Politics in Sports

BASEBALL'S GREAT EXPERIMENT

Jackie Robinson and His Legacy

EXPANDED EDITION

JULES TYGIEL

New York Oxford 1997

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Oxford University Press

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Copyright C 1983, 1997 by Jules Tygiel

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Tygiel, Jules Baseball's great experiment: Jackie Robinson and his legacy / Jules Tygiel.—Expanded ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-19-510619-9 (cloth)—ISBN 0-19-510620-2 (paper) 1. Robinson, Jackie, 1919-1972. 2. Baseball players—United States—Biography. 3. Baseball—United States—History. 4. United States—Race relations. I. Title. GV865. R6T93 1997 796.357'092—dc20 96-38551 [B]

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I

The Crucible of White Hot Competition

This is a particularly good year to cam- paign against the evils of bigotry, preju- dice, and race hatred because we have witnessed the defeat of enemies who tried to found a mastery of the world upon such cruel and fallacious policy.

New York Times editorial, February 17, 1946

I

Opening Day of the baseball season was always a festive occasion in Jersey City on the banks of the Passaic River. Each year Mayor Frank Hague closed the schools and required all city employees to purchase tickets, guar- anteeing a sellout for the hometown Giants of the International League. The Giants sold 52,000 tickets to Roosevelt Stadium, double the ball park capacity. For those who could not be squeezed into the arena, Mayor Hague staged an annual pre-game jamboree. Jersey City students regaled the crowd outside the stadium with exhibitions of running, jumping, and acrobatics, while two bands provided musical entertainment.

On April 18, 1946, the air crackled with a special electricity. Hague's extravaganza marked the start of the first minor league baseball season since the end of the war. But this did not fully account for the added ten- sion and excitement. Nor could it explain why people from nearby New York City had burrowed through the Hudson Tubes for the event. Others had arrived from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and even greater distances to witness this contest. Most striking was the large number of blacks in the crowd, many undoubtedly attending a minor league baseball game for the first time. In the small area reserved for reporters chaotic conditions pre- vailed. "The press box was as crowded as the subway during rush hours," wrote one of its denizens in the Montreal Gazette. On the field photog-

4 EARLY INNINGS THE CRUCIBLE OF WHITE HOT COMPETITION 5

raphers "seemed to be under everybody's feet." The focus of their atten- tion was a handsome, broad-shouldered athlete in the uniform of the visit- ing Montreal Royals. When he batted in the first inning, he would be the first black man in the twentieth century to play in organized baseball. Jackie Robinson was about to shatter the color barrier.

"This in a way is another Emancipation Day for the Negro race," wrote sportswriter Baz O'Meara of Montreal's Daily Star, "a day that Abraham Lincoln would like." Wendell Smith, the black sportswriter of the Pittsburgh Courier who had recommended Robinson to Brooklyn Dodger President Branch Rickey, reported, "Everyone sensed the significance of the occasion as Robinson . . . marched with the Montreal team to deep centerfield for the raising of the Stars and Stripes and the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' We sang lustily and freely for this was a great day." And in the playing area, the black ballplayer partook in the ceremonies "with a lump in my throat and my heart beating rapidly, my stomach feeling as if it were full of feverish fireflies with claws on their feet." 2

Six months had passed since Rickey had surprised the nation by signing Robinson to play for the Dodgers' top farm club. It had been a period of intense speculation about the wisdom of Rickey's action. Many predicted that the effort to integrate baseball would prove abortive, undermined by opposition from players and fans, or by Robinson's own inadequacies as a ballplayer. Renowned as a collegiate football and track star, Robinson had played only one season in professional baseball with the Kansas City Mon- archs of the Negro National League. Upon Robinson's husky, inexperienced shoulders rested the fate of desegregation in baseball.

Robinson's experiences in spring training had dampened optimism. Com- pelled to endure the indignities of the Jim Crow South, barred by racism from many ball parks, and plagued by a sore arm, Robinson had performed poorly in exhibition games. One reporter suggested that had he been white, the Royals would have dropped him immediately. Other experts also ex- pressed grave doubts. Jim Semler, owner of the New York Black Yankees, commented before the opener, "The pace in the IL is very fast. . . . I doubt that Robinson will hit the kind of pitching they'll be dishing up to him." And Negro League veteran Willie Wells predicted, "It's going to take him a couple of months to get used to International League pitching." 3

Robinson, the second Montreal batter, waited anxiously as "Boss" Hague threw out the first ball and lead-off hitter Marvin Rackley advanced to the plate. Rackley, a speedy center fielder from South Carolina, grounded out to the shortstop. Robinson then strode to the batter's box, his pigeon-toed gait enhancing the image of nervousness. His thick neck and tightly muscled

frame seemed more appropriate to his earlier gridiron exploits than to the baseball diamond.

Many had speculated about the crowd reaction. Smith watched anxiously from the press box to see "whether the fears which had been so often ex- pressed were real or imagined." In the stands Jackie's wife, Rachel, wan- dered through the aisles, too nervous to remain in her seat. "You worry more when you are not participating than when you are participating," she later explained, "so I carried the anxiety for Jack." Standing at home plate, Jackie Robinson avoided looking at the spectators, "for fear I would see only Negroes applauding—that the white fans would be sitting stony-faced or yelling epithets." The capacity crowd responded with a polite, if unen- thusiastic welcome. 4

Robinson's knees felt rubbery; his palms, he recalled, seemed "too moist to grip the bat." 5 Warren Sandell, a promising young left-hander op- posed him on the mound. For five pitches Robinson did not swing and the count ran to three and two. On the next pitch, Robinson hit a bouncing ball to the shortstop who easily retired him at first base. Robinson returned to the dugout accompanied by another round of applause. He had broken the ice.

Neither side scored in the first inning. In the second the Royals tallied twice on a prodigious home run by right fielder Red Durrett. Robinson re- turned to the plate in the third inning. Sandell had walked the first batter and surrendered a single to the second. With two men on base and nobody out, the Giants expected Robinson, already acknowledged as a master bunter, to sacrifice. Sandell threw a letter-high fastball, a difficult pitch to lay down. But Robinson did not bunt. The crowd heard "an explosive crack as bat and ball met and the ball glistened brilliantly in the afternoon sun as it went hurtling high and far over the left field fence," 330 feet away. In his second at-bat in the International League, Robinson had hit a three-run home run.'

Robinson trotted around the bases with a broad smile on his face. As he rounded third, Manager Clay Hopper, the Mississippian who reportedly had begged Rickey not to put Robinson on his team, gave him a pat on the back. "That's the way to hit 'em, Jackie," exclaimed Rackley in his southern drawl. All of the players in the dugout rose to greet him, and John Wright, a black pitcher recruited to room with Robinson, laughed in delight. In the crowded press box Wendell Smith turned to Joe Bostic of the Amsterdam News and the two black reporters "laughed and smiled. . . . Our hearts beat just a little faster and the thrill ran through us like champagne bub- bles." Most of their white colleagues seemed equally pleased, though one

6

EARLY INNINGS

THE CRUCIBLE OF WHITE HOT COMPETITION 7

swore softly, according to one account, and "there were some very long faces in the gathering" as wel1. 7

The black second baseman's day had just begun. In the fifth inning, with the score 6-0, Robinson faced Giant relief pitcher Phil Oates. The "dark dasher," as Canadian sportswriters came to call Robinson, bunted expertly and outraced the throw "with something to spare." During spring training Rickey had urged the fleet-footed Robinson "to run those bases like light- ning. . . . Worry the daylights out of the pitchers." Robinson faked a start for second base on the first pitch. On the next he took off, easily stealing the base. Robinson danced off second in the unnerving style that would be- come his trademark. Tom Tatum, the Montreal batter, hit a ground ball to third. Robinson stepped backwards, but as the Jersey City fielder released the ball, he broke for third, narrowly beating the return throw.

Robinson had stolen second base and bluffed his way to third. He now determined to steal home to complete the cycle. He took a long lead, prompt- ing Oates to throw to third to hold him on base. On the pitch he started toward home plate, only to stop halfway and dash back. The crowd, view- ing the Robinson magic for the first time, roared. On the second pitch Robinson accelerated again, causing Oates to halt his pitching motion in mid-delivery. Oates had balked and the umpire waved Robinson in to score. Earlier Robinson had struck with power; now he had engineered a run with speed. The spectators, delighted with the daring display of baserunning, went wild, screaming, laughing, and stamping their feet. Blacks and whites, Royal fans and Giant fans, baseball buffs and those there to witness history, all joined in the ensuing pandemonium. 9

One flaw marred Robinson's performance. "By manner of proving that he was only human after all," according to one reporter, Robinson scarred his debut with a fielding error in the bottom of the inning. Acting as mid- dleman in a double play, he unleashed an errant throw that allowed the Giants to score their only run. Otherwise, Robinson affirmed his reputation as an exceptional fielder."

In the seventh inning Robinson triggered yet another Royal rally. He singled sharply to right field, promptly stole another base, and scored on a triple by Johnny Jorgenson. Before the inning had ended two more runs crossed the plate to increase the Royal lead to 10-1. In the eighth frame Robinson again bunted safely, his fourth hit in the contest. Although he did not steal any bases, he scrambled from first to third on an infield hit. Once again he unveiled his act, dashing back and forth along the baseline as the pitcher wound up. Hub Andrews, the third Jersey City pitcher, coped with this tactic no better than his predecessor. Andrews balked and for the sec- ond time in the game umpires awarded Robinson home plate. According to

a true baseball aficionado, this established "some kind of a record for an opening day game.""

The Royals won the game 14-1. Montreal pitcher Barney DeForge threw an effortless eight-hitter and Durrett clubbed two home runs. But, as the Pittsburgh Courier's front page headline gleefully announced, jAcicrE "STOLE THE suow." "He did everything but help the ushers seat the crowd," crowed Bostic. In five trips to the plate Robinson made four hits, including a three- run home run, scored four times, and drove in three runs. He also stole two bases and scored twice by provoking the pitcher to balk. "Eloquent as they were, the cold figures of the box score do not tell the whole story," indicated the New York Times reporter in an assessment that proved prophetic of Robinson's baseball career. "He looked as well as acted the part of a real baseball player." 12

"This would have been a big day for any man," reported the Times, "but under the special circumstances, it was a tremendous feat." Joe Bostic, who accompanied his story in the Amsterdam News with a minute-by-minute account of Robinson's feats in the game, waxed lyrical. "Baseball took up the cudgel for Democracy," wrote Bostic, "and an unassuming, but superla- tive Negro boy ascended the heights of excellence to prove the rightness of the experiment. And prove it in the only correct crucible for such an experi- ment—the crucible of white hot competition.""

II

Two years before Robinson's triumphant Jersey City debut, Swedish so- ciologist Gunnar Myrdal had published An American Dilemma, a landmark study of the race problem in the United States. In it he concluded that "Not since Reconstruction has there been more reason to anticipate fundamental changes in race relations, changes which will involve a development to- wards the American ideal." Few people shared Myrdal's optimistic view- point. His work described a society characterized by northern indifference and ignorance of the plight of blacks and a firmly entrenched system of racial segregation in the South, where Jim Crow laws forbade whites and blacks from attending the same schools, riding in the same sections of trains and buses, receiving treatment in the same hospitals, or competing in the same athletic contests. In Birmingham, Alabama, it was "unlawful for a Negro and white to play together or in the company with each other" at dominoes and checkers. These legal restrictions did not adequately reflect the extent of southern discrimination and segregation. As historian C. Vann Woodward noted, "There is more Jim Crow practiced in the South than there are Jim Crow laws on the books." Common custom required separate

8 EARLY INNINGS THE CRUCIBLE OF WHITE HOT COMPETTTION

9

toilets and water fountains, entrances and exits, and waiting rooms and ticket windows. "Segregation is becoming so complete," Myrdal discovered, "that the white Southerner practically never sees a Negro except as his servant and in other standardized and formalized caste situations.""

