Voices from the Great Black Baseball Leagues

by John Holway

  In all, I had three guns tore up. I got another close call when we were dug in and they found out we were there. We had a tarp to keep the water off us, and I wanted to get a stick outside to hold up one corner. I went out to get the stick—I was crawling on my stomach—and brrrrt, just a line out of a burp gun right in front of my hands, about six inches in front of where my hands were stretched out. I don’t know how I turned around, but they say I came sliding back in on my stomach.

  We drove from Leghorn clear up to Milan, and that’s way above Genoa. I had a chance to see Christopher Columbus’ home. And I got a chance to see Mussolini and his girl friend. The partisans got them. They had them hanging up, but we had to take them down.

  I even played against Ewell Blackwell over there in ’45. We were the ETO [European Theater] champions, and he played for the MTO [Mediterranean Theater] champions, and we were playing in Nice, France. Leon Day of the Newark Eagles played for us; that’s the only reason we could beat them. I hit a home run off Blackwell. I remember it so well, because the next time up I got hit.

  I’ve been working at Sears Roebuck here in Stone Mountain ever since I quit baseball. The superintendent at Sears went to school in Kansas City. He and his wife both. He was looking for somebody who could drive a tractor there at the store. Nobody seemed to know how, so I said, “I’ll go out and drive it.” That Sunday morning his wife picked me up and on the way she asked me where had I worked before and I told her I hadn’t worked any place, I had played baseball. She said, “You mean you played pro? What team?” I said, “Well, with about four teams, but my longest stretch was with Kansas City. She says, ”Wait a minute now, that’s my home. Me and Mac (that’s her husband) had most of our dates looking at the Monarchs when they were in town. I know every one of the Monarchs. I know you.” She did. She knew every one on the team by their names and positions. ”Wait until I tell Mac this.” It was a big surprise to him. He knew me too, and we went back and dug up some of those old ball games and so forth, you know.

  I was just working part-time then. He came to me and asked me how did I like my job? He said, “I’m going to see if I can keep you around.” And I’ve been there ever since. He’s on the board of directors now. I see him once a year when he comes to the store.

  Frank Robinson’s talking about being a manager.12 But they’re overlooking the experience of the old players as coaches. I’ve played against the coaches on the Braves. Joe Sylvestri is one. All these ballplayers could help these young players, we could help ’em. And it would be good public relations, that’s right. I think we deserve it. They have broken through, they have some colored scouts who can get a whole lot of colored ballplayers—and white ballplayers too. But the majors haven’t done too much about coaches. If it becomes a controversy, well baseball’s going to pay for it. If it reaches a point that our people stop going to ball games, baseball will pay for it. I think we ought to sit down and talk about things and iron them out and say, “Well, maybe we can do something about it.” They’ve got white coaches, but on a lot of these teams the colored players carry the team. I think the fans would accept colored coaches, even in Mississippi.

  Yeah, that’s right, the colored leagues were the real major leagues. And most people don’t know it. That’s what would make this book very, very interesting—things that people don’t know.

  Most whites don’t know about colored history. When I was in the Army in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, my officer was white. I was reading in the Chicago Defender that 130,000 colored men had been drafted, and he said, “I didn’t know there were that many in America.” I said, “Well, you know it now.”

  Here in Atlanta a while ago they ran an article in the newspaper about how many colored millionaires there were in the Atlanta area. It surprised many whites, because they’ve been taught everything just the opposite.

  Oh yeah, things have changed a lot. It takes time. I’ve always lived in the South. I was raised right around this little old village here, Stone Mountain. I was born right over there. And I try to think about things, and I know it’s as hard on white people as it is on colored. It’s something that existed before we were all born. Today I believe it’s a minority group that’s pulling back and trying to hold onto old traditions. If they could get away from all these philosophies and just help weave this country together. All the trouble starts from up above, guys profit off it-politicians and people like that. North-South, North-South-everything is North-South, North-South. I think this country would do much better if they’d leave some of these philosophies alone. When it started, it was a bitter thing. When this country split up, it was the South that pulled away from the North. It seems that now the people would be intelligent enough to get away from some of these philosophies. Because they hurt, they hurt, they really hurt.

