by Troy Soos
I wasn’t sure Hyman would succeed on that score. The more I got to know him, the less I trusted him. “So you’re here for recruiting.”
“Exactly. Sam Gompers—‘Sell ’em Out Sam’ we call him—and his American Federation of Labor aren’t interested in these people. A lot of AFL locals won’t accept Negroes—or women, or foreigners, for that matter. The IWW takes all workers. All people, for one big union.”
I wasn’t much interested in IWW membership policies. More out of courtesy than curiosity, I asked, “Getting lots of new members?”
He shook his head. “It’s been tough. Henry Ford is a popular man in these parts. He beat us to it in trying to win the Negroes over. Ford gives them jobs and pays a whole lot better than they can get anywhere else. You’ll see when we’re at the game that a lot of colored men wear their Ford work badges on their suits. They’re proud of their jobs and not about to jeopardize them by joining a union. I’m patient, though. They’ll come around.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Ford will do something stupid.” He put down the tweezers, picked up a newspaper from a nearby table, and handed it to me. “Look at this.”
The paper was The Dearborn Independent, dated May 22, 1920. Above the name of the paper were the words “The Ford International Weekly.” The main headline read The International Jew: The World’s Problem.
“Henry Ford doesn’t like Jews?” I asked.
“Apparently not.” Hyman shook his head in disgust. “Just because of his money and power, Ford can get his prejudices spread around in a rag like this. No one man’s whim should carry so much weight.” He sighed. “People are contradictions, Mickey. Nobody is all good or all bad. I’ll give the devil his due: Ford hires Negroes, ex-cons, cripples and generally gives them all a fairer shake than they’d get anywhere else. But here he is denouncing Jews. Who knows who it’ll be next week? Maybe Negroes, and then we’ll win them over to our side.” Hyman mixed some glue and dabbed it into the bottle, attaching a string to the mast. His hands were as steady as a surgeon’s.
I was fascinated with Hyman’s deft work. “I hear you used to be an engineer.”
“I’m a tinker is what I am. A fine and noble trade.”
From the contents of the house, I’d have taken him for a junk dealer. “Who’s joining us at the game?” I asked.
“What makes you think anybody’s joining us?”
“The first time we met, you brought Whitey Boggs along. Last time, Stan Zaluski was there.”
Hyman chuckled. “It’s not wise to go into a situation without a second—never know what might happen. Stosh is coming along today, but because he likes baseball, not because I need a backup man. I’m not afraid of you.”
“Guess you don’t believe I killed Emmett Siever then.”
The tweezers stopped moving. “Let’s just say I’m not a hundred percent convinced.”
“It might have helped me convince other people that I didn’t do it if you could have told me where Hub Donner was that night. I don’t see how he could have slipped away from whoever you had watching him—a fellow who looks like Donner can’t just disappear.”
“Hub Donner is big and ugly,” said Hyman. “But don’t underestimate him just because he looks like a thug. The man is smart.” He smiled wryly. “A most worthy adversary.”
Hyman sounded like he admired Donner. And I was thinking that his advice about not underestimating people could also apply to Chick Fogarty.
He laid the tweezers on the bench. “We better be going if we want to see batting practice.” He picked up the bottle and studied the ship that was taking form inside. “Ain’t never gonna sail, but when I’m done with her she’s sure gonna look seaworthy.”
By the fourth inning, I was starting to think that maybe the best baseball wasn’t being played in the American and National Leagues.
At first sight, Mack Park didn’t hold out much promise. The wooden structure at Mack Avenue and Fairview was like a spring-training ballpark—small, rustic, and shaky. But what was happening on the diamond was exquisite.
Two left-handed pitchers, the Detroit Stars’ Andy Cooper and Dave Brown of the Chicago American Giants, were hurling superb shutout baseball. From my grandstand seat, I could tell that both pitchers easily had the stuff—blistering fastballs and wicked curveballs—to make the Tigers’ pitching staff. The problem wasn’t what they lacked, but what they possessed: dark skin. I’d always thought it unfair that Negroes were barred from Organized Baseball. Now, seeing them play, I realized it wasn’t only the colored players who were missing out on something. It was the white players—and fans—who were being cheated as well. I wanted to have a chance to bat against these men.
