Hanging Curve (5 page)

When the game began, the American League White Sox played like they’d had the life taken from them, too. We romped all over them for a 14—0 win and a sweep of the series. I even got into the game—after we had a ten-run lead—and hit a solid single in my first time at bat.

My teammates were jubilant at the victory and left for the hotel vowing that the upcoming Cleveland series would be equally successful. I was unable to share their joy and didn’t return to the hotel with them. Instead, I wandered the South Side streets near Comiskey Park, alone with my thoughts.

I had walked these same blocks three summers ago, in August of 1919. More accurately, I’d patrolled them.

I was back from the war in Europe that summer, discharged early by the army, and playing baseball again with the Chicago Cubs. But then, on July 27, the city exploded in a race war.

A melee started on the beach near the foot of Twenty-ninth Street, and spread to the city streets with so much violence that it looked like the death toll would exceed that of the 1917 East St. Louis riot. For days, white and colored mobs battled each other as buildings burned. The governor belatedly sent in six thousand troops, including reactivated veterans like me, to restore order.

For one week, in full combat uniform and Springfield rifle at the ready, I patrolled the streets near the stockyards. It was like being back at war, but a civil war. My greatest fear was that I would have to use my weapon on a fellow citizen.

It came as a great relief that I didn’t have to. The conflicts eventually subsided, and the troops were sent home. Some newspapers printed the death counts like they were game scores, the final one reading:
15 White, 23 Colored.
The white population of Chicago called that a victory.

After that experience, I tried to ignore the annual race riots. Every summer they would flare up in a few cities across the country, and then they would die out until the next year. I couldn’t fathom the hatred behind them, and didn’t want to think about it enough to gain such an understanding.

I suddenly realized that I’d been walking for a while and checked my watch. I’d barely have enough time to get back to the Congress Hotel and pack before joining the team at the train station.

After hailing a cab, I once again found myself dwelling on questions I preferred not to ponder: What makes someone want to burn a family out of its home? Or drive around in hoods and sheets, terrorizing a neighborhood? Or kill a colored baseball player for beating a white team?

Was that really why Slip Crawford had been lynched? I hoped not. I didn’t want to believe that a man could be murdered because he had a good curveball.

As the taxi neared the hotel, I looked off in the direction of Lake Michigan and recalled the incident that set off those two weeks of terror in 1919. A colored boy named Eugene Williams had fallen asleep while floating in a tube. When he drifted over to a section of the beach traditionally off-limits to Negroes, white bathers woke him up by throwing stones at him. Then they continued to stone him until he was dead.

T
he Cleveland Indians put an end to our winning streak, easily taking the first two games of the series in League Park. One of them was a 17—2 thrashing that served to remind us that we needed to concentrate on winning in April instead of making World Series plans for October. We came back strong in the finale this afternoon, and exacted some measure of revenge by pounding five Cleveland pitchers in a 15—1 romp.

I got to play in both of the high-scoring games, replacing Wally Gerber at shortstop when we were behind by a dozen runs, and filling in for third baseman Frank Ellerbe after we were ahead by ten. Apparently, Lee Fohl would only risk allowing me onto the field when my presence couldn’t affect the final outcome.

The long game meant that we had to take a later train out of Cleveland, and we didn’t pull into St. Louis until after midnight. It was another half hour for a cabby to drive me to Union Boulevard.

I unlocked the door as quietly as I could and stepped softly into the parlor. Margie, wrapped in a red floral kimono, was nestled in a corner of the sofa, fast asleep. She’d let down her hair, which curled about her shoulders and flowed down almost to her waist. A chintz throw pillow was tucked under her chin; she hugged it like a little girl cuddling a teddy bear.

Tired as I was, I didn’t want to go to bed yet. Instead, I eased into the Morris chair across from the sofa and simply watched Margie sleep for a while.

Before we started living together, the best thing about coming back from a road trip was checking the mail that had accumulated. Now I had Margie, who always tried, and usually failed, to wait up for me. Knowing she’d be there when I got home almost made the long separations tolerable.

Before the sound of her rhythmic breathing could lull me to sleep, I got up and walked over to the sofa.

The kiss I planted on Margie’s forehead failed to wake her, and the subsequent ones on her cheek were no more effective. It took a couple on the lips before she stirred and looked up at me, her brown eyes foggy. “Mmm,” she purred. “That was nice. If I pretend I’m still asleep, will you do it some more?”

I kissed her again, long and deep enough to show there was no need for her to feign sleep. “Let’s go to bed,” I said.