  They dedicated that Confederate memorial here at Stone Mountain, and the man jumped on television and said, “No colored person has any business here.” Now, what the heck do I care about it? You know what I mean? If I wanted to go around there to the dedication, I’d go. Sure, I’d go, it’s none of his business, whether he wanted me there or not.

  It used to look real bad, when I thought about it, but now it doesn’t. Now it looks silly, some of the things they still do today. That’s the way it strikes me; it doesn’t strike me the way they think it strikes me, you know?

  No, I don’t hate anybody. Some of my people do, but all of them don’t. Most of them can understand this, because the things that are done today, I realize come up from generations. They’ve been taught these things. I see a little white child looking up at me four years old—his parents are teaching him right there. See, he’s just old enough to distinguish me and the color of my skin and his daddy’s skin, and he’s been told that I’m different. But there’s another child don’t pay me any attention because he’s not taught this stuff.

  There was a story in the Atlanta Constitution a while back about this little boy who told his mother all about his buddy and how much fun they had. So one day they ran up to her and he introduced his buddy to her. She told them, “Well, you all go on and play,” and they went trotting off back to wherever they were from. That night she said, “Johnny did you know your buddy is a colored boy?” He was struck silent for a long time, then he said, “Mother, I don’t know, but I tell you what I’m going to do: I’ll look tomorrow when I go to school and when I come back I’ll tell you.”

  I wouldn’t waste my time teaching my child to hate. I wouldn’t want him to consume up his time carrying out these things. I wouldn’t want him to waste his life like that. I’d want him to live in peace. If you hate, you get all tore up. I’ve seen people, tear themselves up, you know, and then they try to lay it on someone else because they caused it. But he’s the one.

  I know what segregation does from a financial standpoint. I’d be a rich man today if it wasn’t for discrimination. But it isn’t those guys’ fault either, because all of it started before they were born. It’s not their fault, it’s really not their fault. It’s built up so high until if you thought about doing the thing that was right, you were afraid to. You were subject to killing if you did anything different or spoke anything different. This is the first generation, I’d say, that is really trying to do something about it, to break down these philosophies, because they found out what it does to ’em. Some men still cherish those ideas, but you see children today, young men and young women coming out of the campus, and things are changing.

  Like Lincoln said, “A country can’t be strong and let half of its people be slaves and half free.” You can’t separate this country, like some people want to.

  Absolutely—the fellows my age made it possible for the players today. That’s right, we paved the way. A lot of people talked about how Jackie Robinson played, but he wasn’t our best player. The writers and news media didn’t play this up. No, the white newspapers didn’t give us much publicity, they sure didn’t. They always overlooked our league. Only one time since the Braves h
ave been in Atlanta they wrote about Hank Aaron and mentioned the Negro National League, which he came out of.

  I think a benefit game for the old Negro players would be nice, because I think we made a contribution to baseball—even if some of the younger generation don’t know it. I still think we did a good bit for the game.

  When they inserted Red Moore and Donald Reed and me in that old-timers game in Atlanta, that was worth thousands and thousands of dollars in people going out there. I got telephone calls and cards from the people—you know, wanting to know where you’re at and how you’re doing and what you’re doing.

  We had lunch about eleven o‘clock, and we were on television and radio, and then went to the ball park. We had balls autographed, picked up our uniforms and they retired Eddie Mathews’ number 41 that day. We played the Braves old-timers’ ’57 championship team. While the Braves played, we went to dinner and looked at the ball game. After that we all met again, and that’s when we really had our fun, talking, about ten or twelve of us that night. My wife really enjoyed it. She said, “I know you all out there were way over fifty years old. But you know, you looked good, you could just tell, you could just see all that baseball in you.” You know, I enjoyed that.

  Effa and Abe Manley, owners of the Newark Eagles

  Chapter 17

  MRS. EFFA MANLEY

  “She was unique and effervescent and knowledgeable,” says Monte Irvin of Mrs. Effa Manley, the glamour girl of black baseball in the Thirties and Forties. As co-owner of the Newark Eagles, she injected a touch of beauty and controversy into the otherwise all-male sport.

