Voices from the Great Black Baseball Leagues

by John Holway

  Campanella could throw hard, but you know, he’d throw all the balls into the ground. He was quick and everything, but his arm just wasn’t true. Well, I think he threw four or five balls into the dirt one day trying to get his man at second when I was a rookie. So we had some pretty rough days. But after he got straightened out, it was all right. He had plenty of nerve, as young as he was. I think people took advantage of him when they came into home. But he would get in front of the plate and take you as you came. He wasn’t a pushover, I’ll tell you that.

  Campanella couldn’t hit that curve so good. He was a hard swinger; if he hit anything it was gone, but a curve ball he’d be off guard. If it was two feet outside, he would swing at it. George Scales, our coach, used to put two or three bats in back of him to make him stop pulling away from the curve. I think that helped him a lot.

  Campanella and I were teammates on the Monterrey team in Mexico too. And it gets hot there. He was what you’d call the big gun on the team, hit the home runs. After a doubleheader, I knew he was tired, so I said, “Let’s sit down and cool off.” We’d sit about half an hour. He’d lose fifteen or sixteen pounds in a game. But I’ll tell you where he would pick it up again—at the table. They had steaks that big—eighteen inches—and he’d eat it all.

  Which was better, Campanella or Josh Gibson? Well, I’ve gotta be frank on this one. I really think Gibson was the better receiver, also a better hitter. But you can look at it this way: Camp was younger. And I think Camp was a little smarter than Josh was.

  I was born in Atlanta, and I started playing baseball, and football too, in Washington High School here. I’m 5’ 9”, and I never weighed over 145 pounds, but they considered me one of the best quarterbacks in town—that’s what they said anyway. That’s how I got my nose broken, in a game in Nashville. I played the whole game with it. I knew it was broke, but I didn’t know how bad until I looked in a mirror afterwards. I just felt disgusted when I saw it. The doctor wanted to break it again and fix it right, but I told him it hurt enough the first time I broke it, so he told me to just keeping pulling it down and straighten it out a little more. So that’s why I still have a little crooked nose today.

  I started playing baseball with the Atlanta Black Crackers in 1936 when I was seventeen. But the one thing I regret was, I shouldn’t have quit high school.

  John “Red” Moore was our first baseman, and he was one of the greatest fielders I saw in a long time. He really was. I think the Atlanta (white) Crackers were thinking of getting him at one time. Another fellow was a catcher, Big Greene. He had a good arm, could throw, could get the ball to you on time so the runner wouldn’t have a chance to go through his act and spike you or something like that.

  Pee Wee Butts

  You know how they’d do. They would sharpen their spikes. They used to carry files in their uniform bags. I saw those fellows sharpen their spikes, and that sort of scared me too. So I got me a file too. I said, “If they can do it, I can do it too.” Gabby Kemp, at second, said he’d take all the throws, but I knew he couldn’t take them all the time, because of the hit-and-run, he had to be on the ball to cover his area. So I said, “No, you better let me take it.”

  Let’s take one night we were playing Jacksonville, and Philip Holmes—you’ve probably heard of him, he was one of the dirty players, I called ’em—he came into second and slid pretty hard and knocked me down. That started a rhubarb because they all wanted to protect me. I was sort of the prize star, and I was younger too. So he roughed me up that night and I couldn’t sleep. Next day Gabby Kemp asked me if I wanted to play. I said, “Yeah, I won’t get my money if I don’t play.” He said, “You can sit it out.”

  So I did sit it out because it did shake me up a little. But I said, “I’m not going to let him stop me like that.” So next night I told Gabby I was ready. I’ve been ready ever since. I went in and started playing—hard. You just have to hang in there.

  I stayed with the Black Crackers for three years, and then the Baltimore team came down and played us and they gave me a tryout. I didn’t want to leave home, but when the Black Crackers started to break up, I said, “Well, I guess I better.” They picked up me and Red Moore. We got on the train to Baltimore that night, and that was one of the biggest thrills I ever had. Big town, big buildings—at that time Atlanta didn’t have anything like that. I wanted to leave town as soon as I got there, but after I stayed there awhile I was all right. I finally stayed there and enjoyed every minute of it. Got to meet Campanella and Gilliam and everyone else. Yep, I enjoyed it all.