Southern whites reinforced this Jim Crow regime with a combination of economic and physical coercion. Blacks who challenged racial conventions jeopardized not only their meager sources of income but their lives as well. Although violence had abated since the early decades of the century when mobs lynched scores of blacks each year, the threat of physical reprisals remained a vivid reality. In 1946 at least nine blacks were lynched; and authorities rescued twenty-one others from angry mobs. Any attempt to dis- mantle the southern caste system, warned Richmond Times-Dispatch editor Virginius Dabney, would result in an "interracial explosion" which would leave "hundreds, if not thousands, killed!" 15

The prevalence of these conditions renders all the more remarkable Myrdal's prescient conclusion. Myrdal argued that during the 1930s, the "popular theory behind race prejudice" in the United States had gradually "decayed." The inclusion of blacks in New Deal relief programs, several Supreme Court decisions limiting discriminatory practices, and a growing exasperation with the South among northern liberals reflected this shift in attitudes. In addition, the growing militancy among blacks, whom, said Myrdal, "America can never more regard . . . as a patient, submissive mi- nority" would contribute to the forthcoming transition. This process would be accelerated by "the world conflict and America's exposed position as the defender of the American faith." Ultimately, Myrdal argued, the opponents of segregation would discover "a powerful tool in the caste struggle" in the "American Creed"—"the glorious American ideals of democracy, liberty, and equality to which America is pledged not only by its political constitution, but also by the severe devotion of its citizens."'

In the immediate aftermath of World War lithe forces that Myrdal pre- dicted would transform the nation's racial practices merged most dramati- cally and visibly on the playing fields of America. For a half-century, baseball had provided a mirror image of American society ; blacks and whites played in two realms, separate and unequal. Within weeks of the end of the war, Brooklyn Dodger president Branch Rickey announced his intention to end Jim Crow in baseball by signing Jackie Robinson. In the eyes of some contemporary observers, Rickey had initiated a "great" or "noble experiment." Could an American institution, steeped in the traditions of racial prejudice and populated by large numbers of southerners, accept the introduction of blacks peacefully? During the following decade and a half the desegregation experiment unfolded in baseball's major and minor

leagues. In a formal sense, it was completed in 1959 when the Boston Red Sox, the last all-white major league team, inserted young Elijah "Pumpsie" Green into a game as a pinch runner. In reality, the experiment continues into the present.

The integration of baseball represented both a symbol of imminent racial challenge and a direct agent of social change. Jackie Robinson's cam- paign against the color line in 1946-47 captured the imagination of millions of Americans who had previously ignored the nation's racial dilemma. For civil rights advocates the baseball experience offered a model of peaceful transition through militant confrontation, economic pressure, and moral sua- sion. In 1954 when the Supreme Court declared school segregation illegal in the famous Brown v. Board of Education decision, a majority of major league teams already fielded black athletes. Minor league integration had penetrated not only the North and West, but most of the South as well. For more than a decade before the explosion of sit-ins and freedom rides of the 1960s challenged Jim Crow accommodations in the Deep South, black athletes had desegregated playing facilities, restaurants, and hotels in many areas of the country.

Baseball was one of the first institutions in modern society to accept blacks on a relatively equal basis. The "noble experiment" thus reflects more than a saga of sport. It offers an opportunity to analyze the integration process in American life. An examination of the forces that led to Robinson's hiring, the reaction among both blacks and whites, the institutional response of the baseball establishment, and the resulting decline of the Jim Crow leagues reveals much about the United States in the 1940s and 1950s. The halting and incomplete nature of baseball's achievement notwithstanding, few other businesses have equalled its performance. The dynamics of inter- racial relationships among players, coaches, and managers provide rare insights into what occurs when nonwhites are introduced into a previously segregated industry.

"The American Negro problem is a problem in the heart of America," wrote Myrdal. "It is there that interracial tension has its focus. It is there that the decisive struggle goes on."" From 1945 to 1959 Jackie Robinson and the blacks who followed him into baseball appealed to the "heart of America." In the process they contributed to the transformation of the na- tional consciousness and helped to usher in a new, if still troubled, age of race relations in the United States.

TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON

11

Twilight Ere the Noon

0, minds of fieetful thought! 0, dead who lived too soon!

What pity thou wert brought To twilight ere the noon!

David Malarcher, Negro League third baseman, "Sunset Before Dawn"

The "muse" of baseball has a profound sense of irony. In the early twentieth century the mythmakers of our national pastime decreed that the game had its "immaculate conception" on the playing fields of Cooperstown, New York, created fully grown from the head of Civil War hero Abner Double- day. Evidence that baseball had evolved from earlier contests played by the English and that Doubleday probably never participated in the game did not deter baseball's early historians. They anointed Cooperstown the sport's official birthplace and in later decades the Official Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum was established there.

Baseball, of course, was not born in Cooperstown, but Bud Fowler, one of its unwanted children, was. 2 Fowler was the first black professional baseball player. Born in the small Upstate New York village in 1854, the son of free itinerant workers, Fowler debuted as a paid athlete in 1872. For the next quarter-century he attempted to earn his living in the emerging patch- work of the baseball industry. His experiences provide a microcosm of the black baseball odyssey in the nineteenth century—a composite of grudging acceptance, discrimination, physical abuse, and, ultimately, exclusion.

Fowler made his first professional appearance as the only black player on a team in New Castle, Pennsylvania. For a dozen years he pursued his career in obscurity, leaving no records of his travels. In 1884 he surfaced on a club in Stillwater, Minnesota, in the Northwestern League. Sporting Life, a national journal, described him as a pitcher, catcher, and left fielder.

Fowler excelled, however, as a second baseman. By some accounts, he ranked among the best in the game at that position. He began the 1885 sea- son with Keokuk in the Western League, but when that team disbanded, he found difficulty catching on with another. "He is one of the best general players in the country," reported Sporting Life, "and if he had a white face would be playing with the best of them." Fowler spent a month in idleness before signing briefly with a club in Pueblo, Colorado. "The poor fellow's skin is against him," Sporting Life again sympathized at the year's end. "With his splendid abilities he would long ago have been on some good club had his color been white instead of black. Those who know say there is no better second baseman in the country."

During the next two years, baseball's color line briefly relaxed and as many as twenty blacks were accepted into organized leagues. Fowler batted .309 for Topeka, Kansas, in the Western League in 1886 and the following season signed with the Binghamton, New York, club in the International League.

Fowler's sojourn in the International League typified the hardships of black players of his era. One white who admitted to being "prejudiced against playing on a team with a colored player" painted a dismal portrait of Fowler's ordeal, "Fowler used to play second base with the lower part of his legs encased in wooden guards. He knew that about every player that came down to second base on a steal had it in for him and would, if possible, throw spikes into him. . . . About half the pitchers try their best to hit these colored players." Some baseball historians credit the invention of shin guards to either Fowler or Frank Grant, another black second base- man, for protection against white base runners. By one probably erroneous, but revealing account, white players developed the feet-first slide, "to give the frequent spiking of the darlcy an appearance of accident."

Despite these difficulties, Fowler performed admirably in the Inter- national League. In thirty games in 1887 he batted .350 and stole thirty bases. On July 14, however, league directors, citing complaints that "many of the best players in the League were anxious to leave on account of the colored element," announced that no further contracts with blacks would be accepted. While this ruling was not supposed to affect those blacks already in the League, Binghamton immediately released Fowler and forbade him from signing with any other club in the circuit.

Fowler's release ended his career with white teams. He subsequently joined the Cuban Giants, the leading black team of the era, and for the next decade depended upon the uncertain fortunes of barnstorming for his livelihood. In 1895 Fowler wrote, "It was hard picking for a colored player

12 13 TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON EARLY INNINGS

this year. I didn't pick up a living; I just existed." He then added, "If I had not been quite so black, I might have caught on as a Spaniard or something of that kind. . . . My skin is against me."

To solve his problem, Fowler attempted to combine baseball with broader forms of entertainment. In 1895 he formed the Page Fence Giants, described by Robert Peterson as a "judicious blend of showmanship and good baseball." Before every game the team would ride bicycles through the streets of whatever town they were appearing in to drum up interest in the game. In 1899 Fowler assembled a team called the All-American Black Tourists. The Tourists would arrive in full-dress suits with black pants and white vests, swallowtail coats, opera hats, and silk umbrellas. After parading through the community, Fowler would announce "By request of any club, we will play the game in these suits." No record exists of Fowler's exploits after the turn of the century.

Fowler's career encapsulized the black baseball experience in America. Though observers widely acknowledged his talents, he found difficulty gain- ing acceptance in organized baseball. Torment and uncertainty marred the years he spent on white teams. Relegated to black barnstorming squads, Fowler pondered passing as Spanish and injected clowning into his athletic contests. As the first black professional baseball player, Bud Fowler proved a living allegory of the history of blacks in baseball in the age of Jim Crow.

II

The formative years of baseball as a professional sport coincided with the emergence of segregation as an American institution. Ironically, the provi- sion of separate public facilities for blacks and whites had originated not in the South, where it appeared in its most pronounced form, but in the states of the antebellum North. Even in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, although some southern institutions—most notably schools—immediately be- came segregated, most areas of southern life remained free from the dictates of Jim Crow legislation. Although custom and practice in many communities established the separation of the races, the ironbound barriers characteristic of the twentieth century had yet to coalesce. Nonetheless, in the years after Reconstruction the South emerged as an increasingly segregated society and the North, on the other hand, displayed a growing disinterest in the race issue . 3

Concurrent developments in the sphere of baseball reflected the chaotic throes of the nation's industrial awakening. Like other businesses, the pro- fessional game consisted of an unstable array of local enterprise searching for an organized structure. Teams assembled and disbanded; leagues

formed and fractured. Entrepreneurs, often drawn from the ranks of the players themselves, sought to provide permanence in this fledgling industry. Although the rules of play had taken on a relatively uniform shape, the regulations governing the administration of the game varied from league to league. With regard to the admission of blacks in baseball there was no clear-cut policy, merely a patchwork of local decisions. Like the nation as a whole, baseball entered a period of experimentation regarding the role of black Americans. 4

The National Association of Base Ball Players, the first organized league, established the initial barrier against blacks in 1867. Founded before the Civil War, the association lasted for nine years without confronting the race question. At its annual convention in 1867, however, "to keep out of the con- vention the discussion of any subject having a political bearing," the govern- ing committee recommended that all teams "which may be composed of one or more colored persons" be denied admission to the league. When the National Association of Base Ball Players disbanded several years later, the written code of segregation perished with it. Most of its successors relied upon the doctrine of common consent and coercion, the "gentleman's agree- ment," to exclude nonwhite players. 5

The National League, baseball's foremost entity in the nineteenth cen- tury, utilized this device from its inception in 1876. Though the dominant force in the professional arena, the National League lacked the authority to impose its will upon other circuits. Even those leagues which in 1879 joined the major league in the National Agreement—a pact to respect player contracts and decline from raiding the rosters of other teams—were not required to adopt the racial policies of the major coalition. As a result, Bud Fowler and a handful of others found themselves accepted, if not exactly welcomed, within the boundaries of organized baseball.