She stretched. “Okaaay.” The word turned into a yawn. “Oh, I kept some supper for you in the icebox. Want me to heat it up?” Her puffy eyelids slipped down a notch.

“No, I ate on the train. Thanks, though.” I put my arm around her waist and steered her toward the bedroom. “All I want is a pillow.”

We were almost to the door when Margie said, “By the way, Karl got in tonight.”

“He’s
here?”
The mere thought of Karl’s presence took a lot of the joy out of the homecoming.

Margie smiled at my reaction. “No, he called. He’s staying with another friend—a writer, I think he said.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Did he say when he wants to get together?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll bring him to the game, and we’ll have dinner afterward.”

“Okay. I’ll leave a couple passes for you at the gate.” I was so tired, I didn’t even want to think about the fact that we had another game in about twelve hours. But I felt better when I remembered there was little likelihood that I’d have to play in it.

 

I woke with a start in the dark of night, not sure where I was. It was a common sensation for me, a result of all the travel I did as a ballplayer. Whenever I awoke, it took me a while to determine whether I was in a Pullman berth or a hotel room or at home. Another challenge was to figure out what city I was in.

There was no rumble of the rails, so I knew I wasn’t on a train. After a few moments, I got my bearings and realized I was in my own bed. Our own bed. Margie murmured in her sleep and shifted her head, pressing it heavier on my shoulder. Her movements were probably what had awakened me.

I made no effort to slip out from under her. With my eyes wide-open, staring into the darkness, I savored the feel of having her next to me. Despite a slight numbness that started to work its way through my arm, I wanted to remain like this all night.

For the first time in my life, the thought struck me that I could give up playing baseball if I should ever have to. But I wanted to keep Margie Turner forever.

That idea stayed with me until dawn started to paint the room in warm shades of orange. By the time it brightened to yellow, I was again contentedly asleep.

T
he teams were the same, but the roles were reversed. This time it was the Browns’ home opener, and the Chicago White Sox were the visiting club.

Sportsman’s Park was festooned with all the decorations traditional for the occasion, and a shrill marching band paraded around the outfield, displaying little sense of rhythm in either its music or its footwork.

American League president Ban Johnson, a close friend of Browns’ owner Phil Ball, was in attendance, seated in Ball’s private box. Dozens of local politicians were also on hand, eager to be seen by prospective voters as fans of the National Pastime.

The only aspect of the event that might have been a disappointment to the politicians—and to Phil Ball—was the size of the crowd. Nearly half of the park’s twenty thousand seats were empty. Attendance had always been a problem for the Browns, although the club generally did draw twice as many fans as the rival Cardinals. A year and a half ago, ticket sales for the Cards had been so sparse that they had to abandon their own ballpark and move into Sportsman’s as tenants of the Browns.

When the band stopped its noise, St. Louis mayor Henry Kiel took the mound to throw the ceremonial first pitch. Not wanting to give the mayor all the glory, the president of the Board of Aldermen carried a bat to the plate, intending to hit one of Kiel’s deliveries. It probably sounded like a good idea in the planning stage, but to the vocal amusement of the crowd, whenever Kiel managed to put the ball over the plate, the alderman failed to get any wood on it. As they continued their exercise in futility, I looked around the park. When I spotted a cluster of black faces in the right-field bleachers, I was reminded that, as in East St. Louis, fans were segregated in Sportsman’s Park; Negroes were only permitted to sit in that distant bleacher section. After more than a dozen pitches, the alderman finally popped weakly to catcher Hank Severeid, and I stopped thinking about the ballpark’s seating arrangements.

Once the real baseball game began, my teammates fared little better than the politicians. The way they played, they must have been as tired as I was from the late arrival the previous night. Chicago took advantage, and got back at us for spoiling their opening day by ruining ours with a 7—2 win. Since the score didn’t make it into double digits, I never made it into the lineup.

In the clubhouse shower, I decided it was probably just as well that I got to rest on the bench. Because I had an ordeal waiting for me after the game: Karl Landfors.

 

Karl’s body was almost obscured by the strand of spaghetti he was slurping into his mouth. He would never die, I thought—someday he’d simply complete the gradual transformation from human to skeleton that he’d been undergoing ever since I met him ten years earlier. And he wouldn’t even need to be laid out; Karl’s pale, bony frame was already draped in the kind of severe black suit favored by corpses and undertakers.

“You’re looking good,” I lied. “What have you been up to?”

“A little bit of everything,” he said. “You know me—there’s always a windmill somewhere in need of someone to tilt at it.”