  But the first game I played, you know what happened? Three balls in the grandstand. You know, when you first start, you get shaky. I mean I threw them in, I didn’t hit them in. I only hit ten home runs in my whole career. I wasn’t strong enough, I guess.

  That night the manager, Felton Snow, asked me, “What’s wrong?” I said, “Well, you know how it is when you first start, you’re a little scared.” He said, “Aw, come on, ”Cool Breeze,“—that’s where I got the name of Cool Breeze, right there—”don’t be nervous, you can do it.” He gave me a big lift there.

  That’s the way it had to be, so I stuck with ’em. Had a good stab at it too.

  When I first got to Baltimore we were playing in Oriole Park, where the Triple-A club played. They kept that park in pretty good shape. But when they tore that park down, we had to get Bugle Field. They didn’t have but two groundkeepers, so it was pretty hard to keep the grounds up. I used to go out myself and sort of look around for bad spots before I’d start playing. The ground was pretty bad, just a little too sandy, but there wasn’t anybody who got his eyes put out or anything like that; I guess we were pretty lucky.

  I always did like to go to Yankee Stadium, a good park, good grounds. Bad hops, you’d very seldom get one. For one thing, it looked like a hotel from the outside, it didn’t look like a baseball park. Boy, the first time I saw it! You know, you want to act like you’ve seen things, but I sort of cut my eye up at the building and said, “What kind of park is this?” When I got inside, Snow said, “Come on, Pee Wee, this is the first time you’ve been in here, I’ll show you around.” I went out and looked at the field and said, “Snow, I thought this was a hotel!” That was another time I was a little shaky. Just seeing New York got me a little shaky. And after I got to the stadium—boy. But after all those bad fields, that was a good one. After that, every time they said New York, I was ready.

  George Scales [traveling secretary] was a great teacher at Baltimore. He was a “hot boiler.” Scales was a little hard on you, but if you’d listen you could learn a lot. I used to have trouble coming in on slow balls. I’d have to come up to throw. He said, “No, Pee Wee, that’s not the way a good shortstop does.” He drilled me hard until I finally caught on to it. He hollered, “There, now you got it.” And it came to me just like that.

  I got most of my hits off fast balls. If you can keep your eye on the fast ball, you’ll be able to hit it. I never was a curve ball hitter, but if someone would try to sneak a fast ball, I’d get a little hit. They always said I hit high balls, they said I hit them off my cap bill. But I thought they were strikes. That’s where I got my home runs. I think I only hit ten in my whole life.

  You know the first home run I hit? I think it was in Altoona. Anyway, I could hardly make it around third, I was so weak in the knees. I just couldn’t make it. When it went over the fence, I almost fell, I got weak in the knees. I just didn’t have any idea it would be gone. But that was my worst enemy. I started swinging too hard. Scales told me: “You forget about the home run. The more you swing, the less you hit the ball. You just get on base, walk, anything. Don’t you try to hit home runs.” Sure enough, he stopped me right there. He cooled me on that. I choked up on my bat, cut down on my swing and started to get those hits. That’s the type joker Scales was, he was watching everything.

  I never could gain any weight. They thought I couldn’t play every day, but I could. They were going to give me some kin
d of shot. My mother told me, “Well, you’re not meant to be fat. Don’t worry about your weight, nothing wrong with your weight.” But Scales said, “Don’t you run none, you might run all your weight off.”

  Scales could get what he needed out of you. Some of the fellows were temperamental, but they couldn’t do it to him. I played against him once down in Puerto Rico, where he was managing. He didn’t have too good a team, just a little old team there, but he could get everything out of them. They could run. We had the big bomb, Willard Brown of the Monarchs—“Esse hombre”—that means “that man” in Spanish. Every time he’d come to bat they’d say “Esse hombre.” They just knew he was going to hit a home run. The pitchers that Scales had, they were young, a new team, and Brown was taking advantage of them. But the next year, Scales got us. They won the championship. He had made them into a team. That shows you how good he is. He can do a lot for a team.