Stan Zaluski and Leo Hyman sat on either side of me. Zaluski sipped a Coca-Cola that he’d “flavored” from a pocket flask. Hyman was keeping count of the innings by consuming a hot dog during each one. I was on my second bag of peanuts and drinking ginger ale. I could tell that Hyman and Zaluski were genuine fans. Like me, they kept their eyes on the game and said little through the first few innings. No matter how many ball games I’ve seen or played in, I always approached each new game as if something special might happen—a no-hitter, an unassisted triple play, a steal of home.
When Cooper gave up a single to Giants’ second baseman Bingo DeMoss, the chance of seeing a no-hitter was gone.
Stan Zaluski said, “It’s good to get out to a ball game. I’m gonna have to work all Memorial Day weekend in that damn projection booth, so I better get my fill of fresh air now.”
Cristobal Torriente, who I overheard from a fan near us was from Cuba, got up to face Cooper. The left-handed hitter pulled a long line drive over the right field fence—just foul.
“Jeez, they play great baseball,” I said.
Zaluski pointed out a portly Negro in the Chicago dugout. “And that man is going to make sure people know just how good they are.”
“Who is he?”
“Rube Foster. He started this league. Helluva a pitcher in his day—better than any white pitcher of his time, some would say. Got his nickname by outpitching Rube Waddell in an exhibition game.”
Hyman spoke up, “Stosh has been following colored baseball for years.”
“I thought this was the first year they had a league.”
“First year with a league,” said Zaluski, “but they’ve had some great barnstorming teams. The Page Fence Giants out of Adrian, Michigan, was one. I remember at the end of the ‘95 season, they came to Detroit to play a couple of games against the Detroit Creams of the Western League—that was before the Western League became the American League. In the first game, the Giants beat the Creams something like 18-3. Next day, the Creams brought in some National League players as ringers, determined that they weren’t going to lose to a colored team again. Giants won that second game 15—0.”
I was getting uncomfortable hearing how good the Negro players were. It suggested that playing in an all-white league wasn’t something to be so proud of. Moving off the subject of baseball, I said to Hyman, “The reason I wanted to talk to you was about Emmett Siever.”
His red cheeks rose in a grin. “I didn’t think it was to hear Stosh tell his stories.”
“You gave me till today to find his killer,” I said. “I’ve been trying, but I need more time.”
The amusement vanished from Hyman’s face and he tugged at his whiskers. “I don’t think you realize how difficult it’s been for me to keep some of our more temperamental comrades at bay.”
“I appreciate what you’ve done, but I need more time. I’ve made progress, but I haven’t pulled it all together yet.”
“What progress?” Hyman asked. “Give some reason to give you an extension.”
I looked to Zaluski, then back to Hyman. “Well, for one thing, there was an agent from the GID there. I think he’s the one who told the cops to pin the shooting on me. As for the gun that was found on Emmett Siever, I can prove it was planted by the
cops—it came from their evidence room.”
Hyman mulled it over. “What do you think, Stosh?”
Zaluski said, “The boy’s trying. Let him stick with it a while.”
“Give you another week,” said Hyman.
“How about—”
“One week. That’s it.”
Okay. If that’s all I could get, I would just have to make the most of it.
We settled back and watched another couple of innings. In the sixth, Stars catcher Bruce Petway threw out a Chicago runner trying to steal second. Petway didn’t come out of his crouch; he simply gunned the ball to second on a straight line and on target. “He’s got an arm like a cannon,” I said.
Zaluski spoke around his pipe stem, “Ty Cobb found that out the hard way.”
“They played against each other?” I was incredulous. Cobb had a violent hatred of colored people, and I couldn’t imagine him playing baseball with them.
