A friend gets on board with Buck

Me and Calvin

For this post/installment of my Buck Leonard series (a couple earlier installments here and here), I wanted to highlight how the subject of the Negro Leagues and their history is so infectious that enthusiasm for it spreads from person to person effortlessly, including on a especially personal level.

The following essay is written by my dear friend Calvin Adkins, whom I met in 1995, right after I graduated from IU and moved to eastern North Carolina. Calvin and I worked together for a couple years in Tarboro, N.C., where, as it happens, Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher Bill Foster lived for a couple decades after retirement.

When Foster was elected to the Hall in 1996, Calvin and I worked on a story about Foster’s connection to Tarboro for the Daily Southerner newspaper [which has, sadly, subsequently closed after nearly two centuries of publication]. As part of our reporting, we ventured to Rocky Mount to interview Buck Leonard about Foster and a host of other topics.

Below is a narrative penned by Calvin about that incredible day in which I passed on my love of the Negro Leagues to someone who has since become a lifelong, close friend. After his essay, I’ll add a few more notes about Tarboro:

When my good friend Ryan Whirty asked me to pen a column concerning our experiences in 1996 as journalists for The Daily Southerner assigned to write and photograph a feature story of Walter Fenner “Buck” Leonard, I immediately said, “That’s been so long ago that I can’t remember anything.”

Since 1996 many birthdays have come and gone and pushed my age to six years over half of 100. At times it seems like I have forgotten more than I can remember. But I do remember shaking the hands of Walter Fenner “Buck” Leonard.

I met Ryan when he was working at our rival paper, The Rocky Mount Telegram. Back then it was called the Evening Telegram. It was probably one of Ryan’s first full-time journalist jobs. [Editor’s note: It was indeed my first.]

More than likely, we met while covering the same story. All I can say is we became friends instantly. It wasn’t too long afterward that Ryan left The Telegram to work with us at The Southerner. I never understood why he left a paper with the circulation of about 30,000 to work for a paper with the circulation of about 10,000. I never asked him why, but just a little part of me would like to believe that he changed jobs because of our friendship.

Ryan was younger than I, but he was a gritty, intelligent, aggressive and thorough reporter. His investigative skills were like that of a veteran journalist. I covered cops and courts and was the main photographer for the Southerner. I also covered sports.

It was Ryan’s investigative skills and his love for the Negro League Baseball that led him to Mr. Leonard’s feature. Mr. Leonard lived in Rocky Mount on the Edgecombe County side of town. I heard of him, but the light bulb didn’t come on about his significance in the baseball world until Ryan shared his experience in the Negro League.

To be honest, I felt a little dumbfounded because a red-headed white man from Indiana had to tell me about an African-American Hall of Famer who lived in my home county. Mr. Leonard’s sparkling career should have been first-hand information for me because I am an avid sports fan and I am an African American.

From the time I received the assignment until the day that Ryan and I were going to travel to Mr. Leonard’s house, I was over the fact that Ryan had beaten me to a significant story. But most of all, I was thrilled to be assigned to take pictures of a Hall of Famer.

Since I knew more about the county than Ryan, he asked me to drive. During the trip, I can’t recall talking too much about Mr. Leonard as much as thinking about what type of pictures were best suited for Ryan’s featured story. We were shooting film back then. I had already placed a roll in my camera along with a fresh set of batteries for my flash. I was a little nervous but, if I had any solace, it was knowing that my job was going to be easier than Ryan’s.

When we arrived at Mr. Leonard’s house, I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I recalled a very polite elderly lady opening the door. She greeted us with a pleasant, articulate Yankee accent with a small touch of a Southern flavor. She was expecting us and after a short greeting, she led us to Mr. Leonard who was sitting in his trophy room.

I can’t remember what he was wearing or whether or not he wore glasses. What I do remember is looking around in awe of the memorabilia that he collected. There were pictures, posters, bats and balls, and jerseys. It was the coolest little museum that I had ever seen. Other than on a baseball field, I couldn’t have asked for a better place to take pictures of Mr. Leonard.

During the formal introduction, I looked Mr. Leonard in his eyes and shook his hand. The handshake was proof that the then-89-year-old National Baseball Hall of Famer wasn’t feeble, but father time had taken some of the strength from his hands. Although the greeting formality lasted just a few seconds, it was something majestic about that handshake that I just didn’t understand.

In an effort to allow Mr. Leonard to get comfortable with Ryan and I invading his space, I waited a few minutes before I began taking pictures. Ryan did a great job of introducing us and easing into the interview. It wasn’t long before Mr. Leonard was talking to us like we were one of his teammates. I can’t remember the exact conversations, but I do remember that Mr. Leonard’s memory was quite phenomenal.

Ryan’s interview had Mr. Leonard’s undivided attention, which made my job that much easier. I took wide angles shots of Mr. Leonard showcasing his memorabilia in the background and also close-ups that detailed the personality of an aging Negro League player. While looking through my viewfinder, I realized that this was a special moment.

Mr. Leonard was a Negro League superstar who was good enough to have played in the Major Leagues but didn’t because of the racial divide in America. But he persevered. Because of his dominance, he was called the Black Lou Gehrig. In fact, Negro League star Monte Irvin said that if Leonard had been allowed in the Major Leagues, baseball fans “might have called Lou Gehrig the white Buck Leonard.”  

Ryan’s story was published in The Daily Southerner and I remember getting rave reviews from the community. The editor chose a close-up shot as the feature photo and Ryan’s word capture the essence of Mr. Leonard’s entire life. Ryan sent the story to the Associated Press, and they picked it up for other newspapers to use across America.

Approximately one year later (Nov. 27, 1997), Mr. Leonard passed away. On that day I remember reflecting back to shaking the hand of a Negro League Baseball player.

Postlude

That was Calvin’s experience, and I remain honored and delighted that he and I were able to share such a special moment through a meeting with a baseball legend.

I just wanted to add a few more thoughts to fill in some background on this tale. First off, a couple years ago I wrote a story about Bill Foster’s connection to Tarboro and the neighboring town of Princeville for the Raleigh News & Observer; you can read the piece here.

Second, Tarboro, as it turns out, has another intimate connection to the Negro Leagues, in the person of Hubert “Bert” Simmons, a pitcher/utility player for North Carolina A&T in Greensboro N.C., as well as local Negro minor league teams like the Raleigh Tigers (where he was managed by the aforementioned Foster), Greensboro Red Wings and Asheville Blues. His career culminated with in 1950, when he played for the Baltimore Elite Giants of the Negro American League.

But Simmons was born in Tarboro in 1924 and spent his youth there. Although he settled in Baltimore following his hardball career, he occasionally returned to Tarboro for reunions and such. In several post-career interviews, Simmons discussed his childhood in Tarboro, including being barred from playing organized baseball at the town’s stadiums because of segregation, as well as the fact that his school, Pattillo High School, didn’t even have a varsity baseball team (it’s now a middle school).

Simmons was able to overcome those handicaps, however, and went on to shine at NC A&T before moving on to his pro career. At A&T Simmons guided the Aggies to multiple Central Intercollegiate Athletic Association crowns in the 1940s by becoming the ace of the A&T staff as well as the consensus best hurler in the CIAA. He eventually earned his bachelor’s from the school and was elected to the Aggie Hall of Fame in 1978. (One of his Aggie teammates was Tom Alston, the first black player for the St. Louis Cardinals. Another product of A&T around that time was James Robinson.)

While in retirement in Baltimore, Simmons became a high-profile community leader and baseball coach at the Little League, high school, college and American Legion levels. His crowning achievement was helping to establish what is now the Hubert V. Simmons Museum of Negro League Baseball in the library at Owings Mills, Md. He passed away in 2009.

But as I stated, Bert occasionally returned to Tarboro, including Pattillo High School reunions, which is where my buddy Calvin met him in 2002. Calvin, with his experiences visiting Buck Leonard with me in 1996 in his pocket, interviewed, photographed and became buds with Simmons, who signed a baseball card for Calvin.

This past November, when I voyaged to North Carolina for Thanksgiving, I spent a day in Tarboro and Princeville cruising around with Calvin, and he gave me the card signed by Bert Simmons. I was extremely touched by the gift, so many thanks to Calvin — for the card, for writing this article, for all the barbecue lunches, for coming with me to meet Buck, and for being one of the best friends a guy could ever have.

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Buck extras, Part 1

I’ve been compiling so much info and piles of files about Buck Leonard for my ongoing project about him and my meeting with him that occasionally I come across some pretty neat stuff that’s worth discussing for a bit but doesn’t fit into one of the main posts I write about Buck.

There’s also info, documents and articles I come across that are pertinent to posts I’ve already written, things that I would have included in said previous posts if I had known about them.

For these two types of particulars, I’m going to write some odds-and-ends side posts, of which this one is the first. So onward we go! …

The first item for this piece is an article I found in the Rocky Mount Telegram that perhaps conveys what I wrote in my previous post about the Rocky Mount, N.C., black population forming its own, self-sustaining economic and social demographic as a way of coping with and even defying the lingering racism that permeates the community there.