I certainly did know him. Karl, a muckraking journalist and diehard Socialist, championed just about every Progressive cause that came along, especially the hopeless ones. And he’d gotten me involved in more than one of them.

A mustachioed waiter came by, holding a straw-shrouded bottle. “More grape juice?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.

Karl nodded, and the waiter filled Margie’s and Karl’s wineglasses with Chianti. The “grape juice” pretense was the restaurant’s only acknowledgment of the Volstead Act. Here, in the Little Italy section of downtown St. Louis near Columbus Square, Prohibition was paid little serious attention—just as in most American cities.

The waiter turned to me. “Another root beer?”

I said, “Please,” and he soon brought me a fresh lager.

Margie asked Karl, “Have you written anything lately?”

“I have a piece coming out in the next
American Mercury.”
Karl pushed his black, horn-rimmed spectacles higher on his long nose. With his balding scalp, sunken eyes, and pinched cheeks, the nose and glasses were the only things that kept people from mistaking him for a skull. “It’s on the need for antilynching legislation.”

“I’ll look forward to reading it,” Margie said.

I was aware that the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was trying to get a federal antilynching bill enacted, but didn’t know that Karl had taken up the issue. “Will they pass the law, you think?”

He sipped his wine and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’d like to believe so. It’s finally through the House of Representatives. But the Senate will be quite a challenge. Those Southern senators ...” He shook his head. “In any event, I’ve been trying to get state legislatures to endorse the bill. It appears that Massachusetts will pass a resolution of support next week.”

Margie asked, “What brings you to Missouri?”

“I’ll be doing some work with Congressman Dyer’s staff.” The St. Louis representative, I knew, was the antilynching bill’s chief sponsor. “And with a friend of mine,” Karl added, “a lawyer who works with the NAACP.”

“What about the Sacco and Vanzetti appeal?” I asked. “And unionizing coal miners?” Those had been his most recent projects.

“Those battles are all secondary to this one. There is no benefit to having the right to vote or speak or assemble if you are not alive to enjoy them.” He waved his fork, dripping tomato sauce on the tablecloth. “The Declaration of Independence says ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ And it’s in that order—life comes first. Without that unalienable right there can be no others.”

With Karl Landfors, dinner-table conversation often turned into speechmaking.

He appeared to notice it himself. Karl put down his fork, and asked, “How are you two enjoying St. Louis?”

Margie and I exchanged looks. She spoke up first. “We’re still getting settled. Mickey’s been out of town for most of the time we’ve lived here. And I’m going to be looking for a job—or maybe school. I’m thinking about nursing school.”

She hadn’t mentioned that to me. The last I’d heard, Margie was interested in becoming a horse trainer.

It was my turn to report. “I’m doing all right. The Browns are a good team—may go all the way.” I smiled. “And I’m leading the team in hitting, believe it or not.” My two singles in four at bats gave me a .500 batting average.

“Not,” Karl said with a laugh. “Remember, I’ve seen you hit.” We chatted a while more, then Margie excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Karl and I both watched her walk away. “She looks prettier every time I see her,” he said.

“To me, too.” My eyes followed Margie until she was gone from view.

“Is she really going to be a nurse?” Karl asked.

“Dunno. She’s looking for something to do with herself. It’s got to be boring for her to be alone half the year.”

Karl toyed with his glass for a few moments. “Mickey, there’s something I need to speak with you about.”

“I have something to tell you, too.”

Karl hesitated. “You first.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m going to ask Margie to marry me.”

A warm smile spread over his usually humorless face. “It’s about time! When are you going to pop the question?”

I was relieved to see that he obviously thought it a good idea. “Well ... I have to think about it. I mean, I have to figure out
how
to propose. What words to use, where to ask ... Jeez, I don’t even know her ring size.” I hadn’t given any thought yet to the realities of engagement—or marriage. I just knew I wanted to be married to Margie Turner.

Karl held up his glass in a salute, and said, “I know you’ll figure it out. And I know you and she will be very happy together.”

“Thanks, Karl.” Since he’d let me tell him my news first, I felt obligated to ask, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It’s ... well ...” Karl was rarely at a loss for words, but he couldn’t find them this time. “It can wait until later,” he decided.

Margie came back and sat down. “What did I miss?”

I shot Karl a warning look that he’d better not let on what I’d told him. “We were talking about dessert,” I said.

“Let’s have it at home,” she suggested. “I have an apple pie in the icebox.”

Karl and I agreed. I was in no hurry, though. I had the feeling that once we got there, Karl would get around to the matter he wanted to discuss with me. And I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

 

By the time we arrived at the apartment, I was eager for Karl to tell me what was on his mind. He kept grinning at Margie and me like an antsy kid bursting to tell a secret, and I worried that he’d reveal my proposal plans.