  My first year in Puerto Rico, I think I made forty-some errors. My manager, Vic Harris said, “What’s the matter, you been drinking ?” I said, “No, I don’t know what’s wrong.” I think I was staying up too late. That shows you, when you don’t take your rest, especially in sports, you can’t do so good. After that I did pretty good.

  I only played against Satchel Paige one game. He pitched four innings, and I was leading off. I used to be quite a lead-off hitter, but when they said “Satchel Paige,” I kind of got a little shaky. They said he didn’t have a curve, but if I’m not mistaken he threw me one on the last strike. I went up there looking for a fast ball, so I came back to the bench and said, “I thought you said Paige didn’t have a curve ball.” They said, “He don’t.” I said “Yeah? But he just threw me one.” He had developed a curve ball. After the game he said to me, “They told you I didn’t have a curve ball, didn’t they?” I said, “Yes, Snow told me. I see you’ve got one now.” He said, “Yeah, I was just saving it for all you young ones who come up there and think I don’t have a curve ball.”

  But I don’t think he was the toughest pitcher I faced. Dave Barnhill was. I always said he was throwing a spitball. You know, when you can’t hit you’ve got to say something.

  Joe Black. Boy, you mentioned a pretty hard thrower there. He joined us in 1943. At first he wanted to be a shortstop, but Scales said, “My land, we got too many shortstops now.” Joe didn’t have too good a curve, but he had a slider. He was big and strong; I think that’s what kept him up so long in the big leagues. If he’d been puny and skinny, I don’t think he’d have made it. I think there was something wrong with his finger, that’s why he couldn’t throw a curve. Scales drilled him, but he never could get that finger bent right to throw the curve ball. But that’s what gave him a better slider. But a fast-ball pitcher, they’re going to catch up with him sometime. You’ve got to have something else, a curve, to go with it. Fast balls, you get them in batting practice, you don’t get them in the game. If Joe had had a curve ball, I think he’d have lasted a couple more years in the big leagues.

  Junior Gilliam joined us in 1945. He had everything. He could think quick. Gilliam was a quiet guy, but when he got on the field he had more pep than you’d think he had. He could make a team go. We were roomies too, and he was another little talker. We’d talk about baseball for about an hour, then I’d roll over and go to sleep. He was really a baseball nut. I had to watch him, keep my eye on him, because he was a little younger than I was, and the fellows told me to keep my eye on him, don’t let him go running around. I’m fifty-one now, so I guess I’ve got about fifteen years on him.

  Just like me, Gilliam didn’t want to stay in Baltimore when he first came up. I think he got a little lonely, had a little girl back home. We told him, “You can get that later.”

  George Scales is the guy who taught Gilliam what he knew. Gilliam was a right-handed batter, but Scales turned him over to be a switch hitter. That’s how Gilliam evened up his hits. I really think he was a better left-handed batter than he was right. Right-handed he was stronger, but he wouldn’t get as many hits. When Scales switched him over, that’s when he started hitting.

  They said he had a weak arm, but he really could get rid of the ball and make those double plays. He wouldn’t stumble over the bag. Sometimes I’d say he wouldn’t even touch it. He really liked third, but George Scales said, “No, you’d make a better second baseman.” And I think he did. Snow was the manager and he was a third baseman. Sammy T. Hughes was on second-be’d gotten a little older, slowed up, so they tried Gilliam on second. It really helped me too. We got to be pretty good together. I think Gilliam was better than Hughes. Sam was tall, and a taller man playing with a short one don’t go together. Hughes would throw a little high to you, but Gilliam would keep it down. That’s the way you make double plays. We got to know each other pretty well, and that made it a lot better. They called us the $4,000 combination.

  I see Junior most every time he comes through Atlanta with the Dodgers. When I see him at the game, I wave my hand at him: “Hi, Junior.” Last year the last game he played here he said, “I think I’ll be coming down to see you this winter.” I said, “Do that.” Because he’s one of my best friends.