The article covers a May 1956 meeting and awards ceremony of a local community organization of black men called the Frontiers of America, or the Frontiersmen. At the gathering, Buck received a citation for achievement in sports, while other members were honored for their accomplishments in other fields.

However, the majority of the article involved an addressed by Dr. G.K. Butterfield, a councilman for the small city of Wilson, N.C., located about 20 miles south of Rocky Mount along I-95. Butterfield was the first African American elected to the Wilson City Council and the first black elected official in eastern North Carolina since Reconstruction.

As a dentist, Dr. Butterfield cared for men, women and children in the impoverished East Wilson community. He co-founded the local NAACP chapter and dedication himself to voter registration drives, but he lost his council seat in 1957 thanks to a form of gerry-mandering that blunted the impact of the local black vote. (Butterfield’s son, also named G.K. Butterfield, is currently a Congressman representing North Carolina; the younger Butterfield previously served on the North Carolina Supreme Court.)

G.K. Butterfield and family

Back to the elder Butterfield’s speech at the 1956 Frontiersmen meeting … the dentist and elected official challenged the men in attendance — as well as the entire black community — to establish economic success within that community that would bring local African Americans closer to achieving equal rights and respect from the white community. Here’s an excerpt from the Telegram article:

“The Wilson Councilman challenged Negroes throughout this area to do something about the economic condition of the race. He stated that the pressure had been on Negroes for the past three or four months and in order for the race to survive, members of the race would have to being now doing something about it. The speaker also stated that when a member of the other race took a bold stand for integration, he too, was subjected to the same type of economic pressure. He went on to city instances in other states where this is happening.

“Continuing, Dr. Butterfield told the group that the Negro cannot be independent unless he can furnish all the necessities of life. Because of that fact, he asserted, Negroes are treated as children. He further suggested that Negroes try to help bring in new industries into this section. This can be done, he stated, by helping to vote men into public offices who are favorable to projects of this type. In addition, Negroes must have an interest and a good attitude in the economics of the community. So far, he asserted, the race has neglected this field.”

To me, the speech seems to have included some of Booker T. Washington’s belief in racial uplift through self-reliance and business success, as well as Malcolm X’s message of establishing a separate, successful community apart from the white society that heaped scorn and hate on blacks.

The article, I think, also reflects how those beliefs have been present in Rocky Mount’s African-American community for decades and have helped form the current situation I discussed in my previous post.

The second chunk of info I want to relay in this post is much more upbeat and sunny than Butterfield’s speech from 60-plus years ago. My first post in this Buck Leonard series served as a introduction by chronicling the reaction of the Rocky Mount community and media upon Leonard’s death in November 1997.

The genuine and heartfelt expression of sadness as well as joy in celebrating Buck’s life and legacy that came from the entire Rocky Mount community revealed that, after decades of wrangling with the ideas of integration and equality, Buck had truly been embraced as Rocky Mount’s favorite son, an icon for the city and a symbol of how far the city had come toward achieving full racial reconciliation.

Well, now it’s time to show how Buck Leonard fully and passionately reciprocated that positivity and acceptance he received. Despite all the trials of segregation and the challenges posed by ongoing racism, Buck did love his hometown and never considered living anywhere else during his life. That included eschewing the possibility of a residence in Pittsburgh while becoming a Homestead Grays legend.

Rocky Mount Telegram, Aug. 16, 1970

These excerpts come from various other articles in the Rocky Mount Telegram in which the writer expounds on Buck’s love for his hometown. I want to note that right now, as of this moment, I don’t have much personal testimony on this subject from Buck, i.e. him in his own words, for various reasons, but I will uncover them at some point. One example is his autobiography, written with James Riley, the book that inspired me to get up the gumption to call Buck in the first place; I’ll discuss that in my next post.

So here are some of those article excerpts …

Staff writer Mike Hixenbaugh, Nov. 30, 2007, issue, upon a celebration and remembrance on the 10th anniversary of Leonard’s death:

“If there was one thing the baseball legend loved above all else, it was the town he grew up in. After his 1972 induction to the Baseball Hall of Fame, Leonard was offered a job in the Major League Baseball Commissioner’s office, but refused the position to stay in Rocky Mount — avidly supporting little league, running a local minor league team and also working as a truant officer and real estate broker.”

Sports editor Jessie Nunery, Oct. 10, 2010:

“To understand Walter Fenner ‘Buck’ Leonard was to know that no matter where life took him, Rocky Mount was home. …

“Leonard always came home to Rocky Mount, no matter his accomplishments.

“‘As a man, he was a good man, a good community man,’ said Rocky Mount native Henry Barnes, who lived in the same neighborhood as Leonard’s family, an area known as ‘Little Raleigh.’ ‘The one things we always say is, ‘He went off an accomplished quite a bit, but he did not forget where he came from.’ He didn’t build a house on the hill. He was always right here.’” …

Nunery also discusses Buck’s activities and impact during the years after his baseball career; I’m going to have a couple posts of my own down the road focusing on this topic. Wrote Nunery:

“Those who missed out on Leonard’s playing days were able to learn about him as a man here in Rocky Mount. …

“These years were about giving back to Rocky Mount. Little boys who didn’t know it was possible to play baseball for a living were exposed to the game when Leonard made the rounds at black elementary schools on a weekly basis. For many, Leonard’s visits were the first time they swung a bat. At that time, physical education was not a part of the curriculum. …”

The final article comes from just under a year ago, on March 12, 2017. This story is particularly special because it’s authored by Rose Hunter, Buck’s step daughter and director of the Buck Leonard Association for Sports & Human Enrichment, an organization created in 1999 to provide athletic opportunities and personal enrichment services to children of low-income families in Rocky Mount. I’ll discuss the BLASHE and hopefully interview Mrs. Hunter and other family members and community volunteers down the road.

These final quotes begin to examine Buck Leonard’s formative years and how they affected the man he became and his love for Rocky Mount. Wrote Hunter:

“To begin to unveil the making of North Carolina’s first baseball Hall of Famer, we begin with a look at the early and formative years that most likely contributed to Leonard’s ascension to prominence both and and off the baseball field.

“Leonard enjoyed what he believed an idle family life with his father, mother and five siblings. His mother ran a strict and immaculate household while his father worked with the Atlantic Coastal Railroad. …

“The path of Leonard’s life was dramatically altered with the death of his father. At the behest of his mother when he was 12, he became male child head of the household. Working at the local hosiery mill and later on the local railroad, Leonard took on the responsibility of his succession with the aid of his siblings until the Great Depression led to his unemployment. …

“Leonard was not the flamboyant, bombastic jock seeking the limelight, but one who approached the game in a very methodical manner, a thoughtful practitioner; he was a critical thinker — sure in the clutch and almost never left a man on base. Possessing a calm demeanor, Leonard was a near-perfect fielder; his pull-style hitting resulted in both power and average.”

That wraps up this here post. Like I noted at several points during it, I still have much, much more to do for this project, and my goal is to do as much of it as I can — namely, interviewing folks, getting personal information and presenting some of Buck’s own words. This is a work in progress, and it’ll hopefully continue to gestate into something special.

My Buck Leonard story: A return to Rocky Mount

The air on the northwest outskirts of Rocky Mount was crisp but not frosty, a gorgeous fall day, the type a typical Rochester kid misses from his youth and savors once he resides well below the Mason-Dixon line. Summers in eastern North Carolina — not to mention the heavy, seemingly endless and sultry type that said upstate New York boy slogs through in New Orleans with resignation and a series of sweat-stained ballcaps — are oppressive enough that the arrival of what passes for autumn in those summer climes is met with unrestrained joy.

It was, I guess is what I’m sayin’, a gloriously resplendent day. Beautiful. Fantastic. Quite gnarly.

It had taken me a couple hours or so to drive — with a rental car, because my stepmother’s Audi is off-limits and my dad’s SUV is frightening — from Atlantic Beach to the cemetery, surprisingly quickly.

The majority of the graves in Gardens of Gethsemane are small but dignified, flat stone markers nestled amongst the well manicured grass. A good portion of the rest of the graves are identified with modest tombstones, few of them taller than waist-high, if that. Most of these such graves are located toward the rear of the cemetery, shaded by longleaf pine trees that steadily drop enough brown needles to thinly blanket the ground below.

Rising from this prickly, arboreous crust are a pair of mausoleums that, aside from their contents and stony scripts, are pretty much identical to each other — four crypts high and two crypts wide. (I don’t remember how many crypts deep they are, and of course I didn’t bother to take a picture of the whole thing.) On this day, the sun’s brilliant rays glint off the brown marble of the ends of the mausoleums, adding a muted radiance.

The most notable facet of the modest cemetery for me is the white stone sculpture of Jesus that stands guard at the entrance to the Gardens. Hands at his side and facing forward, his head bowed slightly, the short but affecting figure stands atop a brick foundation with a small bed of flowers in front and a flagpole rising above Jesus’ head and topped by an American flag. The statue is similar to ones that stand sentinel at countless cemeteries large and small across the country, but the one at the Gardens of Gethsemane fits seamlessly into the overall mood, scope and spiritual impact of the cemetery.