“Exhibition game in Cuba,” Zaluski said. “About ten years ago. Petway threw Cobb out twice in the same game. Cobb’s never played against Negroes since.”
“Jeez.”
As the game went on, my attention drifted away from it and back to Emmett Siever. A seething sensation started to bubble inside me—anger. I was angry that Hyman and Zaluski could be so casual about things. We could be buddies at a ball game today, and next week they might let their comrades in the IWW kill me. Why the hell should I have to beg Leo Hyman for an extra week? Why should he set the timetable for my life? Especially when I was certain that he could help me solve Siever’s murder if he truly wanted to.
During the seventh inning stretch, Zaluski muttered, “This damned old bladder sure don’t hold what it used to,” and made another trip to the men’s room.
I took the opportunity to ask Hyman, “Where did you say you were when Siever was shot?”
“I said I was somewhere else.”
“You weren’t in the Hall during the speeches, but I saw you there when I left that night.” That was a bluff on my part; I didn’t want to tell him I’d learned of his presence from Detective McGuire.
“That was after the cops showed up and the trouble started. When there’s trouble I can show up pretty quick.”
I pressed, “Where’d you show up from?”
Hyman looked at me sternly. “Elsewhere.”
I wasn’t going to get anywhere with that question. I tried an even less likely tack. “Why don’t you just tell me who did it?”
“What?”
“You know it wasn’t me. You never even assumed it—everybody else called me ‘the guy who killed Emmett Siever.’ Even Zaluski thought I killed him. But you never did. The only way for you to know it wasn’t me is for you to know who it was. ”
“You’re assuming a lot from something I didn’t say.”
“It’s not only that. You keep meeting me whenever I ask you to, and you even trusted me enough to go to your secret place by the Rouge Plant.”
Hyman shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he said, “Pass the peanuts.” That was the most I could get out of him.
Chapter Twenty
Monday afternoon, I was in Navin Field, next in line for batting practice. Watching the Tigers players around me, I wondered how well they would do in a game against the Stars. It seemed a terrible shame that there was no chance of finding out.
Our opponents today were Sad Sam Jones and the Boston Red Sox. I was finally slated to start again, relieving Babe Pinelli at third base. The hot corner wasn’t my favorite position, but I reminded myself that it’s really not bad, either—as long as nothing’s hit to you.
Bobby Veach had almost finished taking his swings when our bat boy came up to me. “There’s a man wants to talk to you,” he said.
I glanced at Frank Navin’s box. “Is it Navin?”
“No, some fan, I reckon.”
Still looking in the direction of the owner’s seats, I realized that Hub Donner hadn’t been there in some time. Maybe he and Navin weren’t getting along too well lately. “He give you a name?” I asked.
Veach walloped one last drive and said, “You’re up, Mick.”
“Mmm, yeah,” said the bat boy, “but I forget. It sounded like the name of a store.”
I had no doubt that this kid was going to work his way up to team president someday. “Tell him he can see me after the game,” I said. “I gotta hit now.” I stepped into the batter’s box and gave the fan no further thought.
He didn’t come to mind again until the middle of the eighth inning. I was trotting to the dugout after catching a pop fly for the third out, when one of the ushers hailed me and handed me a note.
I unfolded the expensive parchment. Penned in meticulous script was the message:
Regretfully, I am unable to remain for the conclusion of the game. If your schedule permits, I would consider it a great favor if you could join me for dinner in the Statler Hotel at 7 p.m.
—John M. Ward
John M. Ward. A name like a store. John Montgomery Ward!
I canceled my dinner plans with Margie, and at seven o’lock I was seated across from John Montgomery Ward in the Statler Hotel dining room. The Statler was next to the Hotel Tuller, where I had lunched with Hub Donner almost six weeks ago.
Although Ward was about sixty years old, he could have stepped out of one of the tobacco cards I’d seen him on when I was a kid. His hair was graying at the temples and his impeccably trimmed mustache was flecked with silver, but he looked fit and handsome and ready to play ball again if he so chose. It took all the restraint I had not to ask him for his autograph.