  Baseball’s a good game, I like to play it, I like to see it. Especially Hank Aaron. He’s one of my prize players. You know he was in our league too. He was a shortstop. The first time I played him, he hit one between third and short. I came to find out Aaron was a dead pull hitter. Finally the third baseman would get close to the bag and I would get even closer to third—the only way we could round him up.

  First time I played Willie Mays, he was in Birmingham. One of our players hit the ball back to the fence, he went back and caught it. Threw it all the way back to home plate. That’s the first time I knew he had an arm. Everybody started hooray-ing about that arm. When he was in the big leagues and we had a day off, we used to go where he was playing and cheer for him.

  Monte Irvin of Newark was an all-round athlete, he could play most anything. Until he got to the big leagues, he was sort of a spray hitter; where the ball was pitched, that’s the way it would go. I think after they got him in the big league they had him pull it a little more. I think he hit more home runs.

  Baltimore won the pennant in 1949. After that the club fell apart money-wise, so a fellow from Nashville bought the team.

  Gilliam went up to Springfield, Massachusetts, for a tryout in the minor leagues. Next morning I looked up and saw Gilliam and I said, “I thought you went to Springfield.” He said, “I did. We went up there, but nothing happened.”

  I sure was glad for Gilliam when he finally did make it. I was glad. But I hated to see him go. We had to get another second baseman and start in all over again. I don’t think Gilliam wanted to leave, himself. I had to coax him, “Get up there, Gilliam, you gotta go. You’ll be making more money and everything.” We used to lay in bed talking about that. He was wishing he could go, but after he got the chance he didn’t want to go. I pushed him on. I said, “You better go.” George Scales said, “Here’s your chance, you better go. Here’s your chance to make money.” That was the main thing.

  Well, I wish they’d started ten years sooner, I think I could have been there too. The only thing, I’d have to prove I could hit the curve ball, but I think I could have done that too.

  After Gilliam left, I just sort of vanished away. I went to Canada, played there about a year. Willie Wells was my manager, and we won the pennant. But I didn’t want to go back, it was too cold up there. Judy Johnson, the old-time third baseman—he’s a scout for the Phillies—asked me if I wanted to try Class A baseball. I told him I did, so I went to Lincoln, Nebraska. And that’s when I found out I was slipping, sure enough. You know, when you start missing balls that far—three inches—its time you were thinking about hanging it up. Lincoln wanted to send me down to Class B baseball. I said, “Whoops, this is all, right here.” I said, “I’m gonna rack it up.” I didn’t think it would be fair to some other youngster coming up if I went back just because my nam
e was Butts. My job was all finished. But for one year I didn’t do anything. I just moped around.

  I was up to New York a few years ago to see Campanella. That auto accident he had in 1957, that was a hurt moment for me. Sure was. It shook up a lot of people. My mother and I talked about it. It could have happened to anybody, but why Pooch? Just coming into his years in baseball, a man who was happy about his job. When I saw him in New York, I said, “You look real fat, rolling in that chair.” He said, “Well, Pee Wee, I’m going to get as fat as I can.” He didn’t have the smile he used to have, I could tell that right off the bat. We talked for a while, and I kept looking at his neck. You could tell it just wasn’t right, you know, but you hate to stare at a person.

  By that time Harry Williams, who was running Camp’s liquor store, came by. He used to play ball too, he was one of the good second basemen with the Black Yankees. I told Harry I didn’t want to talk about the accident, but he said, “Yeah, go ahead and talk about it, he wants you to talk about it.”

  Camp had a little place in the back where he could go and have his beer, so we went back there, and sure enough, he told me all about how it happened. He said, “Well, Pee Wee, I guess I’ll be in this wheelchair the rest of my life.” And that was another hurt part. I could feel the wetness in my eyes. I said, “Aw, Pooch, you’ll walk again.” He said, “No, Pee Wee, I don’t think I will.”

  The Atlanta old-timers game in 1969, that was a big thrill. One of the best thrills that I had, meeting the players, talking to them. It was a good feeling. I was shaking hands with great ballplayers. Johnny Logan and I played in Puerto Rico together, he was there, and we talked about most everything. Logan said, “It looks like you’re in shape now.” I said, “Yeah, I’m in shape, but I can’t do anything now.” We had lots of fun.