(The perpetual-care, privately owned cemetery is actually a fairly new one — it was created in 1991 despite some grumblings from adjacent property owners who worried that groundwater from the graves would contaminate the neighbors’ drinking water. Then-Edgecombe County Board of Commissioners Chairman Rev. J.O. Thorne endorsed the proposal, and landscape contractor A.B. Rose called it “a good project, and I think it’s going to be a good asset to the community.” Actually, it seems like the cemetery was initially supposed to be much bigger than it turned out, from a proposed 10,000 graves down to roughly 2,400, with wetlands issues playing a role. I write about these picky details out of nostalgia from my early days as a journalist in small-town North Carolina, covering planning boards and county commission meetings. It seems like a whole lot of drudgery, and it was in some ways. But it was also kind of fun and compelling getting to see how government works on a small scale. And by and large, local governmental systems — especially in small-town America, work much more smoothly and with a minimum of acrimony, certainly compared to what we see in D.C. It was surprisingly reassuring. That doesn’t mean things were completely devoid of controversy, personal grudges and administrative volatility; that stuff was there, no doubt. But municipal and county-level government tends to be much more responsive and attentive to the needs and concerns of the populace, which is pretty cool.)

In all, the Gardens of Gethsemane covers about … honestly, I don’t know how many acres of land along U.S. 64 Alternate, otherwise known as East Raleigh Road. (I was going to call the cemetery office and ask weirdly specific but non-burial questions like that, but I figured I’d come off a little, umm, weird. I’ll get the exact acreage in the revision to this opus.) While the cemetery is roughly three miles out from the center of town, it’s situated far enough out to the west that the surroundings have a slight country field; across the road is the dilapidated, overgrown, rusted Rocky Mount fairgrounds (the facility has been idle since the 2016 Rocky Mount fair, which had been a century-old local attraction before its demise), and flanking the cemetery are a roller skating rink and custom car shop. Dotting the stretch in between the businesses are single- and double-wides, and modest but neat, one-floor homes with brick siding. In all, it’s a typical, “eastern North Carolina” kind of vibe.

(Editor’s Note: In a coda to this post below, I discuss US 64 and how a part of it was renamed after Buck Leonard.)

Truth be told, I hadn’t been to Rocky Mount for at least a dozen years, but, aside from the propagation of generic commercial (fast food, dollar stores, pharmacies), the landscape hadn’t really changed — or at least from how I remembered it.

When I lived in Rocky Mount for about six months after graduating with my bachelor’s, the city — I’d call it a very large town with delusions of enormousness, but why quibble — wasn’t hurting economically, per se, but it wasn’t a boomtown, either. It had its anchor employers — RBC Bank, restaurant conglomerate Boddie-Noell Enterprises, Sara Lee Bakery and MBM Corp., the food distribution company my dad worked for a spell — but those sources of employment and revenue didn’t necessarily translate to a hopping business community or happening social scene.

Downtown Rocky Mount was, for all intents and purposes, dead, with shuttered businesses and very little traffic — auto, foot or otherwise. The downtown wasn’t blighted and didn’t qualify as a proverbial ghost town, but it was just, well, dead. Most of the population growth in the latter half of the 20th century occurred on the outer rings of the city, including the middle-upper-class neighborhood on the west side in which my parents lived.

Judging from what news and stats I can glean, I’m not really sure how Rocky Mount is doing financially these days. Recent Department of Labor numbers pegs the unemployment at around 6.5 percent or so, representing a significant drop from the mid-14-percent level of circa 2010.

However, the area’s largest employer, a Pfizer pharmaceuticals plant that (as of 2016) employed roughly 2,400 people, instituted drastic layoffs beginning in fall of that year, and the planned construction of new, $150-million-plus production facility by the firm reportedly doesn’t come with any new jobs.

Moreover, word in 2016 of a $160-million investment in a railroad terminal by CSX quickly evaporated, with the rail company stalling on implementation of the intermodal hub that allegedly would create at least 150 new jobs.

Rocky Mount Telegram, June 19, 1991

On the other hand, city officials and business leaders in spring 2017 crowed about the groundbreaking of a 175,000-square-foot, 12- acre, up-to-$41-million downtown community facility right smack downtown. Whether such a public enterprise, though, can spur the local economy — including the redevelopment of a long-dead downtown — well, we’ll see.

Buuuuuuuuuut, I undertake all that blathering to come back to my day last November visiting the Gardens of Gethsemane Cemetery near Rocky Mount and the crypt of its most famous denizen and the city’s favorite son.

To wit: at the entrance to the cemetery that day labored the owner and a few employees of the mega international conglomerate of Hunter’s Maintenance & Repair Service.

Well, of course not. Walter Hunter’s landscaping and general-labor business isn’t a global financial superpower. It’s not a substantial local corporation. In fact, whether it’s actually incorporated under the North Carolina government might be in question.

But there, in his work-worn, beat-up white pickup sat the man himself, Walter Hunter. With feet dangling from the driver’s side of the vehicle and his forearm draped over the steering wheel, Walter chomped on a cigar and picked at a late-afternoon sandwich. Various work equipment — a lawn mower, maybe? A generator? A magician’s trunk filled containing trick rings, colorful handkerchiefs, a top hat and at least two, possibly three bunnies? I don’t really remember — was piled up in the bed.

Adorned with neon green-yellow worked vests and calf-high brown leather boots, toting massive, yardwork plastic bags, and fanning out from the cemetery’s dirt driveway entrance, Walter’s subordinates meandered along the small ditch along East Raleigh Road, scooping up lawn clippings, branches and leaves and depositing them in the said plastic bags.

(As a clarification, for the rest of this post, when I refer to “Walter,” it’s to Walter Hunter, not Buck’s given first name — Walter Fenner Leonard.)

With the sun slipping down and the work day nearing its conclusion, it struck me that — railroad depots and drug plants and rec facilities aside — Walter’s little operation embodied what I recall as a truly Rocky Mount and eastern North Carolina business.

Because during all my time living in eastern North Carolina and working for small daily newspapers — a little over two years in the mid- to late-1990s — one of my biggest, clearest impressions of the social and cultural setting there was that the black community was extremely tight-knit. Surnames were often and widely shared, extended families were vast and geographically far-reaching, church congregations were devoted and deep, and black businesses were small but ubiquitous, from barbecue joints to barber shops to real-estate agencies to computer support firms to little landscaping operations like Walter’s.

In some ways, the African-American population in eastern North Carolina has been forced to develop such a cohesive network thanks to the unspoken, denied but persistent racism that permeates the region.

Although pockets of eastern North Carolina (including Edgecombe County, in which the Gardens of Gethsemane and Buck Leonard’s former house rest, and Halifax County to the northeast) are majority African-American and feature numerous black members of government or law enforcement, the real power and control of the region sits with the white population. The two groups mix and mingle with each other on a daily but casual basis, but that interaction is only formal, commercial and perfunctory in nature — almost as if it’s an economic and political necessity to keep local society functioning smoothly, without any disruptions.

But below that shallow, commercial surface layer, eastern North Carolina — at least when I lived there — was split by informal but strict segregation, a de facto cultural separation that affected living areas, religious life, social clubs and even schools to a certain extent. The fact that, unsurprisingly, many of the black neighborhoods and communities were among the poorest and most disadvantaged probably goes without saying.

Rocky Mount, my dad told me recently, presented one of the clearest examples of how institutional segregation can linger in impact and practice for decades after such racial division is banned under the law. Actually, it’s almost eerie.

Bisecting Rocky Mount right down the middle are lines of railroad tracks. To the east sits black-majority Edgecombe County, white-majority Nash County to the west, and to paraphrase my father, if you stand straddling those tracks facing north, you can look left (west), then right (east), and be witness to two completely different worlds — worlds in which the cliche of “wrong side of tracks” isn’t cliche — it’s real. I’ve rarely, if ever, seen one municipality so completely hewed in half along rigid geographical boundaries.

Thus the tight-knit, semi-insular nature of an African-American community that has battled and continues to battle segregation, economic disparity and social isolation by developing a self-contained community that supports, nurtures and grows itself. Such an evolution helped, in many ways, to shield the black population from often withering racism-cum-paternal sanctimony from local whites.

And, as I spoke with Walter Hunter this past November, I realized that Buck Leonard was a member of this black community, the one isolated by unspoken social segregation and compelled to develop a self-sufficient, intricate system of economics and spiritual unity. In fact, that closeness was perfectly exemplified by Walter’s remarkable connection with the legendary first baseman.

Walter’s father, Herbert Hunter, for decades operated a funeral home on the 200 block of Atlantic Avenue in Rocky Mount — just four blocks down from Buck’s home on the same street. So it’s not surprising that the Hunters, including young Walter, were good friends with the then-retired baseball star.

(On a neat little aside, both Buck and Herbert Hunter served on the 1972 campaign committee for Rocky Mount City Council candidate George W. Dudley; both men help positions on Dudley’s finance committee. Herbert Hunter passed away in 1982.)