Karl’s demeanor remained the same as he wolfed down three pieces of pie and two glasses of Moxie. Several times he appeared on the verge of a giggling fit, and once nearly choked on a bite of the dessert.

I finally reminded him, “You mentioned there was something you wanted to talk about.”

“Yes.” His expression gradually darkened, and he fastidiously brushed a small mountain of crumbs from his tie and vest. “Someone, actually: Slip Crawford.”

I thought so. “Margie told me he was killed.”

“Lynched,” Karl corrected.

Out of curiosity, I asked him, “How did you hear about it? I don’t think there’s been much in the papers here. How’d the news get all the way to Boston?”

“I received a phone call from the lawyer I mentioned, the one with the NAACP. The colored community here is really up in arms about this—almost literally. Slip Crawford was a popular figure. He was not some obscure semipro player; he was a pitcher with the St. Louis Stars of the Negro National League.”

Huh. So the East St. Louis Cubs had brought in a ringer of their own. I felt some small relief that at least it was a professional pitcher who’d bested me.

Karl pushed up his spectacles. “When I learned that a St. Louis ballplayer was killed, I decided to call you and see if you knew of him. Then Margie ...”

She finished, “I mentioned that you played against Crawford in his last game.”

“And that gave me an idea,” Karl said. “I’d like you to ask around, talk to some of the other players from that ball game, and see if you can learn anything about what happened.”

“Isn’t it obvious what happened?” I said. “Crawford beat a white team, so the Ku Klux Klan lynched him. They were there at the game, all decked out in their hoods and robes, and carrying rifles.”

Karl nodded. “So I’ve been told. However, there is some question as to whether the Klan was really involved. They’re usually quick to take credit for their atrocities—it’s a way of flaunting their ‘power’ and helps intimidate anyone who might cross them. But this time they haven’t.” He leaned forward. “All I’m asking you to do, Mickey, is talk to some of the other players on the white team. See if they’ve heard anything. That’s all.”

“There’s nothing useful they’d tell me, Karl.” I didn’t see much point in talking to the Elcars; after the way I played for them, they were unlikely to share any confidences with me. And, there was another reason to avoid them. “I really wasn’t supposed to play in that game. If I go asking questions, and it gets out that I played as a ringer, I could be in serious trouble.”

“What would the Browns do to you?” Karl asked.

“Suspend me, at least. And it’s not just the Browns. Commissioner Landis doesn’t like major leaguers playing against colored clubs; who knows what could happen if he found out.”

“Do you seriously believe he’d punish you for playing in a baseball game?”

“He just suspended Babe Ruth a
month
for playing exhibition games without permission. If he’d do that to Ruth, who knows what he’d do to a”—I almost said “nobody”—“to somebody like me.”

Margie suggested, “You don’t have to tell them your real name. You could still go by ‘Welch.’ ”

“What about the police?” I asked Karl. “Aren’t they looking into it?”

Karl sniffed with disdain. “The police haven’t ruled out the possibility of suicide.”

“Huh?”

“It’s nonsense, of course. Crawford had been beaten before he was hanged. But that’s the official police position.”

“Jeez.”

“It is important that we learn what happened,” Karl said. “In the South, the Klan has been carrying out more and more lynchings the further the antilynching bill progresses through Congress. We want to know if their violence is spreading to the Midwest.”

“You know what I don’t understand?” Margie said. “Why is it called ‘lynching’? It’s
murder.
Why not arrest the lynchers for murder? Then you don’t need an antilynching law.”

Karl nodded. “That is one of the arguments opponents use—that the crime is already covered under state homicide statutes. Legalistically, I can see the point. But the reality is that if a mob of fifty men gets together to hang a Negro, it is virtually impossible to determine afterward which men were actively involved in the killing, which were accomplices, and which were bystanders. No prosecutor is going to charge all fifty with murder, and if he did, no jury would convict them. With so many participating, it effectively diffuses everyone’s degree of responsibility. When charges are filed in a lynch case, the most serious charge the killers typically have to face is disorderly conduct.” Karl pulled several newspaper clippings from his jacket pocket and selected one of the articles. “I’ve been carrying these with me for the last couple of months. This one spells out the real reason the antilynching bill is being opposed.” He adjusted his glasses and read aloud, “ ‘During debate in the House, Representative James B. Aswell of Louisiana took to the floor, and declared,
White people of the South have a right to lynch a Negro anytime they see fit without interference on the part of the Federal Government.’ ”