Little information exists about blacks who played on white teams in the 1870s, but during the following decade as many as two dozen blacks played on teams in the professional leagues. A pair of brothers, Moses and Weldy Walker, achieved brief major league status in 1884 with Toledo of the American Association. Moses, a catcher, compiled a .263 batting average in forty-two games; Weldy batted .222 in only five appearances. Others regis- tered impressive records and drew accolades for their minor league per- formances. George Stovey won thirty-three games for Newark in the Inter- national League in 1887 and many called Frank Grant one of the finest second basemen of the age. 6

By the start of the 1887 season prospects for continued integration seemed promising. The League of Colored Base Ball Clubs was recognized as a minor league under the National Agreement, a development that ulti-

14 15 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON

mately might have produced a vehicle for black advancement to the majors. In addition, claimed Sol White, the black athlete who in 1906 wrote the first history of black baseball, twenty blacks played in otherwise all-white professional leagues that summer. 7

But 1887 marked the apex of black acceptance. Events of that year began the precipitous slide that would lead to total exclusion. The League of Colored Base Ball Clubs folded before a single game had been played, and a growing crescendo of complaints by whites about their black team- mates and opponents revealed the vulnerability of interracial competition. In June two members of the Syracuse Stars of the International League re- fused to pose for a team picture with star black pitcher Bob Higgins. A month later, in response to player protests, International League officials issued their edict banning future contracts with blacks. 8

Within days of the International League announcement, an incident involving George Stovey of Newark further spotlighted the deteriorating position of blacks. Newark scheduled Stovey, the team's top pitcher, to work an exhibition game against the Chicago White Stockings of the Na- tional League on July 19. On the day of the game Stovey "complained of sickness" and withdrew. Stovey, however, was not ill. Cap Anson, the man- ager and star player of the Chicago team, had threatened to withdraw his squad from the contest if Stovey pitched. Four years earlier Anson had presented a similar threat to the Toledo club which included Moses Fleet- wood Walker. In that instance the Toledo manager had not only defied Anson's challenge but had deliberately inserted Walker into a game he had not been slated to play. In 1887 Anson prevailed. 8

Anson was one of the prime architects of baseball's Jim Crow policies, yet the reasons for his intense hostility toward blacks remains unknown. Born in the North, Anson resided in Chicago and played primarily in cities above the Mason-Dixon line. Indeed, few of Anson's contemporaries in base-

ball were southerners. Most, however, apparently shared his racial attitudes. The athletes' antipathy for interracial competition reflected the "culture of

professionalism" emerging in late nineteenth-century America. Practitioners of different occupations formed organizations, established standards of per- formance, and erected barriers to entry. Racial and ethnic exclusion often constituted a means to define the distinctiveness of a given profession. Mem-

bership restrictions appeared in trade unions and professional societies alike.° As baseball attempted to establish itself on a secure institutional footing, players and owners defined the attributes of a respectable, profes- sional game. The national pastime would be, at least in the public eye, wholesome, free from the taint of gamblers, and the exclusive preserve of white athletes. By designating some people as unworthy of admission, the

baseball community elevated the status of those accepted into the profes- sion. To further distinguish themselves from lesser pretenders, major and minor leagues affiliated under the National Agreement referred to their operations as "organized baseball" and labelled all others "outlaw" leagues.

Blacks in the International League immediately felt the effects of these developments during the 1887 season. Newark dropped Stovey, though the club retained the less talented Walker. Binghamton released Bud Fowler.

The following year the Buffalo Bison players refused to pose for a team picture if it included Frank Grant, their leading hitter. Bob Higgins, again the object of teammate abuse, threatened to leave the Syracuse club in mid- season. Neither player returned to the International League in 1889. This left Fleet Walker as the only black in the circuit. Walker batted only .216

and Newark did not invite him to return. Fifty-seven years would pass before another black performed in the International League."

After 1887 the situation rapidly worsened for the few black athletes

remaining in organized baseball. An article in the Sporting News in 1889

reported, "Race prejudice exists in professional baseball ranks to a marked degree, and the unfortunate son of Africa who makes his living as a member of a team of white professionals has a rocky road to travel." The writer de- scribed how whites not only "cut him in a social way" but attempted to " 'job him' out of the business" by giving him wrong instructions and adding errors to his fielding statistics. Pitcher Tony Mullane said of Fleet Walker, "He was the best catcher I ever worked with, but I disliked a Negro and whenever I had to pitch to him I used anything I wanted without looking

at his signals." 12 By the close of the decade only a sprinkling of blacks remained in the

minor leagues. In 1889 the Middle States League invited two black clubs, the Gorhams of New York and the Cuban Giants, to enter competition. The following season, the league, renamed the Eastern Interstate League, again included the Giants, as well as a Harrisburg team, which fielded at least two black players. When Harrisburg deserted the circuit to join the Atlantic Association, the league disbanded. Harrisburg retained its two black players and the following year added several others, causing sportswriters to nick- name them the "Polka Dots." The Cuban Giants meanwhile enlisted in the Connecticut State League, which also proved short-lived. When the league collapsed in the middle of the 1891 season, the Giants returned to barn-

storming, their career in organized baseball at an end. By 1892 the color line was firmly in place. Despite brief appearances by

Sol White and several others in 1895, teams in organized baseball fielded no blacks. Nor did they invite black clubs to join any major or minor leagues. The Acme Colored Giants, who played half a season in Pennsyl-

16 17 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON

vania's Iron and Oil League in 1898, represent the sole exception. After win- ning only eight out of forty-nine games, the team mercifully disbanded. At the dawn of the twentieth century, the national pastime was a Jim Crow enterprise."

III

As Bud Fowler, Moses Fleetwood Walker, and others struggled to gain a toehold in organized baseball, many black athletes formed their own teams. Competing against both black and white opponents, these squads became an important component of black culture in the age of Jim Crow. Hidden or at least obscured from the view of whites, black baseball, like black newspapers, black universities, and black music, offered a vital, vibrant, and often innovative alternative for those excluded from the dominant American institutions.

The first all-black team to achieve widespread recognition was the Cuban Giants. Formed among the waiters of the Argyle Hotel in Babylon, New York, in 1885, the Giants toured the East. The players chattered gib- berish on the field to pass as Cubans and competed against the local semi-pro teams and even major league clubs. Sometimes, sporting different names, the club played in the minor leagues. But for the most part the Cuban Giants held no regular affiliation. They simply played whomever would ante up money for a game."

The Cuban Giants represented the prototypical black baseball team. They introduced to the game not only its itinerant style but its most popu- lar name—black baseball abounded with Giants. In 1900 the five major pro- fessional teams included the Cuban Giants, the Cuban X Giants, and the Columbia Giants (formerly the Page Fence Giants). Six years later there were nine professional teams within a 100-mile radius of Philadelphia, all dubbed the Giants. For the next two decades these teams led a precarious existence; unaligned with any league, they traveled the nation in search of competition."

Even after 1920, when Negro Leagues formed, barnstorming remained the basis for black baseball. Only a third of a season's 200 games counted in the league standings. To survive, a team had to travel. Most major fran- chises were located in the North, but 90 percent of the nation's black population lived in the South. As author Art Rust has pointed out, black baseball "was an empire built on poverty. How could poor black fans finance a wealthy league?r' 18

The level of competition varied considerably from day to day (or, in some cases, from afternoon to evening). The barnstorming teams might play

other black professional teams, or local semi-pro teams, both black and white, or squads composed of major league all-stars. Before the mid-1920s, when Baseball Commissioner Landis forbade the practice, black teams occa- sionally pitted themselves against major league clubs. Games were therefore contested under inconsistent conditions. "We would bat from one back- ground in Griffith Stadium on Sunday, then Monday night we were down here in Rocky Mount batting against just any background, sometimes an open field," says Hall of Famer Buck Leonard." Teams rarely kept statistics of these encounters; even if they had been recorded the variable level of competition would have rendered them meaningless.

In an age in which the vast majority of Americans rarely traveled great distances, black ballplayers constituted rare men of the world, or at least of the hemisphere. They journeyed not only throughout the United States but also to Central America and the Caribbean. For most, baseball was a year-

round occupation. During the winter months they headed for Cuba, Vene- zuela, or Mexico where they were welcome additions to the local athletic scene. Caribbean baseball fanatics lavished money, favors, and adulation upon the black North Americans. Beginning in 1939, wealthy Mexican and Venezuelan team owners determined to improve their summer leagues by luring the top stars in the Negro Leagues. The higher salaries and superior treatment attracted many black ballplayers. When shortstop Willie Wells left the Newark Eagles in 1939 to play for Vera Cruz in the Mexican League, he eloquently explained his decision in a letter to Pittsburgh Courier sportswriter Wendell Smith:

Not only do I get more money playing here, but I live like a king. . . . I am not faced with the racial problem of Mexico. . . . We live in the best hotels, we eat in the best restaurants, and can go anyplace we care to. . . . We don't enjoy such privileges in the U S didn't quit Newark and join some other team in the United States. I quit and left the country. . . . I've found freedom and democracy here, something I never found in the United States. . . . Here, in Mexico I am a man."

Many recollections of former Negro Leaguers involve their extensive travels. "The schedule was a rugged one," wrote Roy Campanella. "Rarely were we in the same city two days in a row. Mostly we played by day and traveled by night; sometimes we played both day and night and usually in two different cities." The need to maximize their appearance led black teams to introduce night baseball. In April 1930, the Kansas City Monarchs became the first team to play under the lights. By 1935 when the Cincinnati Reds premiered night contests in the major leagues, black clubs were experi-

18 EARLY INNINGS

TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON 19

enced practitioners of baseball after dark. Barnstorming squads carried their own portable lighting systems. "We'd install them on poles all around the outfield," Buck Leonard told John Holway. "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." Thus equipped, black teams could wage an afternoon battle in one community and dash to a nearby town for a night game in another. Nor were three games in a day unusual.'°

In the days of Rube Foster's Chicago American Giants of the 1910s and 1920s, players traveled comfortably in Pullman cars. But the more common means of transportation was the team bus, or two or more automobiles barely large enough to hold the men and their equipment. During his days with the Baltimore Elite Giants, Campanella recalls, 'We traveled in a big bus and many's the time we never bothered to take off our uniforms going from one place to another. . . . The bus was our home, dressing room, dining room, and hotel." 2 °

Touring with the Homestead Grays in 1932, Quincy Trouppe lacked even that luxury. In his autobiography Trouppe recalls traveling in two or three seven-passenger cars, "We were so cramped for space that we orga- nized a kind of Notre Dame shift and when the ride became too uncomfort- able someone would give the signal and we'd all change positions on the rear and jumper seats. We had little time to waste on the road, so it was a rare treat when the cars would stop at times to let us stretch out and exer- cise for a few minutes." 2 '

Road accommodations usually ranged from the uncomfortable to the uninhabitable. Most major hotels were segregated, requiring blacks to stay at Jim Crow outposts. In areas where no facilities for blacks existed, ball- players slept on the bus or outside at the ball park. The average black hotel of that era also lacked appeal. "We were continually under attack by bed- bugs," says Trouppe. "My roomie and I stayed up many nights in Pittsburgh fighting these monsters until early morning." When critics censured Negro League owners for the poor housing, Effa Manley, the co-owner of the Newark Eagles, responded that they lacked the power to rectify the situa- tion. "Until Congress makes statutory changes on race prejudice in hotels," she argued, "I'm afraid there's little we can do to better such accommoda- tions." 22

The itinerancy, inconsistent competition, and the need to attract crowds encouraged another controversial element of black baseball—the injection of showboating and clowning into the competition. As early as the 1880s black barnstorming teams became known for their stunts and comedy. Dur- ing the World War I era, the Lincoln Giants entertained the fans with a pre-game exhibition of juggling, pantomime, hidden-ball tricks, and acro-

batic displays of throwing and catching the ball. The Indianapolis Clowns of the 1930s and 1940s, though a serious competitive team in the Negro American League, presented two of their players, Goose Tatum and King Tut, as a comic duo. 23

Most of the antics took place before the game. In the actual competition the athletes played seriously, particularly against top black clubs or major leaguers. Players only showboated against distinctly inferior semi-pro com- petition; even then it more often involved the flaunting of superior skills rather than comedic antics. The master showman of black baseball during the 1930s and 1940s was pitcher Leroy "Satchel" Paige. Yet Paige's stunts— guaranteeing that he would strike out the first six or nine men to face him or calling in his outfielders—defied inferior hitters. Paige never attempted these feats against tougher competitors.