Rocky Mount Telegram, April 14, 1982

Walter said he knew Buck when the Hunter Jr. was a wee one, and a popular, African-American-run business was often the catalyst for Walter’s frequent contact with the future Hall of Famer.

In fact, Walter recalls Buck dropping by Hunter’s Funeral Home to, well, just hang out and shoot the breeze. The mortuary served as a social gathering place for the almost all-black neighborhood, and Buck would smoke cigars with Herbert Hunter and just catch up. Many nights, Walter told me, the junior Hunter would jaw with the hardball legend, slowly realizing that through his father’s friendship with Leonard, little Walter got a chance to sit at the feet of greatness — modest, unassuming greatness.

“Everybody knew him,” Walter said. “He was very quiet. Almost every day he’d turn up at our office. I was a small boy.”

Mostly, Walter told me with a grin, he just listened to the retired great, a big bear of man who toward over the youth.

“He talked about baseball, talk about business,” Walter said, referring to Buck’s real-estate firm. “I was just a small boy, and back in those days, children didn’t get up in grownups’ business.”

My conversation with Walter Hunter that November day — as well as, in the interest of full disclosure, a follow-up interview with him over the phone a few weeks later — was both illuminating and comforting; it made me happy that Buck Leonard played such a large part in the everyday lives of his Rocky Mount neighbors.

However, my later phone conservation with Walter Hunter ended on a slightly doleful note — when I asked him if the city has done enough to recognize Buck Leonard and the star’s contribution to the city, Hunter was unequivocal in his response.

“They don’t do a whole lot in the city for him,” he said.

Which is a sentiment that comes across as a bit jarring, given the city’s record of honoring Buck — he has a park named after him; a significant thoroughfare has been renamed Buck Leonard Boulevard (a move that was made in the years after I left North Carolina in 1997); several community awards have are named and bestowed in his honor; and, in many ways, 20 years after Buck’s death, the Hall of Famer is, without hyperbole, Rocky Mount’s favorite son.

That left me wondering — is there a disconnect there? Has the city truly done enough? What exactly is Buck Leonard’s legacy in his hometown?

Perhaps the most important question to ask about how Buck Leonard impacted his hometown — especially in light of the lingering effects of segregation — is whether his fame, success and character went beyond inspiring and encouraging Rocky Mount to play baseball and to develop the same type of vibrant moral code Buck himself had?

Did Buck’s popularity across cultures and races actually help ease racial tensions and socioeconomic divides? By accepting an older black man as their city’s favorite son, were the whites of Rocky Mount given more than a cursory glimpse into the lives of the average black man, woman or child in the city? And were those whites spurred to thus open their minds to the historical realities that still faced minority populations in Rocky Mount? Was Buck not just a window into the lives of “the Other,” but also an active conduit for reconciliation, understanding and bonding?

Likewise, was Buck’s career and life — including not only his athletic achievements but his later-life roles as a school truant officer and successful businessman — enough evidence to show the city’s black residents that success was and still is possible? Was his example enough to give the socioeconomically downtrodden the type of inspiration and hope that, when coupled with helping hands from government programs and community organizations, could spur them to similar success as the baseball legend?

Being 20 years removed from my period of residence in eastern North Carolina — and, as such, viewing the situation with the jaundiced, admittedly somewhat sanctimonious eye of a Northern liberal and Negro Leagues scholar — I’m probably not the best person to render judgment here.

So, here we are. However, I’ll (try to) quickly offer up an example of the unspoken, persistent division and discord in Rocky Mount, one that happened a few years after I left eastern North Carolina for parts elsewhere, but also that, like those train tracks, involved a visible, pressing symbol. … 

In 1999, the Rocky Mount city government announced its plan to memorialize Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. with a new park and statue of the great civil rights leaders. Sounds well and good, right?

Well, according to University of Maryland professor Renee Ater, city officials bungled the process from the start — most significantly by failing to solicit much input from neighborhood residents or African-American organizations, giving Rocky Mount blacks the distinct feeling of, yet again, being ignored by a white power structure that, to them, feigned interest in the black community and operated with a sanctimonious patriarchy and pandering.

That allegedly callous official attitude was then couple, wrote Ater, when “Rocky Mount’s economy [took] a downward turn in early 2000, with a disproportionate impact on the African-American population.”

Asserted Ater in the Indiana Magazine of History in March 2014:

“As a result, the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial became a lightning rod for the divisive racial politics of Rocky Mount — a town that was 56 percent black at the time but had been ruled by the same white mayor and a majority-white city council for 30 years. … All of these issues formed a combustible mix, and deep emotions erupted to the surface in heated public discussions — on the surface about the statue and the artist [Erik Blome], but on a deeper level about local politics and the future of Rocky Mount.”

The irony was overpowering — the memory and image of a man who strove his entire life and succeeded (in varying degrees) to unite people was suddenly and tragically now the source of further division, anger and resentment.

Maybe somewhere in all that is a valid comparison between the nationally revered, outspoken orator, minister and revolutionary (King) and the quiet, unassuming local kid who happened to play baseball really well and, in so doing, practically stumbled in fame and importance in his hometown. But, maybe, that’s a further discussion for another day …

OK, having written all of this, including painting in some detail everything else about my November trip to visit Buck Leonard’s grave — the weather, the history of the cemetery, the social setting in Rocky Mount, my chat with Walter Hunter — I feel weird and somewhat guilty finally getting to the point of my venture that day.

That being visiting and actually seeing his grave. Which, strangely and possibly ruefully, I discuss now as a seeming afterthought. But it wasn’t an afterthought, please believe me. The moment I stood in front of the mausoleum that includes Buck’s crypt, with the sun beaming warming rays on my face, I felt a sense of … Satisfaction? Belonging? Tranquility rooted in the now confirmed knowledge that, at the very least in death, Buck Leonard is remembered, albeit (and quite properly, given his legendary humility) humbly, at least in death.

Buck’s crypt features a rectangular bronze plaque reading, “Walter F. ‘Buck’ Leonard, Baseball Hall of Fame, 1907-1997.” A little relief of a swinging baseball player separates his years of birth and death. Affixed to the right side of the plaque is a little vase holding white, red and pink artificial flowers; the floral arrangement, on this day, casts a shadow on the name plaque (which, at the very least, made it a bit challenging to get a decent picture of the grave).

(Another note: When I arrived at the cemetery I spoke briefly with the facility’s family services manager, Elsie Ricks, one of the company’s three employees, in a modest office building on the edge of grounds. I asked her if many people come to see Buck Leonard’s grave, and she kind of shrugged and gave a blase mumble of affirmation. To be fair, she was busy working on arrangements with a bereaved family on their loved one’s final burial place, so, sure, technically I was butting in on a very important conversation and being kind of a putz, but I was hoping for at least one or two nifty quotes. Phooey.)

After paying my respects (and yakking with Walter Hunter), I left the Gardens of Gethsemane and began the two-hour drive back to my folks’ place. My noggin rattled with errant reflection, trying to bring the whole day’s experience together. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t come to any sort of a conclusion about what I had just experienced. One overarching thought muffled any such attempt at satisfying contemplation.

I wasn’t done yet.

Nowhere near.

Rocky Mount Telegram, Nov. 19, 2005

Coda

In June 2004, roughly seven years after Buck Leonard’s death, the Rocky Mount City Council passed a resolution calling for the North Carolina Department of Transportation to rename Ramp Road —  a portion of U.S. 64 Business between the U.S. 64 Bypass, which runs east-west through Rocky Mount, to Sunset Avenue — Buck Leonard Boulevard. The DOT approved the alteration at its Sept. 2, 2004, meeting to restyle a fairly significant local thoroughfare into permanent memorial to the baseball legend.

In November 2004, a formal ceremony was held featuring remarks from the mayor pro tem and the unveiling of a massive sign along 64. The change was recommended by local attorney George Whitaker.

“He was just somebody I knew and thought a lot of, not because of what he had done in baseball,” Whitaker told the Rocky Mount Telegram at the time, “but just things other than that. … He was just as fine a gentleman as you’d ever want to meet.”

(Interestingly, what’s now Buck Leonard Boulevard sits in the Nash County side of the city, through a generally middle- to-upper-class area — and a hefty distance from Buck’s old neighborhood in the Edgecombe section of Rocky Mount.)

This pic is actually from Gary Ashwill’s Agate Type blog. I hope he doesn’t mind if I use it for this. His site, which is one of the best Negro Leagues blog out there, is here. Please check it out.

Traditionally, U.S. 64 has sometimes been described as “Murphy to Manteo,” entering the Tar Heel State at its very western tip in the Smokies near the former city, and concluding near the latter town, which sits in the middle of Roanoke Island, just west of the famed Outer Banks. And yes, it is that Roanoke Island, where some people got lost or some such.

I’ve traversed U.S. 64 innumerable times; it runs directly between Rocky Mount, where my parents lived and where I briefly worked at the Telegram, and Tarboro/Princeville, where I lived and worked at the Daily Southerner for a year and a half. The highway also runs right to Raleigh to the west, where my parents lived for several years after leaving Rocky Mount, and where my brother attended N.C. State.