“You played a fine game today,” he said, pausing from his steak.
“Thank you.” I had committed no errors in the field, but only got one hit in four at bats. “Fine” was a generous assessment. Ward’s manner was entirely gracious, polite, and genuine; he was a dignified man who maintained nineteenth-century courtesy.
He put down his knife and fork, and directed his dark, piercing eyes at me. “I won’t waste your time with idle chatter, Mr. Rawlings. There is a reason I wanted to speak with you. A matter of great importance, I believe.”
“Yes, sir?” I hadn’t said “sir” since the army; it came out naturally to John Ward.
“You may be aware of my involvement with the Brotherhood of Professional Base Ball Players a number of years back.”
“Yes, sir. Actually, I was reading the Players’ League Guide a few weeks ago. I also read the article you wrote for Lippincott’s. ”
“I’m impressed,” he said, with a tilt of his head. “Not many ball players have an appreciation of their history. Tell me: what is your opinion of what you read?”
I answered honestly, “I think your arguments were very convincing.”
“So you are favorably inclined toward a players’ union?”
“Well ... I’m not against it.”
Ward smiled. “I take it my arguments were not quite sufficiently convincing. Perhaps I should explain my present intent.” He brushed his napkin along his mustache, first one side and then the other. “I believe this to be a crucial time, Mr. Rawlings. There is a very real danger, with the present antilabor sentiment in the country, of losing what little ground we’ve gained in the past thirty years. I believe, however, that if the players remain strong and united, there is also opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe that the nation will soon tire of the sort of antilabor hysteria that Attorney General Palmer and others are fomenting. Then the pendulum of public opinion will swing in our favor. And we must be prepared to ride that pendulum to the ultimate destination: abolition of the reserve clause.”
“But why are you talking to me? I’m not active in the union.”
“I would like you to become active.” He studied me for a few moments. “There have been pieces in the newspapers suggesting that you are about to denounce the efforts to unionize. If you were to come out for the union, instead, it would demonstra
te unity of purpose.”
I sought for an explanation to give him, a way to make him understand that I didn’t want to be involved at all. “Mr. Ward, I respect you tremendously, and I’m grateful for everything you and Dave Fultz and others have done to help baseball players. I’m not against the union, and I’ll never say anything to hurt it, no matter how hard I get pushed by the owners.” Ward gave an approving nod. “But I can’t say that I’m for it, either.”
“How can you not be in favor of protecting your own interests?”
I wasn’t sure I could answer that, not even to myself, but I tried to express my feelings as best I could. “I started out playing for factory teams, Mr. Ward. Shipyards, mills, canneries—any industry that would give me a job and let me play on their team. One time, I worked for a cotton mill where it was mostly children operating the machinery. The spindle boys were so small, they had to stand on boxes to reach the spools. And do you know what they did when they got a few seconds off for a break? They’d look out the window and watch the mill’s owners playing golf!” I paused to collect myself. “The way I see it, I’m lucky to be playing baseball for living. It’s what I love to do, and I get paid a good salary for doing it. Mine workers, those kids working in the mills, seamstresses in sweatshops, those are the people I sympathize with. I think that’s where the unionizing effort should go, not to me or to any other ballplayer.”
John Ward accepted my comments with no visible sign of disagreement. “That is not an unreasonable argument,” he said. “I’ve heard it many times before. However, may I raise a few points that you might not have considered?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“First, there’s the matter of principle. No human being should be bought, sold, or traded against his will. No amount of compensation can make such a practice tolerable.”
I shrugged. I agreed with him about the principle, but I was able to tolerate it pretty well.
“I realize,” said Ward, “that it would take exceptional courage to confront the owners on something as intangible as principle. The owners are much more unified than the players, and, therefore, they are quite effective in making sure that ‘agitators’ do not have very long careers.”
