Hanging Curve (19 page)

 

A flatbed truck was parked at one end of the clearing, in the shade of a giant oak. On the bed of the truck, a gold-clad Klansman spoke through a megaphone, making a lengthy introduction of the featured speaker. Four white-robed comrades, their masks down, stood at attention behind him.

When David C. Stephenson’s name was announced, a chubby-faced blond man in a gray business suit emerged from the passenger’s side of the truck. He was hoisted upon the truck bed and waved to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.

Glenn Hyde was right: Stephenson’s appearance did surprise me. The Exalted Cyclops was totally unremarkable in his dress and physique. If I’d met him on the street, I would have taken him for a bank clerk or an insurance salesman. I’d assumed Stephenson would have the most flamboyant costume of all, but his sack suit was positively drab compared to the robes around him. I had also assumed that he would be older, but the “Old Man” at the megaphone was probably no more than thirty-five, forty at the most.

He launched into his speech, and it, too, was not what I’d expected. Stephenson didn’t rail against Negroes, and he never advocated vigilantism. He spoke in favor of “100 percent Americanism,” the sanctity of womanhood, the Bible, the flag, old-time religion, and law and order. He was against immorality, crime, and invasion of America by foreign dictators. Stephenson’s delivery was polished and passionate. Sometimes he sounded like one of the moving-picture stars who hawked Liberty Bonds during the war. At other times he sounded like a carnival snake-oil huckster, claiming that the Klan was the cure for all America’s ills.

Most of what Stephenson said could have served as the campaign platform for any politician in the country. But he said it all with such vigor and conviction, that the crowd cheered him wildly and applauded his every hackneyed slogan as if it was a profound insight.

The final surprise was that he had the good sense not to go on too long. Waving his fist, Stephenson concluded, “Every gambler, every criminal, every libertine, every home wrecker, every dope peddler, every moonshiner, every white slaver, every brothel madam, every pagan priest, every crooked politician, every shyster lawyer is fighting against the Klan. Think it over. Which side are
you
on—theirs or ours?”

After the applause died down, he gave a friendly wave and encouraged the crowd to have fun, enjoy the barbecue, and come to the parade later that night.

 

“What did you think?” Glenn Hyde asked eagerly, as we began to walk away.

I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Stephenson made a lot of sense.”

Hyde smiled so broadly that I could almost hear new wrinkles crackling on his face. “Let me show you some other things that make sense.”

I had the feeling some kind of sales pitch was coming, but I agreed, and he steered us toward the park entrance.

“You know,” I said, “the newspapers make it sound like the main purpose of the Klan is to lynch colored people. I was glad to hear the straight scoop from Stephenson’s own lips.”

“I never even look at the papers anymore,” said Hyde. “Only things I read now are the Bible and what the Klan publishes; those are all I can trust to give me the truth.”

“Come to think of it,” I continued, “Stephenson—the Old Man—didn’t say anything about colored people at all.”

“No reason he should. We have no quarrel with Nigras—long as they know their place, of course.” He wheezed suddenly and touched my arm; I helped him to a bench, where he rested for a few minutes.

We then went on until we reached a row of food stands and merchandise tables. Hyde led me to one table that was covered with Klan literature and popular novels with Klan themes—like
Ku Klux Kismet, White Knights,
and Thomas Dixon’s
The Clansman,
on which
D. W.
Griffith had based his motion picture
Birth of a Nation.

“Mickey Welch,” he said, introducing me to the robed Klansman staffing the table, “this is a good friend of mine, Pete Gaffney.” Gaffney’s mask was rolled up, but he would have looked better with it down; he had a hatchet face pitted with smallpox scars.

Hyde said to Gaffney, “I was just tellin’ Mickey here that we don’t have nothing against Nigras.” To me, he added, “We all keep to our own kind, and that keeps life peaceful for everybody.”

“Ain’t had no kind of nigger trouble around here,” Gaffney agreed. “It’s the goddamn Catholics that’s the problem. They’re trying to take over this country for their goddamn pope.”

“They are?”

“Damn right, they are.” Gaffney picked at his nose. “Did you know that whenever a Catholic boy is born, they bury a rifle for him in the church grounds?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s true. They do it so when he grows up, he’ll have a gun ready for when they try to turn America into part of the papal empire.” Gaffney wagged his finger. “There’s a Roman army in this country right now, and they’re just waiting for the pope to give the word.” He picked up a pamphlet titled
Traitors In Our Midst.
“Here, take this. You can read about it for yourself.”

Yeah, I thought, as if being in print was enough to prove the claim true.

“Give him some other material, too,” Hyde said. “Mickey’s gonna be joining the East St. Louis klavern.” He smiled warmly. “Let’s give him an education compliments of the Evansville Klan.”

“Good idea,” said Gaffney. “Should read up on what the Jews are planning, too—they’re almost as bad as the Catholics.”

He gave me copies of the official Indiana Klan newspaper,
The Fiery Cross,
and pamphlets entitled
America for Americans, Believe the Bible,
and
The Public School Problem in America.
Finally, he handed me a boycott list of “un-American” businesses, which he explained meant that they were owned by Jews or Catholics.

When my hands were full, I thanked Gaffney, then Hyde suggested we get some barbecue.