(Tangential to this tangent is the story of Princeville, the first town in the U.S. chartered by blacks, which I’ve covered and written about a lot over the last 23 years, and which is the home of my lifelong friend Calvin. Both Princeville and Calvin — as well as none other than Hall of Fame pitcher Bill Foster — will figure into my Buck narrative in a bit.)

The renaming of a significant Rocky Mount thoroughfare and U.S. 64 connector to Buck Leonard Boulevard roughly corresponded with other, even more substantial adjustments. When I lived in Rocky Mount and Tarboro (circa 1995-1997), 64 was a limited-access, four-lane highway from Raleigh to Tarboro, but from there on east to the Outer Banks, it was a two-lane or four-lane, full-access road.

But that’s since changed — the four-lane freeway portion was extended to Williamston, about half-hour east of Tarboro and couple hours west of Manteo. The whole stretch from Raleigh eastward to Williamston — including through Rocky Mount — is in the process of being turned into Interstate 87. As it turns out, that’s significant because north-south I-95 runs just a few miles west of none other than Rocky Mount — in fact, it could be argued that Rocky Mount exists as a city largely thanks to I-95 traffic — which means there will be an intersection of interstates at Rocky Mount.

It also means that Buck Leonard Boulevard will soon become an important connector between Rocky Mount and an interstate, which would bring with it all sorts of developmental and commercial prospects, which, in turn, could make the name Buck Leonard a lot more well known to the general public. Which is quite good.

But there’s a little more to the U.S. 64/Buck Leonard story … Way back when the highway was first established, 64 was a simple two-lane road that ran right through downtown Rocky Mount; that changed when the 64 Bypass was built in the mid-1980s, and the old 64 became U.S. 64 Business/Alternate.

Connecting the dots, Buck Leonard Boulevard is, in fact a stretch of old U.S. 64, now 64 Business. From the end of the Buck Leonard Boulevard portion, 64 Business continues to run westward through the heart of Rocky Mount, from Nash County into Edgecombe County — through black and white neighborhoods, through well-off and working-class areas — until it exits the city with the name East Raleigh Road. Nestled along East Raleigh Road/64 Business?

The Gardens of Gethsemane cemetery.

My Buck story begins here

A sunny November day in Rocky Mount.

I apologize greatly that I once again left this blog fallow for an extended period of time. I was temporarily employed by a local New Orleans TV station on a big investigative project, and, well, it paid really, really well.

Plus I still seem to be at a personal and career crossroads, the same one that’s stymied me for well more than a year now. I’ve flopped around like a fish on the floor of a boat, gasping for air and desperately trying to hop my way to water and security. I just can’t figure out which way to flop, professionally speaking.

What I have been doing is trying to write longer-form pieces, and, for my return to the Interweb is the first part of a narrative about the time I met the great Buck Leonard. I’m hoping to post a new part each week, fingers crossed. I hope you like it.

********************

On Sept. 5, 1997, former U.S. Rep. Bob Etheridge of North Carolina read into the Congressional Record a tribute to Walter Fenner “Buck” Leonard, the Hall of Fame first baseman who would be celebrating his 90th birthday three days later.

Etheridge explained that he regretted he couldn’t be there in person — the Congressman’s district included much of Edgecombe County and the eastern side of the city of Rocky Mount, Buck’s hometown and lifelong residence — but that he wished the Negro Leagues legend all the best on Leonard’s big day. Read the Congressman:

“I only wish that the whole world could have seen the talents of Buck Leonard in the major leagues. Although that national recognition came too late for Buck Leonard, he is enshrined today in the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. There is no player more deserving of that great honor than Rocky Mount’s own Buck Leonard.

“Though Buck was forced to leave Rocky Mount to pursue his professional career, he never forgot his beloved hometown. It is only fitting that today, the city of Rocky Mount honors Buck Leonard not merely for his many baseball talents and accomplishments, but also for what he has done for this fine community.

“Buck, I wish you a happy birthday. Though I missed this celebration, reserve me a seat for your 100th birthday celebration.”

(As a side note, Etheridge, a seven-term Democrat, flamed out three or so years later, after a dust-up with a “gotcha” style journalist followed by an upset loss in his 2010 re-election campaign. He subsequently and unsuccessfully ran for governor.)

That centennial birthday bash never came. Buck Leonard died less than three months after Etheridge honored him in Congress, on Nov. 27, 1997. Upon his death, his hometown paper, the Rocky Mount Telegram — for which I had briefly worked a couple years earlier — dedicated the majority of its front page to his passing, and to what he meant to the city. Under a large-font headline stating, “‘Buck’ Leonard dies at 90,” ran a three-column photo of Buck with his wife, Lugenia, at the 90th birthday fete thrown for him. In the photo he was wearing a Homestead Grays cap. He might have been a Rocky Mount native, but Buck was also a Homesteader until the end.

Wrote Telegram sports reporter Bill Barnhart in the paper’s Dec. 2, 1997, issue:

“Buck paved the way for other athletes of color by playing with class on and off the field, not letting small-minded people affect his play or love for the game. Everyone I’ve ever talked to about Leonard uses the same words to describe him: class, dignity, grace. …

“His passing isn’t really a ‘sports story,’ although he truly was a great sportsman. It’s more of a people story. Buck gained his fame with his prowess on the baseball diamond, but he was an even better person off the field as he was on it. And that’s really saying something.”

Such glowing eulogies flowed forth from eastern North Carolina newspaper, penned by white men who had met Buck and come away impressed by a man who, despite his speech patterns and mobility severely impacted by a stroke suffered years earlier, exuded a mix of enthusiasm, humility and wisdom that drew people to him, almost if by a magic spell.

Then-Rocky Mount Telegram editor Mark Aumann (for whom I’d briefly worked as a high school sports reporter) declared that Buck “gained his fame for the most part playing in the same stadiums as the major leaguers but enjoying none of the widespread adulation. … But Leonard’s indefatigable attitude and outstanding ability forced whites … to notice the talents of black ballplayers.”

Ben Casey, sports columnist for the Graphic of Nashville, N.C. (a town located about a dozen miles west of Rocky Mount), recounted his encounter with Buck, a photography session that allowed Casey to meet the legend. After lamenting what he viewed as the arrogance and greed of modern-day players, Casey regaled his readers with his impressions of Leonard, a man, Casey said, embodied the strengths and grace that such current players sadly lacked.

Casey explained how, back in the days of Jim Crow, Negro Leaguers like Buck faced not just racial bigotry, but severe and stark economics and dire financial straits:

“A man that can survive that kind of failure off the field, a man that can survive exclusion on the basis of skin color … a man that can survive that while maintaining a gentle manner … that man is a major league human being … whether he ever played in the major leagues or not.”

I learned about the baseball legend’s passing while sitting in my spartan apartment in Holyoke, Mass., where I was the editor of the weekly Holyoke Sun newspaper. From what I recall I was sitting in what was more or less my living room — it consisted of a cushioned wood chair and a TV on a table — watching SportsCenter, when a news flash about Buck’s death appeared on the scroll at the bottom of the screen.

It seemingly came out of nowhere, amidst ESPN talking heads’ braying about that week’s NFL games and Plays of the Day. I have no doubt that the vast majority of ESPN viewers had no idea who Buck Leonard was, even though the crawl at the bottom of the screen noted that he was a Hall of Famer. For most of the TV audience, it was surely just more noise and babble they could easily tune out.

But for me … For me, it was a dispiriting gut punch, a shock to the system that instantly cloaked my evening with a disheartening pall that covered my mind for a week.

Because, like those journalists in North Carolina — and like hundreds, if not thousands of adoring Negro Leagues fans and awestruck little kids in the state for whom Buck was a near-mythic figure of inspiration — I had met Buck Leonard. I sat in his den, a room crammed from floor to ceiling with memorabilia, mementos and personal treasures from not just his playing days, but from his entire life.

I witnessed him struggle to walk without a wheelchair. I’d struggled through a conversation between a severe stutterer (me) and a man coping with the effects of a stroke (Buck) that, while labored at times, was a thrill of a lifetime.

As a journalist, I had gone to Buck’s house to interview him for a prospective article. I’d recorded our talk, I’d taken copious notes from the encounter.

But I subsequently decided to abandon the idea of an article. I just didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right to exploit such an extraordinary moment by selling a story about it. When I got home, I placed the tapes and notebooks on a shelf and have since lost them. Actually, I lost them many years ago.

And although I’ve regaled many people about my visit with a baseball legend, I’ve never written about, at least not beyond the occasional email or text. I’ve never written about it, choosing instead to preserve the spellbinding experience in my mind for more than 20 years.

But I write about it now.

*********************

When I arrived in Rocky Mount, N.C., in May of 1995, I was, in certain ways, a broken man, and I was only 22.

After three and a half extremely successful and rewarding years at Indiana University, I had placed myself in an enviable position poised on the verge of a rosy future. I was editor in chief of the Indiana Daily Student, an award-winning campus paper, and, having wrapped up my undergraduate work a semester early, I was already enrolled in a couple graduate courses.

