Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  Afterward, Hyde asked me to join him in seeing The Birth of a Nation, being shown in a tent. I knew that Griffith’s racist movie was probably the best recruiting tool the Klan ever had, and so inflammatory that the NAACP had tried to have it banned.

  I made the excuse that I had to get up early to catch the train, and thanked him for his companionship.

  Hyde shook my hand, and said, “I do hope you’ll join us. And spread the word—there’s a Junior Klan being organized for kids, and Queens of the Golden Mask for women.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “The Invisible Empire is going to be something like this country’s never seen before.”

  I feared that he was right.

  CHAPTER 22

  I tried to squelch it, but despite my better sense and best efforts, my heart was full of hope when I got back to St. Louis Wednesday afternoon.

  Even after I went inside the apartment and saw that Margie hadn’t returned, a flicker of hope remained, and I grabbed for the small stack of mail that had accumulated during my trip. There was no letter from her, though, and a tour of the apartment proved it to be as bleak and empty as when I’d left.

  After I unpacked, I checked the calendar. This was the final day of May, and the fifteenth day since Lee Fohl had suspended me. Tomorrow, I would be an active member of the St. Louis Browns again. At least something in my life would be taking a positive turn.

  I spent the rest of the day puttering around the house, waiting for a phone call or telegram from Fohl instructing me to join the team in Washington for the final series of the road trip. When night came, and I still hadn’t heard anything, I began to wonder if the suspension was fifteen days, as I’d thought, or fifteen games. I checked the team’s schedule; a suspension of fifteen games would mean that there were four left to go.

  Thursday morning, I could wait no longer. I called the Browns’ hotel in Washington. Fohl wasn’t in his room, but I asked for a bellboy to page him in the lobby; most managers are habitual lobby sitters who like to talk baseball with anyone willing to listen.

  The next voice I heard was Fohl’s. “I was in the middle of a story,” he growled. “What do you want?”

  I ignored the brusqueness of his greeting. “My fifteen days is up,” I said. “I can catch the next train for D.C., if you want.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your suspension’s over.” The manager paused. “Tell you what: Why don’t you just skip this series, and wait till we’re back in St. Louis. We don’t really need you right now—the infielders are all healthy, and Herman Bronke is doing a good enough job in your spot.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “I am going to be back on the team, right?”

  In a somewhat kinder voice, Fohl answered, “Yeah, don’t worry. It’s just that there’s no sense you making the trip to sit on the bench for three games. Might as well save Phil Ball the train fare.”

  Since I had no choice, I agreed. I didn’t mention how much I hated to miss a series against the Senators. For ten years, I’d been wanting to get a base hit off Walter Johnson, and needed every opportunity to face him.

  After hanging up, I thought at least I’d get future opportunities to face Johnson. I’d never be able to bat against Slip Crawford again.

  I phoned Franklin Aubury’s office, and learned that he was still in Indianapolis. Next, I tried Karl Landfors; I was told that he was out of town and hadn’t left word on what town he was in, or when he’d return.

  By late morning, I was so restless that I began to feel like a caged bear thrashing back and forth against the bars of his prison. When Margie had first left, I’d wanted to stay in the apartment all the time, not wanting to miss any attempt she might make to contact me. Now, with it clear she wasn’t coming back, I wanted to get out of the home we’d once shared and avoid all reminders of her.

  I went out to do errands, dropping my dirty clothes at the laundry and stocking up with groceries. Then I spent the afternoon and evening exploring Forest Park, the Missouri Botanical Garden, and a few other areas of the city that I’d never visited before.

  Friday morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep, I brewed a pot of coffee and read the morning paper. In a break from habit, I didn’t start with the baseball news. I looked in the classifieds for a furnished apartment. I wanted a new home.

  When I did get around to the sports pages, I read about the upcoming series between the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals in Sportsman’s Park. The Post-Dispatch played up the historic rivalry between the Cubs and Cards, comparing it to the one between the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants. The Midwestern clubs were a bit more genteel than their eastern counterparts, however, and the annual results of their competition more lopsided—the Cardinals had never won a National League pennant, while the Cubs took the flag almost every year that the Giants failed to win it.