At best, teams and players that engaged in clowning simply catered to the whims of the fans and added entertainment; at worst, when their per- formances took on the stereotyped images of a minstrel show or the Stepin Fetchit characteristics portrayed in the movies, the clowns perpetuated the negative perceptions of blacks common among whites, and cast doubts about the quality of the athletes. Most veterans of the Negro Leagues deeply resent the notion that buffoonery, and not baseball, was their occu- pation. "If you was black, you was a clown. Because in the movies, the only time you saw a black man he was a comedian or a butler," observes Piper Davis, former player-manager of the Birmingham Black Barons. "But didn't nobody clown in our league but the Indianapolis Clowns. We played base- b ajj . "24

Black baseball developed stars of indisputable talent as well as a dis- tinctive style of play. In the early decades of the twentieth century black athletes compared favorably with their white counterparts. Observers nick- named Cuban pitcher Jose Mendez the "Black Matty" after Christy Mathew- son. Contemporaries hailed John Henry Lloyd as the "Black Wagner," after Honus Wagner, the Pittsburgh Pirate infielder generally acknowledged as the best at that position. One sportswriter commented that Babe Ruth was the greatest player in organized baseball, but "in all baseball, organized or unorganized, the answer would have to be a colored man named John Henry Lloyd." 25 The list of black players talented enough not only to play in the major leagues but to have excelled is a long one. In the 1920s and 1930s outfielders like Oscar Charleston and James "Cool Papa" Bell, in- fielders Willie Wells and Ray Dandridge, and the incomparable Pittsburgh Crawford battery of Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson represented only the most obvious examples of players who excelled against all competition.

For their efforts these stars seldom received salaries commensurate with

20 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON 21

those of white major leaguers. With the exception of Satchel Paige, whose regular paycheck and income from barnstorming and winter baseball to- talled an estimated $40,000 a year during the 1940s, most players earned between $125 and $300 a month, less than half the salary of the average white athlete. Like Paige, most supplemented their incomes with post-season barn- storming tours and Caribbean baseball. Playing year round, a black athlete earned far more than the typical black worker in the United States, but far less than white ballplayers of inferior skills. 26

Despite the presence of indisputable stars, the quality of play in black baseball did not equal that of the white major leagues. Most observers acknowledged that with few exceptions black teams could not have com- peted in the majors on a day-to-day basis. "On certain days our Negro National or Negro American League clubs could have been major leaguers," Bill Yancey of the Black Yankees told Robert Peterson. "If we played with Bill Holland pitching, we were major league . . . but, if we had some other fella in there, we might be a Double-A club." Ted "Double-Duty" Rad- cliffe says the black teams of the 1930s and 1940s were "about Triple-A Level. . . . The big leaguers were strong in every position, where most of the colored teams had a few stars but they weren't strong in every posi- tion."27

Black teams generally employed only seventeen or eighteen players rather than the twenty-five-man roster common in the majors. As a result, many athletes, particularly the pitchers, played more than one position. "Double-Duty" Radcliffe earned his nickname due to his skills as both a pitcher and a catcher. He often hurled the first game of a doubleheader and moved behind the plate for the nightcap. Others, like Martin Dihgo and Leon Day, excelled at virtually every position, though they won their great- est fame as pitchers.

The lack of manpower gave the opportunity for these all-around athletes to display their versatility, but it also represented the primary source of weakness on the black clubs. "The majors had more replacements, more pitchers and more reserves," says star hurler Hilton Smith. Buck Leonard concurs, "We didn't have—as the majors did—two good catchers and six or seven good pitchers and good infielders and outfielders. We had about four good pitchers and about two or three mediocre ones." 28

Black teams also suffered from inadequate training in fundamentals. "We did not know about backup plays or how valuable they were," explains Buck Leonard. "We weren't told the certain position you were supposed to get in for certain plays." In part this stemmed from the absence of a spring training period. "No sooner did you pull on your uniform and crack a sweat than you were in a game before paying customers," contends Roy Cam-

panella. When Jackie Robinson joined the Kansas City Monarchs, he re- ported on a Friday, was idled by rain the following day, and played in his first game on Sunday without a single practice session." Since most of the athletes had played winter ball in Latin America, they did not require extensive conditioning. But the absence of training eliminated the possi- bility of meaningful coaching or instruction.

The lack of training gave black baseball a peculiar caste, at least to white observers nurtured on the orthodox techniques of the major leagues. "So many of [the blacks] were never taught the game by a competent coach," explains author Bill Brashler. "They learned it in a sandlot or by watching the older players, and they picked up bad habits and kept them until someone took the time to show them differently."" As a result, black baseball became a more diverse and colorful game than the white variation. Batting styles and fielding habits did not adhere to the proper "form," but they were nonetheless effective and entertaining.

White baseball followed the course of other dominant institutions, be- coming more rationalized, more predictable, and less daring. Free from the pressures which dictate conformity, black baseball remained more closely akin to the early days of the game or the contests played on the sandlots— less structured, more ebullient, and more innovative. Since the appearance of Babe Ruth, the home run had dominated organized baseball to the exclu- sion of the bunt, the stolen base, and the hit-arid-run. "They played con- servative baseball, waited for the big hit, and they played the percentage," recalls Trouppe. Negro League clubs, on the other hand, combined the best of both worlds. Despite the presence of undisputed power hitters, like Josh Gibson, black teams also emphasized speed, baserunning, and what they called "tricky baseball." "You know in boxing there's two rules, Queensbury and the one they called `coonsbury; " explained second baseman Newt Allen. "We played the coonsbury rules. That's just any way you think you can win, any kind of play you think you can get by with." 31

Black pitchers also developed their own peculiar style. "Anything went in the Negro National League," wrote Campanella. "Spitballs, shine balls, emery balls; pitchers used any and all of them. They nicked and moist- ened and treated the ball to make it flutter and spin and break." Cool Papa Bell remembers the "Vaseline Ball" which had "so much Vaseline on it, it made you blink your eyes on a sunny day." Not only did the rules allow the doctoring of the baseball, but as Campanella explains, there weren't enough baseballs available to replace the scuffed balls. "I was never sure what the ball would do once it left the pitcher's hand, even when he threw what I called for," recalls the Hall of Fame catcher. Nor was the ball always aimed at the plate. Beanball and brushback pitches were epidemic.32

22 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON 23

The absence of a substantial league structure facilitated this free-wheel- ing style. Despite efforts in the 1920s and 1930s to establish leagues parallel to those in organized baseball, black baseball remained, for the most part, a collage of independent enterprises. The first successful attempt to form a Negro League resulted from the labors of Rube Foster. Foster was sculpted from the mold of baseball's early pioneers. Like Spalding, McGraw, and Comiskey he rose from star player to skillful manager to owner and admin- istrator. One of the great pitchers of the early twentieth century, Foster assembled the Chicago American Giants in 1911. Nine years later, after retiring as a player, he created the Negro National League, an association of eight midwestern barnstorming teams. In 1923 a second circuit, the East- ern Colored League was established. After surviving the 1920s, both orga- nizations fell victim to the depression. By 1932 no black major league ex- isted. 33

The following year Gus Greenlee, the owner of the Pittsburgh Craw- fords, launched the second Negro National League. Despite frequent mem- bership changes, the structure established by Greenlee stood for over a dozen years. In 1937 a Negro American League formed; it also survived for over a decade. 34

The Negro Leagues, however, were leagues in name only. Black teams still derived the bulk of their income from barnstorming games not counted in the standings. The number of games in a season varied from team to team. Unlike their white counterparts, Negro League owners exercised little control over their employees. Athletes repeatedly jumped from team to team or to Latin American clubs and back. Many players worked without contracts. Even those with agreements in writing felt minimal compunction about ignoring them. "They were regular contracts. But we didn't pay too much attention to them," recalls Bill Yancey, who played for the New York Black Yankees, among others, in the 1920s and 1930s. "You signed up for a year . . . but if you felt like jumping the next year, you jumped." 35 Negro League owners regularly imposed fines and suspensions for players who violated their contracts, but they just as regularly voided the punishment if the man wished to return. Nor did the owners themselves always honor the sanctity of the contract.

Black teams rarely owned their own arenas, placing them at the mercy of the major and minor league organizations from whom they rented fields. Negro League rentals represented an important component of organized baseball's income. For some teams, like the New York Yankees, revenues amounted to over $100,000 a year. 36 Nonetheless, the landlords often treated the black clubs cavalierly. They forbade black players from using locker

rooms and showers and cancelled scheduled games in favor of prize fights and other more lucrative events.

In addition, major league clubs guaranteed certain booking agents monopoly control over scheduling. The true power in the Negro Leagues rested with these agents. Owners who challenged their authority found themselves banished from their most profitable game locations. While Negro League proprietors included both white and black entrepreneurs, the book- ing agents who monopolized the leagues, like Abe Saperstein and Eddie Gottlieb, were almost always white. For their compulsory services they demanded 40 percent of the gross receipts. 37 Arrangements such as these led Branch Rickey to brand the Negro Leagues as "rackets."

The action on the field reflected this administrative chaos. Umpires pos- sessed minimal authority over the players. Physical attacks on arbiters oc- curred frequently. Games, at times, adopted a haphazard countenance. In 1945, for example, a contest between the Kansas City Monarchs and the Baltimore Elite Giants was suspended because the official scorer had de- parted and no one remained to resolve a dispute over the scoring totals. In 1943 league officials invalidated the results of a World Series game when the Homestead Grays imported three stars from the Newark Eagles to help them win. 39

Underfinanced and overextended, few, if any, Negro League franchises registered profits before World War II. "We never missed a payday," recalls Effa Manley, who owned the Newark Eagles with her husband Abe. "But we were losing much money and had to go to the bank many times." 39 Under these conditions club owners required finances from other sources. With most legitimate opportunities to wealth blocked for blacks, white sports promoters and black gambling kings frequently emerged as owners.

The mercurial career of Gus Greenlee typified ownership in the Negro Leagues. 4° Greenlee reigned as the black numbers king of Pittsburgh's North Side. His operations emanated from the Crawford Grille, a popular night spot for blacks. In 1931 he acquired a local semi-pro team, named it the Crawfords, and determined to assemble the greatest team in black base- ball. He spent $100,000 to build a stadium, a rarity in the Negro Leagues, and proceeded to lure the greatest stars to Pittsburgh. In 1931 he purchased Satchel Paige's contract for $250. The following year he raided the roster of the crosstown Homestead Grays, recruiting, among others, first baseman Oscar Charleston, third baseman Judy Johnson, and catcher Josh Gibson. In 1934 he added James "Cool Papa" Bell, the fleet center fielder from the St. Louis Stars, giving the team five future Hall of Famers. He backed this core with a strong supporting cast and the Crawfords became not simply

24 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON 25

the best black baseball team in history, but possibly the most outstanding club ever assembled.

Greenlee's Crawfords dominated black baseball during the depression years. Yet despite their great success and popularity, the Crawfords never consistently made profits. When police vice squads closed in on Greenlee's numbers racket, he could no longer pay top salaries to his athletes. The stars he had courted defected to other clubs. The crushing blow came in 1937 when Paige took eight Crawfords with him to play for dictator Rafael Trujillo in the Dominican Republic. The following year Greenlee Stadium was forfeited to a demolition crew and the Crawfords were disbanded.

The rise and fall of the Crawfords illustrate the myriad weaknesses of the Negro Leagues. Created out of the proceeds of Greenlee's gambling operations, the team perished when his shaky empire crumbled. Strength- ened by raiding the talents of other clubs, the Crawfords collapsed when its own players disregarded their contracts.