In addition, I was ramping up for a summer copy-editing internship at the Louisville Courier Journal, an endeavor that could very well have launched a decent career in the troubled newspaper business.

But in February 1995, just a week after my 22nd birthday, I suffered a nervous breakdown triggered by the development of severe obsessive-compulsive disorder augmented by the onset of clinical depression.

After a week in a psychiatric hospital, I learned I had lost my editorship of the Daily Student, and I decided to withdraw from the courses I had been taking. But I still had my internship to look forward to, and I’d already earned my bachelor’s degree, so I plunged ahead after receiving what I thought was sufficient treatment to overcome the psychological collapse.

But a second breakdown less than two months later scuttled any hope I had left — my internship evaporated, leaving me with nothing on the horizon, nothing on which to pin any optimism for the future, professionally or personally.

I had nothing left.

Except for one thing.

One strand of optimism on which to cling.

I had an encounter with an octogenarian Baseball Hall of Famer.

******************

Part Two (hopefully) next week!

You want some Malloy? I got some Malloy!

Margie Peterson (far left) and Peggy Peterson (far right) talk with David Bowman and Belinda Manning (daughter of Newark pitcher Max Manning) talk about Robert Peterson‘s landmark book, “Only the Ball Was White,” after listening to a recording of Robert’s stirring address at the very first Malloy Conference 20 years ago. Here is a passionate essay by Larry Lester describing the influence of the book on Larry and his work.

Derrick Jones (left) presents a surprised Larry Lester with a beautiful, hand sewn, Negro Leagues-themed quilt for Larry’s years of dedication and efforts.

Other than taking forever to put together this post, I’m still riding high on the wave of coolness — wave of coolness? — that was SABR’s 20th annual Jerry Malloy Negro Leagues Conference, held this year in Harrisburg from July 27-29.

In my previous post, I kind of let loose with some emotional thoughts about how important the Malloy conference — and similar efforts to promote, preserve and teach folks about the legacy of the Negro Leagues, as well as our very American history in general — to our both those who attended and to the mission of baseball research.

So I’ll try to keep this one light-ish in tone and heavy on picture. In addition to some I took, there’s a whole lot snapped by other attendees, including Missy Booker, Ted Knorr, Leslie Heaphy, Sherman Jenkins and Rodney Page. I lost track of who exactly took which one, so I hope it’s OK if I just give a general photog credit here. Also diligently snapping photos the entire weekend was official conference photographer Louis C. McKinney, who owns a photography business in Marietta, Pa.

If I included photos by anyone else I neglected to list, let me know. Many thanks to all!

And, of course, thanks to the dedicated folks who planned, plotted and prepared this year’s edition – you know who you are!

Just a quick note … the Harrisburg Senators game on July 28, at which the former players were honored, was rained out, which was quite the bummer. I love minor league baseball — you do not even know — so this was a disappointment. As the Louisiana Weekly sportswriters of yesteryear might say, ol’ Jupe Pluvius had his way that night.

One more comment … A bunch of media outlets either previewed or covered this year’s conference, including the New York Amsterdam News, PennLive.com, The Burg community newspaper, WN.com and Gameday Gold (by Thomas Tuttle).

Oh, also … thanks to the ever-gracious and ebullient Phil Ross for the breakfast bagel and cream cheese! Also, many humble thanks to all the new friends I made at the conference, as well as the folks whom I had known or communicated with over the years that I finally had a chance to meet this year. There were many of you, a fact of which I’m extremely grateful.

OK, let the festivities begin!

My good buddy Phil Ross and me. He’s obviously the handsome one here.

Floyd Stokes (left) and Ted Knorr (Harrisburg kid and my annual Malloy roomie, along with Lou Hunsinger Jr.) present their children’s Negro Leagues activity book at the conference’s education forum.

The highlight of the conference for me was undoubtedly the attendance of my good friend Rodney Page, son of legendary team owner/manager/league executive/sports promoter/hotelier Allen Page, who served as a chairman of sorts of the New Orleans Negro Leagues scene for 30 years.

I hope to write more about Rodney and my friendship with him soon, but for now, I’m extremely glad that I was able to convince him to attend the Malloy this year — he lives in Austin, Texas — and I know he had a blast. So thanks to Rodney for attending, and to everyone else who made him feel so welcome at our “family reunion.” He learned a lot, shared a lot and probably even cried a big over the three days.

Rodney and I at the meet-and-greet.

Rodney with Belinda Manning, David Bowman and Jim Myers at the banquet.

Rodney providing moving comments at the meet-and-greet, with Larry looking on.

Rodney (second from right) with former Negro Leaguers Sam Allen, Jim Robinson and Ken Free, along with other descendants of Negro League figures. The members of the group were recognized, thanked and given certificates for their gracious attendance.

Rodney and I with KC Monarch Sam Allen.

One of the highlights of the conference was the Rap Dixon tour, led by local experts/researchers Ted Knorr and Calobe Jackson. It was a muggy day, and I ended up absolutely soaked with sweat, but it was worth it. Rap was a stupendous outfielder for the Harrisburg Giants, among other clubs.

Dozens of us piled onto a specially rented school bus for the trek, which included key stops on Adams Street/Hygienic Hill in the borough of Steelton, where Rap Dixon and many other black residents lived, went to school and worshiped; and historic Midland Cemetery to pay respects at Rap’s grave, which a couple years ago received a stunning tombstone after going unmarked for decades.

Here is a TV report about our tour.

Ted speaking in front of Rap Dixon’s home while a TV fellow films him and Calobe looks on.

Calobe giving the tour bus rich details about Rap.

Steelton Mayor Maria Romano Marcinko reads the borough’s proclamation honoring Rap and declaring Rap Dixon Day. Here is a borough press release on the event.

SABR CEO Marc Appleman with the Rap proclamation. Marc is a regular Malloy attendee.

Community activist Barbara Barksdale filling the tour crowd in about the Hygienic School, the school Rap attended as a youth as Mayor Marcinko listens in. In the background, local kids play to-on-two on the court that sits where the school used to stand.

Borough parking staffers and Steelton police rolled out the red carpet for us. We had a police escort!

The following three photos show Reich Field in Steelton, which honors Rap.

The presentations, as usual, were splendid and quite educational. In addition to the ones mentioned in the captions to the photos below, we had:

  • Rich Puerzer’s relating of the importance and legacy of Colonel William Strothers in Harrisburg blackball;
  • Jeremy Beer‘s revealing look at the man and off-the-field personality — the true personality, not the one glorified by writers of back then and today — of Oscar Charleston;
  • An alternative history of Negro League baseball, in which presenters Ed Edmonds and Michael Cozzillo tantalizingly speculated on what would’ve happened if Major League Baseball had expanded by accepting entire black teams;
  • Gary Sarnoff’s look at the role Bill “Chick” Starr — as executive of the then-PCL members Padres — played in the integration of baseball. In 1948 Starr signed catcher John Ritchey as the first black player in the PCL.
  • Mary E. Corey’s and Mark Harnischfeger’s fascinating presentation called, “Byways, Segues, Digressions and Detours,” which, according to their proposal, “focuses on a variety of off-the-beaten-path connections to our research into the social and economic impact of the Negro Leagues”;
  • Ken Mars’ summary of his in-depth baseball archaeology of pre-1890’s black baseball, including the city’s participation of the 1887 National Colored League. Here’s a link to some of his work;
  • One of my faves from the weekend — Paul Spyhalski‘s examination of the role black baseball played in early-20th-century Iowa resort tourism and how blackball helped make the tourism industry boom in the Hawkeye State.
  • Todd Peterson’s exhaustive statistical analysis of Negro Leagues’ top-level players to prove, numbers-wise — that blackball stars were indeed of Major League-level;
  • Bill Johnson’s heartfelt, personal look into the life and career of the great Art Pennington, who …
  • A similarly passionate examination of outfielder Jim Zapp by Bill Nowlin, Rick Busch and James Zapp Jr., who told the crowd how much Zapp Sr. inspired them personally;
  • A discussion by Emily Rutter, who made possibly the most intellectual and philosophically challenging presentation — the emotional and historical implications and impacts of August Wilson’s Pulitzer Prize-winning and Tony Award-winning play, “Fences,” as well as the Oscar-nominated movie directed by and starring Denzel Washington (who got robbed of his second Best Actor Oscar).

Melissa Booker (here with Derrick Jones) gave a nifty presentation on influential but overlooked Pittsburgh Courier writer William Nunn Sr.

Jeff Williams discussed the political philosophies and connections and how those factors influenced him and his dream of integrated baseball.

John Graf presented a fascinating hypothesis — what if a Satchel-led group of dozens of black ball players competed in a “fantasy league” for a season?

On top of the research presentations, the conference included three power special panels — a Q&A featuring Negro Leagues veterans Jim RobinsonKen Free Sr. and Sam Allen, moderated by Carmen Finestra and also featuring historians Calobe Jackson and Andy Linker; the Ted Knorr-hosted discussion on the stellar short film by emerging filmmaker Scott Orris, “There Were Giants,” about the 1954 Harrisburg Giants; and a culminating playing of Robert Peterson’s moving and immortal address at the very first Malloy conference (Peterson, of course, is the author of the seminal, “Only the Ball Was White”).