  I found myself itchy to get back on a baseball diamond again. In the last two weeks, the only practice I’d had was when I batted against Franklin Aubury on an Indianapolis sandlot. When I did rejoin the Browns, I was sure to be rusty.

  That gave me an idea, and I put in another call to Washington. It was early enough that Lee Fohl was still in his hotel room.

  “If the Cards let me,” I said, “you mind if I take practice with them? I can use the workout.” Normally, I wouldn’t have asked, but I didn’t want to make the same mistake of playing without permission that got me suspended in the first place.

  “Go ahead,” Fohl answered. “As long as Rickey says it’s okay.”

  “I’ll talk him into it.”

  Fohl laughed. “I expect you will. And practice hard—McManus booted a couple easy grounders yesterday, so it looks like we’ll be needing you for the Red Sox series.”

  That was the best news I’d had in weeks.

  I wasn’t so confident when I arrived at Sportsman’s Park Saturday morning. Cardinals’ skipper Branch Rickey had managed the Browns before switching to St. Louis’s National League franchise, and I seemed to recall that the parting hadn’t been amicable. He might not be inclined to do the Browns, or me, any favors.

  The offices of the St. Louis Cardinals were on the Dodier Street side of the park, around the corner from those of the Browns on Grand Boulevard. Typically, a field manager wouldn’t be found in a club’s front office, but Rickey was also the Cardinals’ vice president and part-owner. Rumor had it that the notorious skinflint only managed the team because he wanted to save the expense of paying a real manager.

  After a brief wait in an outer office, I was ushered in to see Rickey. The Cardinals’ manager wore a tweed suit, spectacles, and a stern expression. The stub of a dead cigar was in his mouth, and as he chewed on it, his thick black eyebrows rose and fell above the rims of his glasses. “What can I do for you?”

  I introduced myself, told him of my suspension from the Browns, and asked if I could take pregame practice with the Cardinals.

  “Why were you suspended?” he demanded.

  That was another reason I thought Rickey might not want to help me. Although he indulged a fondness for cigars, he was otherwise so moralistic that he never managed on Sundays and violently disapproved of any players who drank, ran with women, or broke team rules. I told Rickey about playing against the East St. Louis Cubs, hoping the fact that I hadn’t been suspended for bad behavior would count in my favor.

  He said sharply, “You played under false pretenses—a ringer. Was it for money?”

  “No. I turned down the money. I just wanted to play against a colored team—to see how good they are, and find out how I’d do against them. Playing in the East St. Louis game seemed like the only chance I might get.”

  Rickey took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it in his fingertips. “How did you fare?” he asked in a gentler tone.

  “Lousy. Didn’t get a single hit, and made a bonehead play in the field.”

  He nodded. “Some of the Negro players can be formidable opponents.” Staring down at the blotter on his desk, he went on, “Wh
en I was a student at Ohio Wesleyan, I helped coach the baseball team. Best player we had was colored—Tommy Thomas. Poor fellow was subject to more abuse than any man should have to endure. I’ll never forget the time we went to South Bend, Indiana, to play Notre Dame. The hotel refused to give him a room. After some arguing, I convinced the hotel manager to let him share mine. That night, Tommy broke down crying. He started rubbing one hand over the other, muttering, ‘Black skin, black skin. If I could only make ’em white.’Tommy rubbed his hands raw trying to take the black off.” Rickey crushed his cigar in an ashtray. “Someday, we’ll get them in the big leagues, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “But I hear Commissioner Landis is against it.”

  Rickey nodded sadly. “You hear correctly.” Then he told me, “Go see the clubhouse man and suit up.”

  The uniform was colorful, I’ll give it that, but too garish for my taste. This season, the Cardinals had introduced a new design for their jerseys: two redbirds perched on a baseball bat. It was a drastic departure from the typical major-league uniform in which the only decoration is the name of the team or its city. I hoped that next year the Cards would have the good taste to revert to the old style.

