchel Paige pitched for us. We had Cool Papa Bell, Double Duty Radcliffe and me. We were playing every Sunday at Wrigley Field in Los Angeles.

  Here’s a clipping: PAIGE WHIFFS 14, WINS 4–3. I got two for five. The second game was tied 3–3; I got one for three. Here’s one we won 11–8 against Newsom; I got two for four. The second game they won 4–3, and I got one for two. Here’s another: They beat us 8–2, and we won the second game 4–1; I got one for three in the first game and one for one in the second. We were raking in about $200 a Sunday apiece.

  Judge Landis ordered an end to the series after that, said they couldn’t play more than ten days after the World Series ended. Pafko kept playing, and Judge Landis fined him $400.

  Nineteen forty-four was my biggest payday, $1,100 a month. Josh and I told Posey we were going to Mexico, that’s why he raised us to $1,100. Here’s my contract: I got $4,500 a season, May first to October first. A little less than $1,000 a month. It was going to be $1,100 a month, but after they agreed to pay my board and lodging at home as well as away, that’s when I agreed to $4,500. You know, we didn’t have any mouthpieces like the boys got now. A ballplayer goes in the office now with his attorneys with him—attorney, not one—he’s got a firm behind him!

  In 1945 we carried an all-star team down to Caracas, Venezuela. We had Sam Jethroe, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella. We played against Luis Aparicio’s daddy, by the way. He was a shortstop too. Here’s a clipping with our batting averages. Let’s see, I was hitting .425, Parnell Woods .419, Quincy Trouppe .413, Sam Jethroe .339, Jackie Robinson .281 and Campanella .211.

  Robinson signed with the Dodgers the day before we left. They came to the hotel in New York where we were staying, looking for him. At that time we didn’t think too much of Robinson. He had played a few games with Kansas City in 1945. He was a hustler, but other than that he wasn’t a top shortstop. We said, “We don’t see how he can make it.” When we went down to Venezuela, we were supposed to leave New York the fifteenth of October, but some kind of revolution was going on down there and we didn’t leave until about the fifteenth of November.

  When we got down there, Robinson didn’t look too good because he hadn’t been playing as long as some of us. We didn’t think he was so good—at that time. Of course now we see what he really did. You know, you can be wrong about a ballplayer. You can look at him and don’t think much of him, and then he turns out to be one of the best ballplayers of all time. You can’t always tell what a person’s going to do in the athletic world. One thing though, a fellow with a college education is just a little better than a fellow you pick up on the sandlot. Now I see that they got the right man in Jackie Robinson, because he had the education. There were other players we thought were better players, but they got the right man after all.

  They had to find the ideal ballplayer to start. They might have been looking for that one. And they finally got him. I can’t think of anybody that could have been better than Robinson. A lot of things that he took, a lot of other ballplayers would not have taken.

  But until then there wasn’t anybody in organized ball very interested in admitting Negroes, it looked to me—Griffith or anyone else. I think they believed we could play major-league baseball, but everyone hated to be the first. There was going to be some protesting from the white guys like there was when Robinson went up there, but if you could weather that, just like he weathered it, you’d turn out all right.

  Of course it was always our ambition to get into the major leagues because of the prestige and money. But all the players I talked with, even Jackie Robinson himself—well, we just weren’t considering it too much.

  I never thought about race prejudice much. I felt, regardless of what color you were, if you could play baseball you ought to be allowed to play, anywhere that you can play. I thought integration would come, but I didn’t think it would come like it did, as quickly. I thought they were still going to keep pushing it back. Even when they took Robinson, I said, “If he doesn’t make it, they’re going to be through with us for the next five or ten years. But if he does make it, maybe they are going to keep him in the minors for a long time.” But we were wrong.

  We had discussed it. There were some people used to come around in New York, especially from the Daily Worker and other papers: “Don’t you think Negroes should be playing in the majors? Don’t you think Negroes should be doing this or that?” We said, “We’re going to leave that to you all to discuss, we’re going to play ball.” They used to come around and say, “We’re going to arrange for you to get a tryout.” We said, “All right, arrange it. We’ll try out any time you arrange it.”

  They said, “Wouldn’t you agree to sign this paper?” “We’re not signing anything, we’re not making a statement. Any writing you want done, go ahead and do it. We’re out here to play ball, we’re not out here to demonstrate or anything like that.” You know, they wanted us to put on some kind of exhibition, demonstrate, but we just wanted to play ball. Of course we’d like to have gone to the majors, but we were just out there to play a ball game.

  We didn’t think there was anything we could do. We just thought that if the change came, it was just going to have to be decided among the majors. We couldn’t speed them up or anything like that. Of course, one grou
p said if we’d demonstrate, that would speed it up, but we didn’t want no part of that. All the players that I ever talked to felt, when they get ready for us, they’re going to take us anyway.

  There was one requirement in the major leagues that we didn’t have, and that was your character. If you don’t have good character, you don’t stay in the major leagues long. But if you could play ball, regardless of your character, you could come in our leagues. You could be a drinker, you could be staying with another man’s wife, you could be gambling, whatever you wanted to be—if you could play ball, you could stay with us. Some of our good ballplayers wouldn’t have met the major-league requirements. I know one that had to straighten out his life before he could get to the major leagues. I guess you know him too. But he got it straightened out all right.

  I don’t know of anything that we could have done to speed it up. I don’t know of anything the players could have done. Maybe our conduct might have been better. Maybe. But as a rule, your conduct can’t be but so bad because you’re too tired to do anything bad. When the game is over, you’re too tired playing 200 ball games a season. You’re too tired to do anything else. You might drink a little, but when you’re drinking it’s to give you an appetite or trying to rest up your nerves or something.

  When Robinson went up, they talked about bringing me up, but even at that time they were looking for younger ballplayers. They were looking for players they could depend on for the next four or five years. They couldn’t depend on us older guys for that many years. You take Willie Wells and Cool Papa Bell and a whole lot of others, we knew that we couldn’t stand the pace for four or five years. But Larry Doby and Monte Irvin and Jackie Robinson and all those others, they could stand another five or six years. But with us, we knew we were a poor risk—any injury would stay with us longer.