  “She ran the whole business end of the team,” says Irvin, who played shortstop and outfield for the Eagles. “It’s too bad the other owners didn’t go along with her on many of her proposals. She wanted to create a lot of innovations. She thought they had to treat the ballplayers a little better—better schedule, better travel, better salaries. And she fought about building our own ball parks The owners of the parks were independent and tough. If they saw you were doing well, they would figure out a way to take your money from you. It was tough going.”

  Abe Manley, the other half of the Eagles’ management team, was twenty-four years older than his wife. He was born in Hertford, North Carolina, in 1876, and spent over $100,000 of his personal fortune on the team. Much of the money was spent after the big leagues began raiding the Eagles for talent such as Don Newcombe, Monte Irvin and Larry Doby. When he finally sold, he got less than 5 percent of his investment back. But, said the Pittsburgh Courier, he “spent with a smile.” What did he get out of it? “I got plenty!” he once exclaimed. “I saw boys I developed enter major-league baseball. I saw Doby, Newcombe and Irvin become stars.”

  Mrs. Manley was active in civic work. In 1936 she took the lead in a group to save the mortgage of Edgecombe Sanitarium in New York, and she served on the Children’s Day Camp Committee and the Citizens’ League of Fair Play. The Citizens’ League organized a boycott of Harlem stores that had refused to hire black salesclerks. She herself walked in the picket lines until the stores gave in. Wrote the Pittsburgh Courier: “Mrs. Manley contends that the race does not know its own strength, and when it begins to realize what really fine things the race is capable of doing, it will show rapid progress.”

  She was always a fighter. In 1948 when Jackie Robinson lambasted the Negro leagues and the rough life of the players in them, she replied heatedly in a magazine article that “no greater ingratitude was ever displayed.” Until Robinson’s Brooklyn debut began choking Negro League attendance, she said, Negro teams had an average monthly payroll of $8,000. Even afterward, the average player was still making $100 a week, “and the only reason the owners don’t pay any more is that they can’t afford it.” In 1947, she said, the Eagles’ attendance had plunged from 120,000 to 57,000. “I dropped $22,000 to keep the Eagles going. How long can any owner stand this? Compared to the small $5,000 Jackie drew last year in payment for his terrific box-office appeal, Negro League players are overpaid. Yet the papers report Jackie as haggling with Branch Rickey over an increase this year.”

  She rejected Robinson’s charge that the black players had no contracts. “My boys have always had contracts. All owners know that the most important thing is to have a satisfied player. Otherwise you just have a man in uniform. I have had no squawks.”

  “The erratic scheduling,” Mrs. Manley said, “is not in our hands. We do not own the parks.” Her own Eagles were ousted from Newark’s Ruppert Stadium to make way for the Rocky Graziano-Tony Zale fight. “Most times we have to play where we can.” And rain could play further havoc with the schedule.

  As for traveling, the Eagles paid $12,000 for their bus, Mrs. Manley wrote. “Many minor-league players don’t get the same traveling comfort our boys get.”

  Hotels, she wrote, are the best the teams can provide. “Until Congress makes statutory changes about race prejudice in hotels, I’m afraid there’s little we can do to better such accommodations.”

  I didn’t discover Mrs. Manley’s address until after I had left Los Angeles, so hers was the only interview that had to be conducted entirely by telephone. We had several extended transcontinental conversations, and I scribbled shorthand notes furiously while she spoke sweetly and graciously into the phone.

  Eagle veterans remember her fondly. “She was a wonderful owner,” said Lenny Pearson, later a successful Newark tavern owner “After I quit playing, she started me out in business. She interceded for me and spoke to people and helped me. She financed the first tavern I ever had. A beautiful, beautiful person in all ways.”

  Effa Manley Speaks ...

  Was I paid for Monte Irvin, Larry Doby and Don Newcombe? [Laughs.] Mr. Rickey [Branch Rickey, general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers] didn’t even answer our letters when we wrote him about Newcombe, let alone give us anything. He knew we were in no position to challenge him. The fans would never have forgiven us.