Had Greenlee sustained his dream for several more years he would have shared in the Negro Leagues' only period of prosperity. World War II proved a boon to baseball. "During the war when people couldn't get much gas, that's when our best crowds were," recalls Buck Leonard. "Everybody had money and everybody was looking around for entertainment," adds Satchel Paige. "Even the white folks was coming out big." 41 The growing awareness of the Negro Leagues was evident in the popularity of the East- West All-Star game. Created by Greenlee and his assistant, Roy Sparrow, in 1932, one year before the major leagues instituted their own exhibition, the East-West game became the primary showcase for black players and a popular extravaganza for the fans. Profits from the all-star game frequently represented the difference between solvency and bankruptcy for many clubs. In 1943 the game drew over 51,000 fans and at the war's end, the Negro Leagues reached their peak—a two-million dollar empire, one of the largest black-dominated businesses in the United States. Their moment at the summit, however, was to prove short-lived. 42

Iv

"Baseball has given employment to known epileptics, kleptomaniacs, and a generous scattering of saints and sinners," wrote black sportswriter Sam Lacy in 1945. "A man who is totally lacking in character has turned out to be a star in baseball. A man whose skin is white or red or yellow has been acceptable. But a man whose character may be of the highest and whose ability may be Ruthian has been barred completely from the sport because he is co1ored." 43

Lacy's sarcastic jabs underscored the inconsistency and irrationality with which the baseball establishment enforced its color barrier. The major and minor leagues forbade interracial competition, but it occurred regularly on the boundaries of the organized game. In preseason exhibitions, post-season barnstorming tours, and Latin American winter leagues, blacks and whites played together. Within the sacred confines of the major leagues, rumors abounded that light-skinned blacks had infiltrated the game.

"It is no secret that players of suspected Negro parentage have appeared in big league games," wrote sportswriter Joe Williams in 1945. "They were presented as Indians, Cubans, Mexicans, and you name it." Despite the generally accepted notion that some blacks had passed as white to enter organized baseball, no proven instances of this phenomenon exist. The most celebrated case occurred in 1901 when Baltimore Oriole Manager John McGraw attempted to disguise second baseman Charlie Grant as an Ameri- can Indian. McGraw renamed Grant Chief Tokohama, but the charade fooled neither the black fans who flocked to see Grant play, nor Charles Comiskey, who exposed the scheme. Grant never appeared in a regular season game."

According to historian David Voigt, harassment drove dark-skinned George Treadway of the Brooklyn Dodgers out of baseball at the turn of the century. Fans taunted American Indian pitcher "Chief" Meyers with cries of "Nigger!" believing him a black man. Rumors continually circu- lated that Babe Ruth, considered by many to possess negroid features, was part black. Bing Miller, an outfield contemporary of Ruth, also aroused suspicions. When he played for the St. Louis Browns his manager always referred to him as "Booker T." Miller, due to his dark skin.°

Cubans and other Latin athletes always created speculation. By the early twentieth century Latin ballplayers regularly appeared in the national pastime. Yet only those considered to have "pure Caucasian blood in their veins" could play. The color line barred their darker-skinned countrymen. In 1911 when two Cubans entered the Connecticut League, the team man- ager journeyed to Havana to certify that they were "genuine Caucasians." When the Cincinnati Reds later promoted them, further guarantees were advanced from Cuba. 46

Clark Griffith, then manager of the Reds and later the owner of the Washington Senators, ranked as the leading importer of Latin talent. Ru- mors abounded that, as Red Smith so aptly put it, "there was a Senegam- bian somewhere in the Cuban batpile where Senatorial lumber was sea- soned." Washington officials always claimed otherwise. Of catcher Mike Gonzalez it was written, "His people were of pure Spanish blood, not of mongrel Indian or Negro Mixture." Nonetheless, Latin players suffered

26 EARLY INNINGS TWILIGHT ERE THE NOON

27

greatly, not only from the disdain of their teammates and the beanballs of opposing pitchers, but from the insensitive stereotyping and ridicule of the press. 47

By far the most common contact between athletes of different races occurred in the annual pre- and post-season exhibition games that pitted black and white teams against each other. In the early years of the twen- tieth century, black clubs played against the regular rosters of major league squads, particularly when teams toured Cuba for spring training. At times these outfits were major league in name only, lacking several top stars or including non-roster players. In other instances the entire team participated. In either event, Cuban and black stars fared well. From 1907 to 1911, ac- cording to John Holway, the record of major league teams in Cuba was an even .500, splitting sixty-four games and tying one. Performances such as these led American League President Ban Johnson to denounce these con- tests. "We want no makeshift club calling themselves the Athletics to go to Cuba to be beaten by colored teams," he proclaimed in 1913. 48

Nonetheless, games between major league teams and blacks continued until the late 1920s when Baseball Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis forbade clubs from appearing as a unit in the off-season. Hereafter major league all-star squads could barnstorm during the post-season months, though Landis limited the number of players allowed from any individual team. Black players believed that Landis invoked this rule to end the embarrassing defeats they handed championship clubs.

During the first half of the twentieth century barnstorming constituted an integral feature of America's cultural landscape. In an age in which the sixteen major league teams concentrated in eleven northeastern and mid- western cities and when television did not exist to bring the national pastime into the living rooms of America, the vast majority of baseball fans never saw a major league contest. Each fall squads of major leaguers brought baseball to American communities, entertaining the faithful, while supple- menting their own incomes. Though billed as all-star teams, they often included only one or two name stars and a variety of lesser lights and minor leaguers. No one complained. When a major league barnstorming team appeared, towns took on a festive air. Businesses closed, schools might be given a half-holiday, and parades welcomed the Olympian visitors.

Contests between the traveling all-stars and teams of Negro Leaguers ranked among the most popular attractions on the barnstorming tour, par- ticularly when Satchel Paige pitched for the black squad. Paige first sur- faced on the national scene in the late 1920s. Within a short time, he became a legend. The sources of Paige's remarkable popularity are manifold. A crowd-pleaser, Paige seemed to thrive on the excitement of large throngs

and to rise dramatically to challenges. His tall, lanky frame, his unusual nickname, and his seemingly lackadaisical manner readily fitted the popular stereotype of blacks held by whites of the depression era. Former teammate Newt Allen draws the connection directly. "Remembering the comedian Stepin Fetchit," says Allen, "[ Satchel] talks and sounds just like him." By the mid-1930s the legends surrounding Paige, whom few had seen, had reached mythic proportions. The names of his pitches ( the "bee ball," which, according to Satch, buzzed when he threw it, the "jump ball," and the "trouble ball"), his stunt of calling in his outfielders, and his minstrel show one-liners ("Do you throw that fast consistently?" "No sir. I do it all the time.") all added to the aura surrounding Paige."

Paige's true appeal, however, rested not on myth but on reality. By any standards, he ranks as one of the greatest pitchers in history. Surviving throughout most of his career without a curve ball or effective change of pace ( his famous "hesitation pitch" was not developed until the 1940s) Paige relied upon a blazing fastball, impeccable control, and a remarkably resilient arm to defy and usually master any and all opposition. By the mid- 1930s Satchel Paige matched against one of the top major league hurlers was the most popular attraction in post-season play. In 1934 and 1935 he toured with Dizzy Dean, generally acknowledged as the best white pitcher of that era. Paige won four of six contests and Dean, never known for his humility or modesty, admitted, "My fastball looks like a change of pace alongside that pistol bullet old Satch shoots up to the plate. . . . That skinny old Satchel Paige with those long arms is my idea of the pitcher with the greatest stuff I ever saw." 8° Ten years later, long after Dean had taken his countrified observations to the announcer's booth, Paige joined Cleve- land flame-thrower Bob Feller in one of the most elaborate, well-publicized, and lucrative barnstorming tours in history.

The well-publicized exploits of Paige versus the major league stars, per- haps more than anything else, awakened fans, sportswriters, and baseball officials to the potential of black ballplayers. Few could deny that Paige had major league abilities. The barnstorming tours also gave other Negro League stars the opportunity to showcase their talents, and most took full advantage. "That's when we played the hardest, to let them know, and to let the public know that we had the same talent they did and probably a little better lots of times," asserts Judy Johnson. The determination of the black players and their application of "tricky baseball" often confounded the major league squads. Records compiled by John Holway reveal that in 167 games be- tween blacks and "all-star" barnstorming teams during the 1930s, whites won less than a third of the decisions. 81

For the Negro League stars, the barnstorming tours confirmed what they

28

EARLY INNINGS

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already suspected. "We always played the major leaguers and we knew that there wasn't any difference because we used to always beat 'em after the season was over," recalls Gene Benson. Jake Stephens, a black shortstop of an earlier era, goes even further, "You knew you were better than the major leaguers. You just knew it." 52

Yet the black athletes harbored no illusions about the significance of these contests. They recognized that organized baseball remained closed to them. For most players, the possibility of integration seemed so distant, it was not even discussed. "It was like saying, 'How would you like to be a millionaire?'" explains sportswriter Sam Lacy. "They just didn't expect it. You don't talk about being a millionaire." Although many players dreamed of playing in the major leagues, they accepted the inevitability of segrega- tion. Buck Leonard recalls his reaction when approached by integration advocates from the Communist Daily Worker. "We're going to leave that to you all to discuss," Leonard remembers saying. "We're out here to play ball. We're not out here to demonstrate or anything like that." If a tryout could be arranged, asserts Leonard, the athletes would gladly cooperate. But he says, "We didn't think there was anything we could do." 53

Nonetheless, most Negro League stars were not embittered by their ex- periences. Almost to a man, the veterans of Jim Crow baseball reject the overtones of tragedy and deprivation inherent in this saga. "I've had a wonderful life," pitching great Bill Foster told Holway. "I don't regret any- thing at all that I can remember. . . . It just wasn't time then for Negroes in the major leagues." "We didn't have to worry about prejudice and all that stuff because we just loved the game," says Benson. "We had such a lovely game, all we wanted to do was play." 54

Most of the athletes naturally would have welcomed the chance to play major league ball and collect major league salaries, but they rarely dwell on this issue. Instead they emphasize the joys and advantages that their careers provided. "I'm not bitter," says Ted Page. "I think I'm very lucky to be able to say that I played with all the great ballplayers, with and against them. This is something that is unusual." If the color line limited the fame and fortune of these men, they nonetheless earned far more than they would have in other walks of life; in an age of limited mobility, their travels made them truly unique. "A Negro ball player, playing Negro ball in the United States might not have lived like a king, but he didn't live bad either," writes Roy Campanella. "We had players . . . who came from slum neigh- borhoods. . . . Playing ball was a way to beat that, to move on to some- thing better." Campanella's fellow catcher, Quincy Trouppe, claims, "Base- ball opened doors for me which would have been barred. . . . It revealed new vistas that were more educational than a doctor's degree . . . because

of this great national game, I have lived a life comparable to the wealthiest man in the United States." 55

Within the empire of Jim Crow, black ballplayers carved out their own game, a distinctive entity in which baseball attained some of its greatest moments, only to see them ignored and forgotten. But the ability of people to survive and sustain a flourishing culture in the face of discrimination does not erase the stain. For a half century baseball reflected the racism of American society. The ultimate dissolution of segregation rested not with the athletes, but with the powers of organized baseball and the ability of the advocates of reform to compel them to alter their exclusionist ways.

THE CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE

31

3

The Conspiracy of Silence

The observer finds that in the North there is actually much unawareness on the part of white people to the extent of social discrimination against Negroes. . . . White northerners are surprised and shocked when they hear about such things. . . . One of the main difficulties for the Negroes in the North is simply lack of publicity. It is convenient for the Northerners' good conscience to forget about the Negro.

Gunnar Myrdal, An American Dilemma

"There is no rule, formal or informal, or any understanding—unwritten, sub- terranean, or sub-anything—against the hiring of Negro players by the teams of organized ball," declared Baseball Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Lan- dis in 1942.' The statement typified the hypocrisy of the baseball establish- ment. The men who controlled the national pastime in the twentieth century had inherited a system of rigid racial exclusion. Although theirs was a sport played primarily in cities removed from the dictates of Jim Crow, baseball officials religiously policed the color line. Yet as Gunnar Myrdal pointed out, the obvious discrepancy between the ideals of the "American Creed" and the actual status of blacks lay at the heart of the nation's racial dilemma. Baseball executives, even those who privately favored segregation, recog- nized this conflict in their domain. If baseball was truly the national pastime, it could not exclude a tenth of the population from participation; if baseball embodied the essence of American competition and opportunity, it could not block entry to those who possessed the requisite skills to succeed. Spokesmen dared not portray segregation as correct or proper, nor admit the existence of a color barrier.