One more items: At Thursday’s meet-and-great, author Michael G. Long of Elizabethtown College narrated his efforts toward his new book, “Jackie Robinson: A Spiritual Biography,” about Jackie’s religious convictions and how he applied them during his career.

I’ll close out this photo-ganza with a handful of other cool pics, a lot of them from Saturday night’s dinner and award ceremony that featured a massive silent auction, a delectable barbecue buffet and music by the Mark Hunsberger Quartet …

Sherman Jenkins (with his stellar new biography of Ted Strong) and John Wakelin. John and I, tangentially, had a neat discussion earlier in the conference about a 1940’s-era photo John uncovered from Kosciusko, Miss., and John’s efforts to track down the photo’s baseball-related details.

Three generations of Charles Crutchfields (Junior, III and IV) after Charles III received the prestigious Fay Vincent MVP Award. The Crutchfields are relatives of the great outfielder Jimmie Crutchfield.

Donald Conway, Ruby Berryman and Phil Ross.

Jay Hurd, Susan Rayl, John Graf and Sherman Jenkins. Rayl’s in-the-works PhD dissertation is on the Harlem Rens, the legendary “black five” basketball team.

The last two are just really cool shots of the Malloy family.

Finally, here’s a couple self-indulgences — a beautiful signed print of Double Duty Radcliffe that I couldn’t afford but splurged on nonetheless during the silent auction at the banquet, and my goofy mug.

Really quick … some the other award winners:

  • Significa contest titlist — Rich Puerzer (his second title). Runners up were Todd Peterson and John Graf;
  • First registrants — Dan D’Addona, Jay Hurd and Roy Langhangs
  • Farthest Distance traveled — Missy Booker from Portland, Ore.;
  • Scholarship winners Jakez Smith, Sophia Dossin, Niger Reaves and Isabella Baynard;
  • Robert Peterson Recognition Award — Duke Goldman and Makayla & Jeff Klein;
  • John Coates Next Generation Award — Sherman Jenkins and Courtney Michelle Smith;
  • Tweed Webb Lifetime Achievement Award — Jim Overmyer, Calobe Jackson and Bryan Steverson;
  • Fay Vincent MVP Award — Charles Crutchfield III.

If anyone knows/remembers the other award winners, please let me know. I was too stuff with barbecue to retain memories!

Post-script: 2018. Where are we goin’ next year? The scuttlebutt has several locales tossing their hat into the ring, including St. Paul, Daytona Beach, Birmingham, D.C. … We’ll see who nabs the honors. Personally, I’d like Birmingham, cuz it’s in driving distance for me.

But, my hometown of Rochester, N.Y. — home of the Luke Easter SABR chapter — has expressed interest! Obviously, that would be my ideal choice, because my hometown is, well, awesome. The Red Wings (the Twin’s Triple-A team) would doubtlessly be glad to help out, or at least host us for a game. There’s also the short-season, Single-A Batavia Muckdogs (they’re in the Marlins system) maybe an hour away, and I might be willing to take a contingent out there for a game if possible.

OK, post-post-script: I wanted to point out links to some other neat posts put up on the Malloy Facebook page over the last few weeks. Check ’em out if you can! …

Unity in passion, strength in numbers

It’s been more than two weeks since the conclusion of the 2017 Jerry Malloy conference in Harrisburg, and I’m just now putting fingers to keys in reflection. It’s taken me so long, I think, because there’s been so many other things flitting through and swirling around in my head.

This year’s conference was a fantastic, rewarding experience — just what I needed as I tried to rebound from my crash-and-burn experience at last year’s version. It was incredible to see so many friends and fellow black baseball historians again this year. As the one and only Larry Lester says, “It’s nice to see family again.”

Plus, my roomie Ted Knorr put together and pulled off a remarkable, educational and inspiring event in his hometown. The poor guy ran himself ragged for four days — and that’s not counting the year of lead-up prep work he did before July 27 rolled around — but he hung in there and, with help from a whole bunch of compatriots and supporters, it was a smashing three-day experience. So, many congrats and huge thanks to Mr. Knorr and even else involved.

Since I returned to NOLA, however, I’ve been viewing this year’s experience in Harrisburg as a reprieve of sorts from what else has been going on in my life. In addition to the usual financial challenges — the perpetual woes of a freelance journalist and researcher are always floating over my head — the atmosphere and state of our nation as a whole has weighed upon me heavily, much as it has many others. Watching the incremental dissolution and crumbling of rational, respectful discourse, then our cherished electoral process, then our journalism, then our international relations, and finally our very spirit of generosity and understanding … it’s just been very hard to witness and process the decay of the soul of our nation without feeling a draining of my own optimism and faith in the future of our society.

And then what happened in Charlottesville Saturday … well, I can’t really speak for anyone else, but the violence and terrorism inflicted upon peaceful protestors by fearful, hate-filled bigots has affected me very deeply. Combined with the sudden, frightening threat of actual nuclear war with a poverty-stricken, despotic dictatorship halfway around the world, the Virginia tragedy has, in some ways, driven me into my own head, unable to understand or even grasp what’s happening around me, and around us as a country. It all seems like a nightmare, a horrific dreamscape from which I just want to withdraw and hide.

Nothing seems real, and nothing seems important, other than physical and psychological survival. Thus, over the last few days, it’s been very difficult to see how researching and writing about baseball history matters much right now.

The fact that Saturday’s eruption of evil was rooted in and fed by ethnic, cultural and racial hatred makes me ponder whether the dedication and work of me, you and others passionate about the Negro Leagues has really, truly made a difference. For years — and decades, for many of us — we’ve striven to learn about our nation’s cultural past, to understand our country’s mistakes in order to prevent them from happening again.

As black baseball historians and enthusiasts, we’ve tried to show people, through the lens of the American pastime, that all people are capable of great, courageous, honorable things, that wondrous achievements can be forged in the crucible of fear and hate, and that, ultimate, love, understanding and bravery can eventually triumph over darkness.

Because of this dedication — and the overwhelmingly positive response from the public, SABR and the average baseball — we, as a family of researchers, writers and fans, have come to believe personally in the notion that every one of us can always strive for knowledge, for learning, for personal betterment and the betterment of our society. We believe that one man or one woman — a Jackie Robinson, an Effa Manley, a Rube Foster — can make a difference, can change minds and win over hearts. We learn about such legendary figures, and they inspire us as individuals to make ourselves and our country better.

And then something like Charlottesville happens. Over the last excruciating few days, that tragedy — especially when laid upon all the other hate and fear that has piled up on our national psyche since a fool with fake hair and false notions of reality rode down an escalator to announce he wanted to be our “leader” — has made me wonder, “Jackie’s stoic pride, his potent bat, his fleet feet, his Herculean endurance of hate and bigotry, his steely character … was it all ultimately for naught? This is what he — and Rube and Sol and Josh and Effa and Oscar and Bud and so many others — fought for? For it all to come to this? To a nation torn apart at its very ideological and spiritual source?

Why bother trying to educate people, whether it be about baseball history or any other subject, if a stubborn, fearful, hardened minority will always do whatever they can to destroy any learning the rest of us try to offer and experience?

Why bother telling folks about how, for decades, black men and women who were shunned and rejected by white society and its Organized Baseball and forced to form their own units, their own teams, their own hardball families and scramble and scratch and claw to establish their own leagues, their own tours, their own identity? Why relate to folks about how African-American teams had to tirelessly criss cross the country, playing one or even two games every single day just to put food on the table and play the sport they love because white society refused their talents and passion?

Why relate tales of having to go around to the back of restaurants to accept scraps of food, about having to eat crackers and sardines on a cramped, smelly bus at 2 in the morning, day after day, night after night? Why tell people about these men and women who were sometimes literally just one step ahead of a hateful mob in white sheets and carrying torches, just because those men and women loved baseball — loved the American pastime — so much that they’d risk such challenges and terrors?

Why even bother telling people about those terrifying scenes — and the resulting triumph over them — that took place so long ago, when similar scenes are playing out at this very moment? Why try to show people the historical error of our ways when those errors are, in reality, not even history, but are now? This is how far we have come? This?

Why even bother?

Why even bother to pursue your passion, if that pursuit occurs in a societal vacuum of ignorance? Why bother to spread your enthusiasm and love of learning to others when so many won’t even listen?

Why even bother when horrific things like this keep happening? Why even bother to teach people who don’t want to learn? Why preach understanding when so many persist in hating?

Why care about history when that very history keeps leading to violence and fear, when that history continues to be irrelevant for so many? Why teach of the past when the present, the here and now, is so bewildering, dark and dispiriting?

Why?

Because of the Malloy. Because our annual conference reminds us, even briefly and in the darkest times, that togetherness and respect united behind a shared passion and faith can still make a difference. Because the love found in a family can truly be a beacon in the night, a lighthouse in a swirling, raging storm, a guide to better things.