  When I trotted onto the field, I got some good-natured ribbing from the players, most of it to the effect that I must have forgotten which St. Louis team I was under contract to.

  I took infield practice with the Cards’ regulars, including veteran first baseman Jacques Fournier, Specs Toporcer, and the premier hitter in the National League, Rogers Hornsby.

  Nearby in the outfield was Max Flack, another ballplayer who’d only recently donned the Cardinal uniform. He had come to the Cards in exchange for Cliff Heathcote in one of baseball’s strangest trades: They were swapped between games of a double-header, and became the only players ever to appear for two different teams on the same day.

  At the start of batting practice, I found the Cards less than willing to let me take part—ballplayers hate to give up any time at the plate. I was finally allowed to hit after they had all finished, and stepped up to bat.

  The right-hander on the mound started me off with a soft brushback pitch. Just a little more ribbing, I assumed. The next toss came at my ear. It wasn’t fast enough to be a threat, but I wanted hitting practice, not ducking practice. “Hey! What’s the idea?” I yelled.

  “That was for costing me a ball game!”

  I stared at the pitcher for a few seconds. Then I recognized him as Leo South, the Elcars’ starting pitcher in the East St. Louis game.

  South gestured with his glove for me to get back in the box, and proceeded to throw me a series of fat pitches down the middle of the plate.

  As I smacked the ball around the park, I thought it made perfect sense that the Elcars had brought in a pitcher as a ringer, too. A pitcher has far greater impact on a game than a second baseman. I had been so flattered at being recruited, it never occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one.

  When he’d thrown his last pitch and walked off the mound, I went to greet him. “Leo South, right?”

  He smiled. “Close. Lou North.”

  “Mickey Rawlings.” We shook hands. “I played as Welch. That was some game we had over there, wasn’t it?”

  “Scared the bejesus out of me,” said North. “I thought folks were gonna start shooting.”

  “Try playing at Ebbets Field in a Giants’ uniform,” I joked. “That’s scary. Say, is this your first year?” North looked a bit long in the tooth to be a rookie.

  “Nah, I been in the big leagues off and on. Mostly off. That’s why the Elcars wanted me to pitch for them—they figured nobody would recognize me as a pro.”

  “They picked me for the same reason,” I admitted.

  We talked a bit more, sharing a bond as professional bench-warmers, and walked off toward the Cardinals’ dugout. It occurred to me that we might have something else in common, too. “You been approached to join the Ku Klux Klan?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but there’s no way I’m getting mixed up with that bunch.”

  “Is Buddy Vaughn the one who talked to you?”

  North nodded.

  “Me too. He told me there’s already a St. Louis player in the Klan.” I had assumed the player Vaughn referred to was a Brown, but it could just as easily be a Cardinal. “You know who it could be?”

  North appeared uncomfortable, and I wondered if maybe his denial had been a lie. Then I recalled that Buddy Vaughn had said “star,” not “player.” It must be somebody else. I looked at the Cardinals seated in the dugout, and settled on Rogers Hornsby. The cantankerous Texan, who had the temper of Ty Cobb but without the charm, was the biggest star on the club. And according to Plunk Drake, he wouldn’t play on the same baseball field with Negroes.

  The pitcher confirmed my guess, whispering, “It’s Hornsby.”

  “I thought the Klan would be too progressive for him,” I said, causing North to burst out laughing.

  Branch Rickey called all the players in, and my tenure as a Cardinal came to an end.

  I did get a seat in the stands and watched the first five innings as the Cards’ Jesse Haines dueled Grover Cleveland Alexander. I was glad to be out of Indiana and back in a big-league ballpark. This was the world I knew, and the one that made sense to me.

  Most of it did, anyway. I kept glancing at the right-field bleachers, where colored fans sat in the only section open to them. As the innings went along, I stared in their direction more than at the diamond, thinking about all that I’d seen and heard during my recent travels. I gradually realized that the trip might be over, but I didn’t have the comforting sense of being back home. What was happening in Indiana wasn’t limited to that state. It was going on here, too, and in this very ballpark.