Americans accepted the denials of Landis and his colleagues due to

what Myrdal called "the convenience of ignorance." To most whites, the "Negro problem" in baseball, as in the broader society, did not exist. But to a growing number of Americans, both black and white, segregation in the national pastime symbolized the inherent injustices of a Jim Crow society. Their efforts to expose the contradictions between baseball rhetoric and reality laid the foundations for the postwar onslaught against the color barrier.

The task of defending the baseball establishment against its critics often fell to Commissioner Landis. In 1921 baseball officials had selected Landis, a federal court judge, to restore the game's tarnished image in the aftermath of the 1919 Black Sox Scandal. The owners granted Landis absolute power to "safeguard the interests of the national game of baseball." In the eyes of the general public, Landis ruled wisely, courageously, and fairly throughout his twenty-three-year reign. Few Americans of the era matched his esteem and popularity. Yet Landis did not warrant this reputation. He brought to baseball a disdain for law and due process characteristic of his judicial career. A "grandstand judge" who won fame in controversial cases like the Standard 0i/ Anti - Trust Case of 1907 and the wartime trials of Industrial Workers of the World leaders, Landis often acted arbitrarily, and higher courts overruled his decisions with "startling frequency" according to one analyst. As baseball commissioner, he imposed life suspension on players accused of gambling, even after the courts had acquitted them. In other instances he ignored similar offenses. 2

While denying the existence of a color line in baseball, Landis carefully guarded his personal opinions on the race issue. Most contemporaries agreed, however, that he adamantly opposed desegregation. "Judge Landis had convenient hiding places for his ideals," wrote former umpire George Moriarty in a 1947 letter. "If the populace was not looking, he had little compunction about defending the underdog, but if the spotlight were turned on in full focus, he would defend anyone to the last camera." During the mid-1930s, according to then National League President Ford Frick, Landis short-circuited a suggestion by several owners to debate the issue in closed session, ruling that the topic had not properly been placed on the agenda. In 1942 when Brooklyn Dodger Manager Leo Durocher stated that he would sign black players if allowed to, Landis publicly proclaimed, "Negroes are not barred from organized baseball . . . and never have been in the 21 years I have served." The following year, after black leaders ad- dressed a major league meeting, Landis quickly stifled any discussion of their proposals. "The gentlemen asked for an opportunity to address the joint meeting. They were given the opportunity," he told a dissident owner. "What's next on the agenda?"3

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Landis, however, did not single-handedly perpetuate baseball segrega- tion. No owner raised a significant challenge to his edicts on the issue and the ban on blacks reflected the prevailing attitudes of the baseball hierarchy. Unable to acknowledge discrimination, owners developed a series of ra- tionalizations defending the necessity of separate competition. Wherever possible, they attempted to shift responsibility to other parties or to blame circumstances beyond their control.

Some baseball "experts" argued that the absence of blacks in the majors stemmed from their lack of talent, intelligence, and desire. "There is not a single Negro player with major league possibilities," alleged a Sporting News editorial on the eve of integration. And Cleveland Indians owner Alva Bradley later asserted, "In 1945 there was only one Negro player mentioned as being of major league caliber. That was Satchel Paige." 4 Owners frequently complained about the absence of minor league seasoning among black athletes, but they never gave them the opportunity to start at the lower levels and prove their abilities.

More significantly, ample evidence exists that other baseball executives did not share Bradley's delusion. In 1938 Clark Griffith, owner of the Wash- ington Senators, quite frankly stated, "There are few big league magnates who are not aware of the fact that the time is not far off when colored players will take their places beside those of the other races in the major leagues." In that same year National League League President Ford Frick spoke of the "inevitability" of integrated baseball, as did Phil Wrigley of the Chicago Cubs. On numerous occasions owners approached black stars and informed them of their value to a big league franchise, "If only you were white." After watching Webster MacDonald outpitch Dizzy Dean in 1935, Connie Mack advised him, "I'm sorry to say this, but I'd give half my ball club for a man like you." Mrs. Grace Comiskey, who owned the White Sox, would watch "Sug" Cornelius pitch for the Chicago American Giants and lament, "Oh, if you were a white boy, what you'd be worth to my club." The list of these testimonials is endless. 5

Doubts about the talents of blacks were chimerical, but concern over the feasibility of interracial competition had a more substantial basis. Ap- proximately one third of all players in organized baseball came from the South and might object to the presence of blacks. Sportswriter Fred Lieb claimed that 1920s stars "Gabby" Street, Rogers Hornsby, and Tris Speaker all told him that they were members of the Ku Klux Klan. Ty Cobb held blacks in contempt and on one occasion physically attacked a black chamber- maid. In 1938 New York Yankee outfielder Jake Powell embarrassed the guardians of the national pastime when he told a radio interviewer that during the off-season he was a "cop" who derived "pleasure beating up nig-

gers and then throwing them in jail." Several stars like Hornsby and Al Sim- mons refused to join barnstorming teams that played blacks. 6

Most major leaguers did not share these sentiments. A poll taken by Wendell Smith in the late 1930s found that four fifths of the National League players and managers had no objections to integration. Southerners, as well as northerners, regularly participated in interracial post-season com- petition. Even Jake Powell, when not doing police work, could be found on the barnstorming trail. Some, like Dizzy Dean, lavished praise on their opponents. "It's too bad those colored boys don't play in the big league," drawled Dean, "because they sure got some great players." 7

Athletes who dissented from this consensus could pose no real threat to the owners. In the realm of baseball, management totally dominated labor. The reserve clause bound players to their teams from the moment they signed until the day they were released or traded. For most, baseball pro- vided a higher income and more glamorous life-style than they could have achieved elsewhere. Few players would have sacrificed their careers to block integration. Those who did, regardless of their stature, could have been re- placed easily. The introduction of blacks would have raised no significant challenge to this state of affairs.

Another frequently voiced objection involved spring training and minor leagues in the South, where integrated competition would violate local laws and customs. However, baseball had considerable economic muscle in dealing with recalcitrant training locales. The annual spring hiatus in Florida pro- vided an important source of revenue for these communities. Many towns and cities competed to host the preseason camps. Threats of abandonment and agreements to control the conduct of black team members could, and later did, drive a wedge in southern resistance. With regard to the minor leagues, baseball's empire stretched far enough to allow for blacks to be assigned outside of the South during their climb to the major leagues.

Apprehension about the impact of desegregation at the box office con- stituted perhaps the owners greatest and most understandable fear. Many owners, if not most, favored keeping the game on a segregated footing. But baseball owners were businessmen. If the expectation of profit outweighed the fear of financial loss, some owners might gladly have overcome their prejudices. Until World War II, however, integration held few apparent economic benefits. Three quarters of the nation's black population lived in the South; major league franchises existed only in the North. "Black patron- age was negligible," asserts Sam Lacy, "so they didn't feel that it was worth- while to appease those black customers and run the risk of the white cus- tomers who were in the majority of the population." 8

"Almost everybody is afraid of the unknown," explains Bill Veeck, who

34 EARLY INNINGS THE CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE 35

was one of the first owners to employ blacks. "There were a lot of people who the operators thought would not come and they were more than those who would come. So they felt this would weaken their financial returns." Former Baseball Commissioner and National League President Ford Frick agreed. "What baseball operators had done, throughout the years," he wrote in his autobiography, "was bow abjectly to what they thought was over- whelming public opinion. They were afraid to make a move. They were afraid of upsetting the status quo, afraid of alienating the white clientele that largely supported the professional game." 9

Frick's emphasis on adverse public opinion misinterprets the prevailing attitudes of the era, White indifference, rather than fan hostility, posed the principle obstacle to integration. Northern whites knew that the major leagues were segregated, but the issue seldom intruded upon their thoughts. They were aware of the existence of Negro leagues, but in the absence of press coverage, they possessed only a vague conception of the quality of play. Given these conditions, the forces of inertia overwhelmed those of change. Before World War II no great demand for an end to baseball segregation arose; few critics challenged the rationalizations of the major league owners. Minimal inducements existed for baseball administrators to break with tradition or embark on an economic gamble. Integration awaited an increased public awareness of the inequities of baseball's racial policy.

II

In 1938 New York Yankee outfielder Jake Powell's intemperate radio re- marks about "beating niggers over the head" unexpectedly elevated the issue of blacks and baseball into the sports headlines. The Yankees sus- pended Powell and the chastened player toured Harlem bars apologizing for his comments, but some columnists used the incident to question base- ball's racial practices. Westbrook Pegler accused the national pastime of dealing with "Negroes as Adolf Hitler treats the Jews." A New York Post writer accused Commissioner Landis of "smug hypocrisy" in his handling of the matter. For the most part, however, the white press downplayed the controversy, dismissing Powell's comments as being in a "jocular vein," (sportswriter Shirley Povich quipped that if Powell was as ineffective with his police clubs as with a bat, Negroes had little to worry about) giving lip service to the story, or ignoring it altogether.°

The treatment of the Powell story typified coverage of blacks and baseball in the white press. On occasion some writers might raise the issue, but for the most part it remained alien to the sports pages. In 1931 Pegler and New York Daily News reporter Jimmy Powers both urged an end to segregation.

During the next decade both occasionally returned to the subject. "I have seen personally at least ten colored ball players I know who are big leagu- ers," wrote Powers in 1939. "I am positive that if Josh Gibson were white, he would be a major league star." Two years later Washington Post colum- nist Shirley Povich advised his readers, "There's a couple of million dollars worth of baseball talent on the loose ready for the big leagues, yet unsigned by any major leagues. Only one thing is keeping them out of the big leagues—the color of their skin.'" 11

During the mid-1930s the spectacular successes of blacks in other sports provided ammunition for baseball's critics. The emergence of Joe Louis as the world heavyweight boxing champion and a national hero led many Americans to re-evaluate their prejudices. The dramatic triumphs of Jesse Owens at the 1936 Berlin Olympics and his alleged snubbing by Adolph Hitler also injected the race issue into the sports pages. If Americans could cheer the efforts of Joe Louis and Jesse Owens, why should they object to blacks in baseball?

But the arousal of public awareness required more than the achieve- ments of Louis and Owens and the sporadic urgings of Powers, Pegler, and other white sportswriters. A more persistent approach was necessary. Two groups that emerged in the late 1930s provided this impetus: a small coterie of young black sportswriters and the Communist Party, one of the few groups concerned with civil rights issues during the depression years. Al- though narrow access to the public limited both sets of advocates, they suc- ceeded to a remarkable degree in informing the American people of the existence and injustice of Jim Crow athletics.

Wendell Smith of the Pittsburgh Courier, the nation's leading black weekly, represented the most talented and influential of the black sports- writers." An athlete of considerable talent in his youth, Smith found his path to professional sports blocked by the color barrier. In 1933 he pitched his American Legion team to a 1-0 victory in a play-off game. A scout from the Detroit Tigers signed Smith's catcher Mike Tresh, who later played and coached in the majors, as well as the losing pitcher. For Smith, the scout had only wistful words, "I wish I could sign you too kid. But I can't." In later years Smith cited this experience as inspiration for his decision to become a sportswriter and crusade to integrate baseball. He attended West Virginia State College on an athletic scholarship and jointed the Pittsburgh Courier in 1937. One year later he became the sports editor. Smith ranked among the nation's best sportswriters. He could be bitterly sarcastic and vitriolic in his rage against Jim Crow, yet lyrical in his descriptive prose. Although his columns tended to run overlong and belabor a point, they nonetheless offered both entertainment and insight.

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Two other young black sportswriters who played critical roles in the integration campaign, also appeared at this time. Sam Lacy, a persistent and perceptive critic of the baseball establishment, joined the Washington Tribune in 1938 and after brief stints with that paper and the Chicago De- fender, became the sports editor of the Baltimore Afro-America in 1944. In New York, Joe Bostic, the aggressive sports columnist for the People's Voice, spearheaded the integration campaign.

The efforts of these and other black writers to integrate sports possessed an element of irony. They too were victims of Jim Crow, who held analo- gous positions to the athletes they covered. Segregation hid their consider- able skills from the larger white audience and severely restricted their income earning potential. Yet they rarely mentioned their own plight. In- deed, the barriers for black journalists lasted long after those for athletes disappeared.