  We got nothing for Newcombe, $5,000 for Monte and $15,000 for Doby. That’s all.

  We had others who would have developed into great stars had they been given the chance—Leon Day, Rufus Lewis, Willie Wells, Johnny Davis, Terris McDuffie, Joe Ruffin, Mule Suttles, Dick Seay. There were a dozen Newark Eagles who would have been major-league stars—not just major-league material, but stars. And the caliber of ballplayers today is not what it was when we had our Negro baseball. Dick Lundy, Oscar Charleston, Biz Mackey—they were just terrific stars.

  There were so many boys. Ray Dandridge—it’s a shame to pass up a fellow like him for the Hall of Fame. No question about it, an exceptional third baseman. He definitely rated right up there with Brooks Robinson. And Willie Wells, shortstop. He’s the first one I feel should get consideration in the Hall of Fame. Just on the strength of Abe’s evaluation, I’d put Wells on the top of the list. Abe said Wells was the greatest that ever lived, black or white. And both Wells and Dandridge were bowlegged. How they could maneuver like they did was something.

  And Dick Seay—wasn’t much of a hitter, but a second baseman out of this world. Lenny Pearson was a terrific first baseman. I think Lenny had a reputation for being a ladies’ man; he was very, very popular with the girls. That’s the only thing that kept him out of the major leagues.

  That was our infield. Campanella wrote that our infield at that time was the greatest one he’d ever seen.

  And Leon Day—it’s a shame he was born when he was. He played every position on the field except catch, and played them all magnificently.

  Those boys; my heart just aches for them that they were born too soon.

  My husband and I started the Eagles in 1935. It’s the darnedest thing how we met. I was born in Philadelphia in 1900. Babe Ruth made a ball fan out of me. I used to go to Yankee Stadium just to see him come to bat. I didn’t know anything about the game, but little by little I caught on. My husband came from Camden, New Jersey, used to play, and he was a rabid fan. He came to New York for the World Series, and we met at the
World Series. We were married in 1933, so that must have been the ’32 Series. I think it was Chicago playing the Yankees, but you can look it up.

  Effa Manley

  Abe had made quite a few successful investments in real estate. He just had enough money and decided there were quite a few teams barnstorming around the country—the Homestead Grays, the Pittsburgh Crawfords, Ethiopian Clowns—and Abe decided he’d like to see baseball organized. It was just a hobby. I think white major-league owners entered as a hobby too: Mr. Ruppert of the Yankees, Mr. Wrigley of the Cubs.

  He named the team the Eagles—I guess he hoped they’d fly high. The first year we had the team, 1935, we played in Ebbetts Field. Mayor LaGuardia threw out the first ball on opening day. There were over 185 distinguished guests in the stands. The police commissioner had his detachment of policemen in colorful uniforms. There were four Supreme Court Justices. Every letter I sent out for this inaugural of Negro baseball in Brooklyn was answered.

  And it was an awful game. We were unlucky enough to draw the Homestead Grays. I’ll never forget that game. The score was 21–7. I never saw so many home runs before in my life. The mayor just had to stay for the whole game. I went home in the third inning and had my first drink of whiskey.

  We drew so poorly that year that we moved the next year to Newark. We survived, but we never did draw too well. Whites? Just a few. Not enough to speak of. At that time the races just didn’t mix much. So it was a losing proposition from the beginning. Fortunately Abe’s money was long enough to stand it. We started doing halfway decent a couple years before Jackie Robinson went to Montreal in 1946.

  Baseball really is an expensive thing to operate. The fans criticize, but especially in the case of our Negro baseball, you had the boys on the road and hotel bills. It wasn’t a penny-pinching thing by any means. We paid 20 percent rent at most parks. Some of the parks were a little cheaper; I think Washington was cheaper. But that wasn’t too bad, because after all, they had the stadiums all ready for us to occupy. Philadelphia played in a little neighborhood stadium, but all the rest of the teams played in big-league or minor-league parks.