 

I tagged along with Glenn Hyde for the rest of the day. The old Klansman was a rich source of information, open, hospitable, and quick to introduce me to his friends. He seemed to enjoy taking me under his wing. I found that I also enjoyed his company; Hyde struck me as a decent man who happened to genuinely believe that the Ku Klux Klan was the best vehicle for promoting American and Christian ideals.

Late in the afternoon, after another trip to the barbecue pit, Hyde asked, “You mind if we set a spell? I’m runnin’ out of wind.”

We settled on a bench with a couple of soft drinks. I told Hyde that I’d spoken with Buddy Vaughn in St. Louis, and asked if he knew the Klan recruiter.

“I’ve met him a couple times,” he answered. “Vaughn is one of the top kleagles in the country—really helped build the Invisible Empire. In 1915, when
Birth of a Nation
came out, Vaughn would sign up new members right in the theater lobbies. And he helped organize this klavern; the Old Man considered him his right-hand man.”

“Was he the one in the gold robe who introduced Stephenson?”

“Might have been, but there’s quite a few kleagles workin’ this part of the country.”

I waited a while, then broached the subject of violence again. “There seems to be a lot of beatings and lynchings that the newspapers blame on the Klan,” I said. “You don’t believe
any
of them are true?”

“Oh, I expect a few are. Every organization has its troublemakers and hotheads. But there isn’t nearly as much violence as some people want to believe. And what there is, is mostly in the South. We don’t have mob rule in Indiana.”

“None?”

“Not by the Klan. We’re official agents of law enforcement.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a sheriff’s badge. The five-pointed tin star was stamped
Horse Thief Detective Association.

“What is this? You go after horse thieves?”

Hyde chuckled. “No, no, that’s just the name; it goes back to pioneer days. By organizing ourselves as a Horse Thief Detective Association, the state of Indiana gives us the same power and authority as a constable. We use it to enforce the laws the police don’t want to trouble themselves about.”

“Such as ... ?”

“Bootlegging, for one. This winter, we had a flood of Dubois County Dew pouring into Evansville—that’s a local moonshine. We put an end to it; busted up the stills and turned the moonshiners over to Prohibition agents.”

This sounded like something out of the Wild West. “So you’re like a posse?”

“Or an auxiliary police force. We also take care of things that maybe aren’t spelled out in the law, but ought to be.”

“Like?”

“Say a man’s not doing right by his family. Gambles away his money, leaving his wife and kids to go hungry. We straighten him out.”

“How do you do that?”

He coughed and spit. “Some morning, he might leave his house and find a dozen switches laid out at his front door. That’s a warning: It means if he don’t get on the straight and narrow, we’ll take him down to Possum Hollow, tie him to a tree, and wear out those switches on his back.”

“Do they always take the warning?”

“Wish they did, but no. We’ve had a few we had to take down to the Hollow. Had one last month, as a matter of fact.” Hyde smiled. “That fellow’s been a perfect gentleman ever since.”

“What if the fellow who needs straightening out is a Klansman?” I asked. “I met a guy in East St. Louis who told me he joined the Klan but never went back after his first meeting. He said there were some bad apples in the klavern.”

“The fellow we whipped last month was a Klansman.” Hyde sat up rigidly. “We can’t be preaching morality to others if we don’t practice it ourselves. The leadership of the Klan expects more of Knights than of anyone else.”

I thought Hyde might be getting a little uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “Sorry to keep asking about violence,” I said. “Seems like you have things real well organized here.” Then I decided to push a little further. “But in East St. Louis, there was a colored baseball player who was lynched, and folks seem to think it was Klansmen who did it. I wouldn’t ever want to be part of anything like that.”

“Me neither,” Hyde answered. “But with Buddy Vaughn being the kleagle there, you won’t have to worry.”

“Why not?”

“Vaughn won’t stand for it. Any Knight who got involved in a lynching would be punished—severely.”

“A whipping?”

Hyde gave me a look that hinted the punishment would be far worse than a mere whipping.

 

After dusk, the parade began, with all marchers in full regalia, their masks down. By the flickering orange glow of hundreds of torches, the Ku Klux Klan advanced in disciplined formation, like a regiment of ghosts.

Dozens of Klansmen carrying American flags led the way on horseback, riding mounts that were garbed in white horse suits. Next were the Klan officials, strutting proudly in robes of red, green, or gold. Behind them came the infantry, with row after row of pointed white hoods poking up into the night.

Less organized, but garnering many admiring comments, was a small cluster of hooded children marching under the banner “Ku Klux Kiddies.” At the rear of the formation were a marching band and a women’s group whose hoods and robes were embellished with some feminine touches.

The flames, the masks, the military precision, and the sheer number of marchers all made for a most impressive display.

The Klan had organized the day well, I thought. First a relaxing picnic to fill the bellies, then some stirring speeches to rouse the emotions, and finally a striking spectacle that would make onlookers wish they were participants. Evansville Klan No. 1 was sure to get many new members after this day.

I had the impression that the Klan’s long-term strategy was similar: Bring the members along gradually. First appeal to their sense of patriotism, then get them to carry out some “disciplinary” actions, and finally—That was still unclear. But whatever their ultimate objective, it appeared the Ku Klux Klan would have an army at their disposal, willing to achieve it.

The parade was followed by a rally. Klansmen gathered around an enormous burning cross while rockets and fireworks exploded above. They led the crowd in singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “America,” and the official Klan song, which Glenn Hyde told me was called “The Kluxology.”

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.

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, “When 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.