At a time when few whites thought of racial issues, these writers injected the integration controversy not only into the black press, but into the broader public arena. Smith interviewed National League players and man- agers about their attitudes regarding the entry of blacks into the majors. Lacy attended meetings of baseball executives, demanding—and often ob- taining—the opportunity for blacks to plead their case. Bostic, a resident of Brooklyn and a writer for a Harlem-based weekly, represented a persistent thorn in the side of the three New York teams by leading delegations to their offices and challenging them in his columns. At Christmas in 1943 Bostic wrote a seasonal letter entitled "No Room at the Yankee Inn," crit- icizing the club for its failure to employ blacks. The column garnered Bostic a writing award and banishment from the Yankee press box. 13

The second group that played a major role in elevating the issue of base- ball's racial policies to the level of public consciousness was the American Communist party. The depression years had rejuvenated the radical move- ment in the United States. While never the threat to the American economic system that they hoped to be, or that their tormentors alleged them to be, the Communists nonetheless played a major role in the formation of the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO.) and, indirectly, the passage of critical New Deal social legislation. Unlike other political groups of the era, the Communists stressed the necessity of organizing blacks as well as whites. In cases like that of the Scottsboro Boys they provided legal assis- tance for blacks caught in the web of southern justice. That these activities also publicized the party and accrued to its benefit does not negate the genuine concern that American Communists felt for the black populace.

The Communists naturally seized upon the issue of segregation in base- ball. As one of the most readily apparent evidences of racial discrimination,

the baseball situation not only offered an opportunity to campaign against injustice, but a highly visible public forum as well. The Daily Worker, led by its sports editor, Lester Rodney, unrelentingly attacked the baseball establishment. Negro League games were headlined as CHANCE TO SEE GREAT JIM CROW COLORED STARS. Editorials assaulted "Every rotten Jim Crow ex- cuse and alibi offered by the magnates for this flagrant discrimination," and challenged Commissioner Landis with clippings of black victories over major league stars. "Can you read, Judge Landis?" asked one article. "Why does your silence keep . . . Negro stars from taking their rightful place in our national pastime at a time when we are at war and Negro and whites are fighting and dying together to end Hitlerism?""

The Communists did not confine their campaign to newspaper rhetoric but challenged the baseball executives with political action and direct con- frontations as well. Delegations to major league teams demanded tryouts for black players. Petition drives collected signatures to protest discrimination. Elected officials from the Communist and American Labor parties continu- ally pressed the issue. On the opening day of the 1945 season, Communists picketed Yankee Stadium. One of the banners read, "If We Can Stop Bul- lets, Why Not Balls?" 5

The participation of the Communist party in the integration campaign often allowed baseball officials to downplay the protests. Larry MacPhail, the Yankee's president, and the Sporting News both charged that "agitators" motivated by selfish interest produced the clamor for integration. Wendell Smith later wrote that "the Communists did more to delay the entrance of Negroes in big league baseball than any other single factor."° Nonetheless, the success of the Communists in forcing the issue before the American public far outweighed the negative ramifications of their sponsorship. The crusade waged by the Communists, the black press, and a small coterie of white sportswriters helped to alleviate the apathy that nourished baseball segregation.

III

The efforts of integration advocates notwithstanding, World War II, more than any other event, caused Americans to re-evaluate their racial attitudes. Many historians view the war as a watershed in the struggle for civil rights. The conflict against Nazi racism exposed the contradictions of racial prac- tice in the United States. "How can we be trained to protect America, which is called a free nation," asked one black soldier, "when all around us rears the ugly head of segregation?" Blacks subjected to southern mores and na- tionwide Jim Crow army regulations protested at military bases throughout

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the United States. Civilian groups also actively campaigned for integration. In 1942 black labor leader A. Phillip Randolph threatened a march on Washington to protest federal job discrimination. The Pittsburgh Courier launched a "Double-V" campaign—victory at home, as well as abroad. As former army lieutenant Jackie Robinson wrote of his wartime experiences, "I had learned that I was in two wars, one against a foreign enemy, the other against prejudice at home." 7

The war also triggered dramatic population shifts. The demand for labor in defense plants lured millions of blacks from the rural South to the na- tion's industrial belt. Black population in northern states increased by 50 percent during the 1940s. For the first time in the country's history blacks constituted a substantial proportion of northern urban residents. Suddenly, blacks made up a more potent voting bloc and an appealing consumer mar- ket. Integration advocates now flourished the carrot of economic benefits and wielded the stick of political retribution.

The impact of both the world conflict and the nation's heightened racial awareness also affected baseball. In January 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt quickly eliminated fears that the national pastime might be asked to suspend wartime operations. In his famous "green light" letter, Roosevelt proclaimed, "I honestly think it would be best for the country to keep base- ball going." 8 But the draft quickly depleted major league rosters. Teams filled their squads with an unlikely collection of 4—F holdovers, retirement age veterans, and athletes of minor league abilities. Pete Gray, the one- armed outfielder of the 1944 St. Louis Browns, became a dramatic symbol of the wartime manpower shortage.

Organized baseball totally ignored the two-armed, able-bodied Negro League athletes. In light of both the international embarrassment caused by segregation and the need for ballplayers, pressures mounted for baseball to drop its color barrier. C.I.O. unions sent a delegation to Commissioner Landis in 1942 to urge baseball to accept blacks. In New York activists organized a Citizens' Committee to End Jim Crow in Baseball and the state legislature passed the Quinn-Ives Act which banned discrimination in hir- ing and established a five-man commission to investigate violations. 19 Many people pointed out that baseball was among the most blatant offenders of the new law. In St. Louis the Cardinals and the Browns reacted to these pressures by eliminating segregated sections at Sportsman's Park, the last outpost of Jim Crow seating in the majors.

In response to such developments the Sporting News devoted its entire editorial column for August 6, 1942, to a discourse entitled, "No Goon FROM RAISING RACE ISSUE." The journal argued that few people, either black or white, favored the mixing of the races on the diamond. Members of each

race claimed the Sporting News, "prefer to draw their talents from their own ranks and both groups know their crowd psychology and do not care to run the risk of damaging their own game." Citing several erroneous ex- amples of blacks who allegedly favored segregation, the editorial stated that only "agitators, ever ready to seize an issue that will redound to their profit and self-aggrandizement," who were "not looking at the question from the broader point of view or for the ultimate good of either race or the individuals in it" raised the issue. These people ignored the "tragic possi- bilities" that might emanate in the heat of an interracial contest and the ultimate destruction of the Negro Leagues that would result. "Without a medium for developing [black] talent," predicted the newspaper, "there would be no players who could make the grade, even if given the opportu- nity." Since their own people were thus "protected," the "agitators" should stop "mak[ing] an issue of a question on which both sides would prefer to be left alone." 20

The Sporting News protests notwithstanding, the color barrier seemed in danger of collapsing. In 1942 Negro League pitcher Nate Moreland and all-American football star Jackie Robinson requested a tryout at the Chi- cago White Sox Pasadena training camp. White Sox Manager Jimmy Dykes allowed the pair to work out. Although hobbled by a charley horse, Robin- son impressed Dykes. "I'd hate to see him on two good legs," exclaimed the White Sox pilot. "He's worth $50,000 of anybody's money. He stole every- thing but my infielders' gloves." Dykes stated that he was willing to accept black players, but he nonetheless dismissed the two athletes. "I can play in Mexico, but I have to fight for America where I can't play," commented Moreland bitterly."

The following year the Pittsburgh Pirates appeared ready to recruit black ballplayers. For many years the Pirates had seemed the most likely team to field blacks. During the 1930s Pittsburgh was the capital of black baseball. The talented rosters of the Crawfords and the Homestead Grays naturally tempted the Pirates. In addition the local Courier repeatedly pres- sured Pirate owner William Benswanger to hire black players. In later years Benswanger claimed that he attempted to sign Homestead sluggers Josh Gibson and Buck Leonard but the Grays' owner Cum Posey refused to co- operate. "I tried more than once to buy Josh Gibson," asserted Benswanger in 1950, but Posey always replied, "Lay off, will you. If I did it would start a movement that would eventually break up the Negro Leagues." 22

Speaking when integration was a reality, Benswanger probably exag- gerated his ardor for experimentation. Wendell Smith charged him with unmitigated story-tell[ing]." Nonetheless, in 1940 Benswanger spoke favor-

ably about ending the color line. "If it came to an issue, I'd vote for Negro

40 EARLY INNINGS THE CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE 41

players," he allowed. "There's no reason why they should be denied the same chance that Negro fighters and musicians are given." Two years later Benswanger stated, "I know there are many problems connected with the question, but after all, somebody has to make the first move." 25

In July 1943, Benswanger succumbed to pressure from Daily Worker sports editor Nat Low and agreed to Forbes Field tryouts for catcher Roy Campanella of the Baltimore Elite Giants and pitcher Dave Barnhill of the New York Cubans. In his autobiography Campanella recalled the invitation proffered by Benswanger. "It contained so many buts that I was discour- aged even before I had finished reading the letter," wrote Campanella, who quoted the following passages, "You must understand that you would have to start at the very bottom. . . . It might take many years to reach the major leagues. . . . The pay would be small. . . . There is no guarantee that you would ever make it." The young catcher advised Benswanger that he would gladly work his way up through the minors for a chance to play for the Pirates. A tryout was scheduled for August 4, but it never came to pass. Low received a letter from Benswanger cancelling the audition due to unnamed pressures 24

In Washington, D.C. that same season, Senators owner Clark Griffith invited Leonard and Gibson to his office and asked them if they wanted to play in the major leagues. They answered affirmatively and expressed con- fidence that they could play at that level. Griffith warned Leonard and Gib- son that, "If we get you boys, we're going to get the best ones. It's going to break up your league." Leonard replied, "Well, if that's gonna be better for the players, then it's all right by me." 25 Griffith did not pursue the matter and Leonard and Gibson remained with the Grays.

Across the continent, developments in the Pacific Coast League hinted at breakthroughs at the minor league level. Clarence Rowland, the presi- dent of the Los Angeles Angels announced that tryouts would be held for three black players. Pressure from other league owners forced him to re- treat. Several weeks later, after a local columnist had criticized the Oakland Oaks for their failure to employ blacks, Oakland owner Vince Devincenzi, in what appears to have been a carefully orchestrated charade, ordered his manager to audition two black players. The manager, Johnny Vergez, re- fused. Despite this act of insubordination, the matter, and not the manager, was dropped. 25

That same year, Bill Veeck, Jr., who would be a gadfly to the baseball establishment for three and a half decades, presented a more potent chal- lenge to the ban on blacks. Veeck was the twenty-nine-year-old son of the former president of the Chicago Cubs. The father had been dignified, for- mal, and reserved; the son was exuberant, informal, and iconoclastic. In

1941 he purchased a debt-ridden, last-place minor league franchise in Mil- waukee and through wildly imaginative promotions and shrewd player deals transformed it into a profitable pennant-winning enterprise. In 1943 he advanced a more audacious scheme. Veeck sought to purchase the floun- dering Phillies from Gerry Nugent and stock the team with black players. 27 "The only untapped reservoir of players were some of the blacks who were either older or for one reason or another had not been drafted," explains Veeck. Fielding the cream of the Negro Leagues, Veeck wrote in his auto- biography, "I had not the slightest doubt that in 1944, a war year, the Phils would have leaped from seventh place to the pennant."

Veeck experienced no difficulty in attracting financial backers or reach- ing agreement with Nugent. He made just one fatal error. "Out of my long respect for Judge Landis, I felt he was entitled to prior notification of what I intended to do," wrote Veeck. He traveled to Chicago and unveiled his scheme to the commissioner. Landis listened politely, revealing no reaction.