Because in just three days, the 100 or so of us who gathered in Harrisburg showed what love and learning and respect can do. It can bring together people of different genders, different races, different sexual orientations, different backgrounds in the spirit of baseball — the true spirit of our nation.

Because the Malloy conference renews that spark of inspiration within all of us. Those 72 hours together reminds us that we are not alone, we are never alone in our pursuit of truth, knowledge and understanding.

And as long as we can hold on to that — and I know we all will — we collectively can find the strength and courage and passion to push forward with our mission. We can continue to fight for what we believe, for what we know, deep down, is true and just. We can, both individually and as a team, tap into and channel the spirit of No. 42 and show the world that, dammit, our souls will not be drained, our devotion to our fellow man and woman will never be dimmed, our lives will never lose focus or purpose.

We will soldier forward. We will not give up. And we will never, ever stop spreading the message of love and respect.

 

OK, with that out of my system, I’ll spend the next few days putting together a post about the Malloy that’s decidedly less serious and more fun. I’ll again put out a call for any pictures or other submissions folks would like to send me. I’d be grateful for whatever you want to share! Just email me at rwhirty218@yahoo.com. Thanks!

Malloy Conference: New Orleans, Rap Dixon and Gentleman

Rodney Page with Stella Wells. Thanks to Rodney for the photo.

Editor’s note: I wrote most of this post a couple days ago, but I’m just now posting it tonight (Wednesday evening) from the Harrisburg Hilton. Yep, I made it in one piece, and the friendly faces are trickling in. The festivities start tomorrow.

Giddiness is a funny state of being, a blend of joy, anticipation and mania that both excites and exhausts. When it strikes, barely contained happiness verges on irrational, reckless optimism. Any anxieties about the possibility of ultimate disappointment is shoved out of the mind and replaced by a somewhat forced belief that everything is going to be freaking awesome. It’s a frame of mind perhaps best vocalized by the late, much missed Flounder: “Oh boy, is this great?!?!”

Alas, I find myself unequivocally giddy right now. In about 24 hours, I board a plane en route to Baltimore, where I’ll then procure a rental car and motor to the Harrisburg Hilton for the 20th annual Jerry Malloy Negro Leagues conference.

It’ll be my sixth straight Malloy — following Cleveland (2012), Newark (2013), Detroit (2014), Pittsburgh (2015) and Kansas City (2016) — and every time I attend one, it’s like a homecoming. The Negro Leagues community is indeed a big family, and the Malloy conference is a joyous reunion.

Old friends exchange hugs, voluminous knowledge is exchanged, and passions are shared and celebrated. At the Malloy conference, one eternal truth becomes evident — fans are historians, and historians are fans. When you love the history of African American baseball, there’s really no distinction. Just the way it should be.

Unfortunately, for me, at times, attending the Malloy has been challenging for me. As someone who deals with bipolarism, mood disorders and anxiety issues, I become susceptible to periods of mania — such as giddiness — followed by crippling crashes into exhaustion and depression.

That’s happened a couple times with me at the Malloy conference. I’ve simply crashed and become unable to function and enjoy the proceedings like I wanted to. It’s a crushing, draining and embarrassing turn of events that triggers guilt for letting people down and depression for demolishing my plans, and the plans of others.

It happened last year at Kansas City, and it was not good.

As a result, I want this year’s conference in Harrisburg to be an amazing experience. I want to share the fellowship, savor the experiences and learn some pretty cool stuff.

Thus my current giddiness. And because, with me, giddiness often leads to crashing and burning, I’m also anxious about the conference. So, at this moment, I’m trying to mentally multi-task — tempering the negativity and anxiety while, at the same time, keeping a lid on the mania and, well, giddiness.

It’s a taut high wire to walk, but I know I can do it. We shall see.

Because there is indeed lots of cool stuff to look forward to this week …

First off, I convinced my very good friend Rodney Page to attend the conference this year. Rodney’s father was New Orleans promoter/owner/entrepreneur Allen Page, arguably the most important figure in black baseball history in these parts.

The gathering (including me and Rodney) to dedicate Wesley Barrow’s tombstone.

Allen was more than just a sports impresario and kingpin for three decades in the early to mid-20th-century Negro Leagues scene, but he became a player on the national stage as well — by creating and hosting the annual North-South All-Star Game, becoming president of the Negro Southern League, by buying and bringing the St. Louis Stars to the Crescent City (making them the only major league-level baseball team in Big Easy history).

Unfortunately, Allen Page is greatly overlooked, not just in New Orleans, but nationally as well. NOLA hasn’t really developed a reputation as a Negro Leagues hot spot, a disheartening situation that simply belies the rich, expansive blackball history here. For nearly a decade now, I’ve been working to change that.

Rodney has been a partner in that effort. He contacted me after I published this article in the Times-Picayune, and from there, we developed a close bond and friendship. I helped arrange an interview a few years ago with Rodney by a reporter at WWL in New Orleans, and Rodney gave much time and money toward the effort to place a headstone on the grave of NOLA manager extraordinaire Wesley Barrow.

Thus I’m thrilled that Rodney will be there in Harrisburg, especially because he’s agreed to share some of his memories of and reflections on his father and Allen’s legacy on New Orleans baseball. That will undoubtedly include tales of meeting the great Willie Wells as a child — El Diablo a close pal of Allen and a regular face at the Page Hotel on Dryades Street here — as well as his continuing friendship Willie’s daughter, Stella. (Both she and Rodney live in Austin, Texas.)

There’s even more NOLA Negro Leagues related stuff — this article I wrote for the Times-Picayune that came out today about the blackball in the Big Easy, including Allen Page.

And I know I’m piling side note on top of sided note at this point, but earlier this month I nominated Allen Page for induction into the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame. If Page were to get the call from Natchitoches (where the LSHOF is), it would be pretty much the first time Allen would have received any sort of formal honor — at least over the last half-century — in Louisiana. Like I said, Allen Page has been overlooked, and massively so, for far too long, and that has to change.

There’s another reason the impending conference will be a milestone. With this edition, the Malloy marks its 20th anniversary, and it also comes full circle — the very first gathering two decades ago was in Harrisburg as well!

This year’s landmark conference is being arranged, coordinated and hosted by another good friend of mine — and yearly Malloy roommate — Ted Knorr, who hails from the Pennsylvania state capital. Along with Larry Lester and other SABR stalwarts, it looks like Ted has put together a bang-up baseball brouhaha.

Ted was instrumental in getting the first Malloy off the ground 20 years ago, and he’s been a dedicated, knowledgeable member of the committee ever since (including running, and providing many of the questions for, the annual Significa contest on the final day of the conference). For his longtime, hefty contributions to the Malloy and to SABR, last year Ted received the prestigious Fay Vincent Most Valuable Player Award from the Negro Leagues committee at Kansas City. In a massive understatement, it was well earned.

Ted at Rap’s grave

Part of Ted’s extensive involvement in the Negro Leagues commitment is his signature mission — to teach, promote and honor the legacy of Herbert Allen Dixon, better known as Rap, one of the most accomplished and talented outfielders in Negro Leagues history. (Here and here is info about Dixon.) Rap was a key cog in the great Harrisburg Giants teams of the 1920s, and, like Ted, he called Harrisburg home.

On Thursday, Ted will lead a tour visiting some of the key locales in Rap’s life, such as his grave, which now has a beautiful headstone thanks to the efforts of Ted and a whole crew of fellow volunteers.

On top of the Malloy news, I’ve experienced a bunch of other happenstances over the last few months …

That right there is a copy of the contract Gentleman Dave Malarcher signed with the Chicago American Giants for the 1926 Negro National League season. And yep, that’s the one and only Rube Foster’s signature on it as well.

I had the opportunity to dig this treasure out — along with a whole bunch of other Malarcher nuggets — when I visited the archives of Dillard University to research a story on DU’s founding. Dave was a Dillard alum — actually, he was a graduate of New Orleans University, one of the two NOLA HBCUs that merged to form Dillard — and he donated many of his personal papers and photos to his alma mater later in life.

This was actually the second time I’d seen the Malarcher file — I dove into it several years ago for an article I whipped up for the Dillard alumni magazine about Gentleman Dave.

Pluuuuuuuus, earlier this summer I visited the mighty metropolis of Union, La., Dave’s hometown along the Mississippi River levee. While I was there, I tracked down and trekked back to his brand new tombstone that was erected after he was posthumously inducted into the Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame. Here’s that pic:

I’ve since been mulling over working on a longer project about Malarcher, maybe even a book about the wily third baseman and manager. So we’ll see where that heads. …

Finally, many thanks and congratulations to Doug Schoppert, who gave a remarkable presentation about Louis Armstrong and Satchmo’s love for baseball last month at the SABR 47 conference in NYC. I was happy to help out Doug out, very humbly, with preparing for his presentation by offering my research about Louis’ own semi-pro baseball team in 1931 New Orleans, the Secret 9. A link to an audio recording of Doug’s presentation is here — just scroll down some to find the paragraph on him.

Alrighty, that’s enough damage to your retinas for now. I’ll try to blog a bit from Harrisburg when I can, but I make no promises. There’s just too much cool stuff on the agenda.