  The score was 2-2 in the eighth inning, but I left early anyway. My world wasn’t as perfect as I once thought it to be.

  From Sportsman’s Park, I headed a couple blocks north to Robison Field, the old wooden stadium where the Cardinals played before becoming tenants of the Browns. It was also where I had played when I’d visited the city with the Giants and the Cubs.

  I walked along Natural Bridge Avenue, looking up at the Robison Field grandstand, wishing I could go back to those days. It was enough for me then to be a big-league ballplayer myself—I didn’t worry about who wasn’t allowed in the major leagues.

  Then I thought that if I’d played forty years ago, I wouldn’t be worrying about it either, because that would have been before the ban against colored players. I entertained myself by imagining what it would have been like for me to play in the 1880s. The Browns were the Brown Stockings, then, the premier team of the American Association. They were owned by eccentric Chris von der Ahe, and starred Arlie Latham and a young first baseman named Charles Comiskey.

  As I turned onto Prairie Avenue, back toward Sportsman’s Park, I recalled Franklin Aubury telling me about Fleet and Weldy Walker, the two Negroes who’d played in the American Association around that time. Those men could have very well played big-league baseball right here. But if they came to the park today, the closest they’d be able to get to the field was a seat in the right-field bleachers.

  On racial issues, I thought, the country was going in the wrong direction. Negro players were now barred from Organized Baseball, new segregation laws were being instituted every year, and the rapidly growing Ku Klux Klan was convincing thousands that bigotry was “100 percent American.”

  I had to admit to myself that, to some degree, I’d bought the “separate but equal” argument that the races were happier apart. But after my trip with Aubury, I wasn’t buying it anymore. I’d seen that separate was not equal, and I’d been a whole lot happier talking with Aubury and the Negro Leaguers than I had been with Glenn Hyde and the Knights of the Invisible Empire.

  When I reached Sportsman’s Park, fans were streaming out of the gate. The game was over, a 3-2 win for the Cubs, according to what I heard.


  I walked on to Grand Boulevard, where the streetcars were starting to shuttle people home. Just before jumping aboard, I spotted a long line of Negroes waiting patiently for one of the scarce “colored” cars. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed them.

  As my trolley pulled away, I had the feeling that from now on I’d be noticing a lot of things that I used to overlook. And I wasn’t sure that I wanted to see them.

  CHAPTER 23

  The first time I’d walked into Franklin Aubury’s law office, he’d seemed very much an attorney, with his conservative suit, precise English, and calculated demeanor. By now, I’d eaten in his home, traveled with him, drunk with him, and played baseball with him. When I entered his office late Monday morning, I saw him as a friend.

  From the warmth of his greeting, I sensed that he viewed me the same way.

  He filled me in on his return trip from Indianapolis while we waited for Karl Landfors to join us.

  When Karl arrived, he was harried and out of breath. “Sorry I’m late,” he wheezed. “I wanted to drop off some papers at Congressman Dyer’s office.”

  “Quite all right,” said Aubury.

  Karl took out a handkerchief and patted the beads of sweat from his forehead. He turned to me. “Have you heard from Margie yet?”

  “I’ll let you know if I do,” I said. I didn’t mean to sound snappish, but his question hit me the wrong way—it was like asking a starving man if he’s eaten yet. “By the way, where were you? When I tried calling, I was told you were out of town.”

  “I was. And I told no one where I was going.”

  “Why not? Or is it still a secret?”

  “It is, but I trust you to keep this between us.” When Aubury and I nodded that we’d keep the information to ourselves, Karl went on, “I’ve been in Chicago. As you know, I was working on getting newspapers to run exposes of the Ku Klux Klan.” He stopped to refold his handkerchief methodically and tuck it away. “The Klan has established a firm foothold in Chicago, and in response a group called the American Unity League has been organized to fight them. One of the League’s tools will be Tolerance, a new progressive weekly. This newspaper is taking a unique approach to exposing the KKK: It will not only run stories about the Klan, it will also publish the names and addresses of Klansmen.”