Veeck returned to Philadelphia, confident that he had purchased the Phillies. When he arrived in the City of Brotherly Love the next morning, he discovered that Nugent had turned the club over to the National League. Shortly thereafter, league President Ford Frick sold the team to William Cox, a wealthy lumber dealer, for half the price that Veeck had offered. Did Landis block the sale of the Phillies to Veeck? "I have no proof of that," says Veeck today. "I can only surmise." 29 Several weeks later Veeck heard that Frick had boasted about stopping the young maverick from "contaminating the league." In the end Frick and Landis proved the victims of the joke. One year later Landis banished the "uncontaminated" Cox from baseball for betting on his own team.

Landis had again protected the racial purity of the game, but even czars are only mortal. Shortly after the 1944 season, the craggy-faced jurist died of a heart attack. The death of Landis removed the symbol of baseball's integrity; it also eliminated one of the most implacable and influential op- ponents of integration.

To Sam Lacy the departure of Landis presented an opportunity to gain a more open hearing of the case for black players. In 1943 baseball owners had agreed to hear Lacy's plea, but his publisher at the Chicago Defender had sent controversial actor Paul Robeson to replace the reporter in hopes of generating more publicity. Robeson, a former all-American football player told the baseball magnates that racial attitudes in America had changed. "They said that America never would stand for my playing Othello with a white cast," he said referring to his current Broadway hit, but it is the triumph of my life." When Robeson left, Landis curtailed all discussion of the matter.29

42 EARLY INNINGS THE CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE 43

In March 1945, Lacy sent a letter to each major league owner suggesting the creation of a committee to study "the possibilities and [find] the best way of ironing out the many ramifications" of bringing blacks into the ma- jors. Lacy admitted that "this is a sort of compromise for me as a colored man in that it embraces the element of 'appeasement,'" but he felt "it will be a step in the right direction." Leslie O'Connor, who headed the panel re- placing Landis until a new commissioner could be chosen, invited Lacy to address a joint meeting of major league owners on April 24. Lacy presented his proposal and the executives agreed to his plan. A Major League Com- mittee on Baseball Integration was established, including Lacy, team presi- dents Branch Rickey of the Brooklyn Dodgers and Larry MacPhail of the New York Yankees, and Philadelphia magistrate Joseph H. Rainey. Despite repeated efforts by Rickey and Lacy to convene the group, the committee never met. "MacPhail always had some excuse," recalls Lacy. "Finally Branch Rickey said, Well, Sam, maybe we'll forget about Mr. MacPhail. Maybe we'll just give up on him and let nature take its course.' " 3 ° If Rickey was subtly revealing his future intentions to Lacy, the black reporter did not realize it.

While Lacy struggled to bring the Committee on Integration to life, a new baseball commissioner assumed office. At their April meetings the own- ers selected A. B. "Happy" Chandler, the United States senator and former governor of the segregated state of Kentucky to succeed Landis. Many re- acted with dismay. Joe Bostic wondered about the implications of install- ing "a government official from Dixie at this critical time." Bat Masterson, Jr., described Chandler as a man "whose racial bias is said to be something out of this world." Although Chandler had claimed to be a benefactor of Negroes while governor of Kentucky, Masterson wrote, "Investigation re- vealed that the extent of the then governor's benefaction was in having separate schools for Negroes built." 31

Opponents of integration sensed that they had another sympathizer in their midst. Sporting News editor Tom Spink forwarded a copy of Bostic's critical comments to the new commissioner along with a clipping of his own 1942 editorial which he told Chandler "took care of the situation." Mac- Phail, though publicly favoring integration, wrote to Chandler describing the race issue as "increasingly serious and acute." "The three New York clubs are in a critical position right now," he warned the new commissioner. "We can't stick our heads in the sand and ignore the problem. If we do, we will have colored players in the minor leagues in 1945 and in the major leagues shortly thereafter." 32

Not all observers felt that Chandler shared this ardor for segregation.

Ric Roberts, a sportswriter for the Pittsburgh Courier recalls, "We went right down to see him the morning the story broke. Chandler came out im- mediately shaking our hands and said, 'If a black boy can make it on Okinawa and Guadalcanal, hell, he can make it in baseball.'" Then, as if to indicate that this was not simply Landis-type rhetoric, Chandler told Roberts and his colleagues, "Once I tell you something, brother, I never change. You can count on me." In a more straightforward statement, the Kentuckian declared "I don't believe in barring Negroes from baseball just because they are Negroes." 33 It remained to be seen if Chandler, unlike Landis, would be true to his words.

Iv

When Happy Chandler assumed the commissioner's office, baseball's inte- gration crusade had just entered a new phase. Throughout the war civil rights advocates throughout the nation had become increasingly militant in pressing their demands. A threatened March on Washington in 1941 had forced President Roosevelt to establish a Fair Employment Practices Com- mission. On military bases, black servicemen refused work in menial Jim Crow jobs and protested segregation at post facilities. In April 1945, the age of confrontation arrived in baseball. In two independent incidents black sportswriters forced major league teams to give tryouts to Negro League stars, focusing added attention on baseball's racial dilemma.

In Boston, the Red Sox and the Braves found themselves in a precarious position as they prepared to start the new season. The city council, under the leadership of Isadore Muchnick, a white politician representing a pre- dominantly black district, was pressuring the two teams to employ blacks. Muchnick threatened to deny the team's annual permit for Sunday baseball. Red Sox General Manager Eddie Collins responded with protests of inno- cence. "I have been connected with the Red Sox for twelve years and dur- ing that time we have never had a single request for a tryout by a colored applicant," wrote Collins. "It is beyond my understanding how anyone can insinuate or believe that all ballplayers, regardless of race, color, or creed, have not been treated in the American way as far as having an equal op- portunity to play for the Red Sox." 34

Wendell Smith contacted Muchnick and promised to provide three major league prospects who would request tryouts with the two Boston clubs. Smith arrived in Boston with Jackie Robinson, who had recently reported for his first season with the Kansas City Monarchs; Sam Jethroe, a fleet out- fielder with the Cleveland Buckeyes and the leading hitter in the Negro

44 EARLY INNINGS

THE CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE

45

Leagues in 1944; and Philadelphia Stars second baseman Marvin Williams, a .338 hitter. All three athletes were in their mid-twenties and near the peak of their abilities.

On April 14 and 15 the trio of aspirants reported to Fenway Park, but tryouts were postponed both days. The following morning, Boston Daily Record sportswriter Dave Egan, a longtime advocate of baseball integra- tion, wrote a scathing column criticizing Collins. Egan reminded the Red Sox general manager that he was "living in anno domini 1945 and not the dust-covered year 1865," and "residing in the city of Boston, Massachusetts and not in the city of Mobile, Alabama." He outlined the qualifications of the three applicants and reminded Collins of his claim that blacks had never requested a chance with the Red Sox. "If [they] cannot make the grade with that classy aggregation of Red Sox we espied the other day," wrote Egan, "room might be found for [them] in the shabbiest and lowest league in organized baseball, in order that [they] might be given the op- portunity to work their way up the ladder." 35

Confronted with the unrelenting pressure of Muchnick and Egan, the Red Sox held the tryout on April 16. Neither the Red Sox players nor man- ager Joe Cronin were present. Coaches Hugh Duffy and Larry Woodall han- dled the audition. "It was kind of a dull day," recalls Jethroe. "There wasn't anything spectacular about it; no fans in the stands, just a few newspaper reporters and a coach or two." Clif Keane, a sportswriter for the Boston Globe, later recounted, "I can distinctly remember during the workout somebody yelling 'get those niggers off the field.' I can't recall who yelled it. People used to say it was Collins. But I don't really know." 36

The players, none of whom ever mentioned the epithet, went through the motions of the tryout. "We shagged some flies in the outfield. Then we hit," remembered Robinson. "Williams batted first and hit the ball hard. Then I batted and hit the ball harder. Jethroe batted and then the old fel- low who was running the workout said, 'You boys look like pretty good players. I hope you enjoyed the workout.' That was that." The coach told them that the Red Sox would contact them about their status. Ten days later, having received no word from the Red Sox, Smith wrote to Collins for further information. Collins answered that a broken leg suffered by Man- ager Joe Cronin shortly after the tryout "threw everything out of gear." He also expressed fears of tampering with players under contract with the Negro Leagues. 37 Neither Smith nor the players heard from the Red Sox again.

Twenty-four years later, Cronin, then the American League president, discussed the tryout with a reporter. "We told them our only farm club available was in Louisville, Kentucky and we didn't think they'd be inter- ested in going there," claimed the former Red Sox manager. "Besides, this

was after the season had started and we didn't sign players off tryouts those days to play in the big leagues." As manager, Cronin himself could not have offered them jobs, nor was he inclined to. "We just accepted things the way they were," he recalls. "We all thought that because of the times it was good to have separate leagues." 38

The results of the Red Sox tryout disappointed Smith and the others. They abandoned efforts to force a confrontation with the Braves and the black players returned to their teams. From a publicity standpoint, the Bos- ton episode also failed dismally. The preceding day, President Roosevelt had died and few people paid attention to the events in Boston.

Ten days earlier, a similar scene had transpired at Bear Mountain where the Dodgers held their wartime training camp. ( During the war, travel re- strictions prevented the traditional Florida preseason camp.) On April 6, Joe Bostic arrived unannounced at the Dodger base with two Negro League players, pitcher Terris McDuffie and first baseman Dave "Showboat" Thomas, demanding tryouts. 33 "I'd decided I'd gotten all the mileage out of conversation I can," Bostic explains his actions today. "I was knocking on first one door and then the other. The next thing was a concrete move and this would be it." Bostic had previously appeared at the Dodger offices to plead his case. "Always," he recalls, "there was this smooth out that you can't accuse baseball of their having a color line or prejudice, because no one had tried. Finally in '45 I took the bull by the horns."

Bostic experienced difficulty in gathering recruits for the expedition to Bear Mountain, "You'd be surprised at the number of players who were actually afraid to buck the establishment." Bostic canvassed ten or twelve players before settling on McDuffie and Thomas. "McDuffie had all the guts in the world. Nothing scared him," recalls Bostic. A standout pitcher in the Negro Leagues since 1931, McDuffie had pitched twenty-seven com- plete games in a row for the Newark Eagles in 1938 and posted a 27-5 record for the Homestead Grays in 1941. In 1944, however, he had regis- tered an unimpressive 5-6 mark. At thirty-four years of age, he seemed a doubtful candidate for the major leagues. Thomas, a veteran of over twenty seasons of Negro League ball, was five years older. "I had settled on Thomas," says Bostic, "because Thomas was the best fielding first baseman I knew in America at that time, bar none." Many others shared this verdict. "Thomas I knew would dazzle them and he had a good bat," recalls the black reporter.

Upon arrival with his charges, Bostic received an icy reception. "Rickey went berserk almost, with fury," according to Bostic. "We went into the dining room at the Bear Mountain Inn and he told me that he did not ap- preciate what I had done." Rickey told Bostic that he had been put on a

46 EARLY INNINGS

spot. If he allowed the tryout to proceed, Bostic would get "the sports story of the century." On the other hand, if he turned Bostic down, he would be open to embarrassing criticism. Confronted by this dilemma and enraged for reasons unknown to the others at that time, Rickey allowed the tryout to proceed. McDuffle and Thomas performed for forty-five minutes before Rickey dismissed them.

The athletes' age and the confrontational nature of the encounter led most people to dismiss the tryout as a publicity stunt. The presence of a re- porter and a photographer from the Daily Worker, according to sportswriter Bill Roeder, added "a sickening Red tinge."" Bostic asserts that he honestly felt that McDuffle and Thomas could play for the Dodgers. Nonetheless, he admits that he primarily sought publicity for his cause. "It was the psycho- logical breaking of the conspiracy of silence," he contends. "The real prob- lem was that the press ignored [the issue of integration]."

When the tryout ended, Rickey had one parting comment for Bostic and the others. "I'm more for your cause than anybody else you know, but you are making a mistake using force. You are defeating your own aims." Rickey never forgave the Negro sportswriter for his actions. "He never spoke to me from that day further until the day he died," says Bostic. And as he de- parted, Bostic considered Branch Rickey the least likely person to leap base- ball's color barrier.