What Would He Say?

Whenever I am asked to write or speak about my father, or the men of the Negro League, or the Negro League in general,  I always have to ponder the question:  What would he say? What would THEY say? That’s the first thing I think about. What would he say? I do this because there is a certain amount of responsibility that comes with telling someone else’s story.  Even though I am a part of my father’s story it is his story. It always reminds of the tragedy of our myopic portrayal of history.  The old adage that “History is always told from the perspective of the “winners””.  When the fullness of our social evolutionary experience is not told through the voices of the many, and when we lose undocumented primary sources of our history, we lose our ability to be informed by the lessons of our past. We remain trapped in this endless cycle of half-truths, a breeding ground for bias, intolerance and self-righteousness. 

But what would he say?

I think he would say the story of the Negro League is a story of Black people in America, and their struggle not only to survive but to thrive.

He would no-doubt speak about the joy of the game and the fellowship of like travelers. He would talk about the brotherhood stronger than could be expressed using words like “team” or “team mates”. You would know and understand the strength of their connection as he described their relationships. He would smile at the remembrance. He would find excitement, as he leaned forward to tell anecdotal stories that he wanted to make sure you heard. He would laugh, and the joy of the experience would be reflected in the vibrations of his body. He would lean back and take a draw on his cigarette and then move on to the next story. He, like all the other men who played in the league, were marvelous story tellers.
But they told very few about what it took to move through the streets of America at a time when violence and terror were open strategies used to maintain the “racial” hierarchy. This was a time when Black men would go to war and come home to live through another. It was a time when the economic and legal systems created other mechanisms (red lining, disparate banking practices etc.) that ensured that returning GIs would soon understand that the GI bill didn’t include them. So Black communities did what they have always done. They created their own reality parallel to the country that turned its back on them.

I cannot imagine all that it took to continue to dream into anything beyond what existed, but they did—and generations learned it is possible.  Pioneers like Rube Foster were models for anyone wanting to create something out of nothing. 

Little Black boys learned that they could not be denied the right to exercise their talent and skill at thehighest level of play. And,  like their white counterparts  in the “Major” Leagues, they could make a living doing it. Though their compensation was less, their play was magical and inspiring. 

The robust level of play they exhibited evolved from an existing community coloring their language with “trash talking”,  being “called out”, and the “opportunities to improve” that looked and felt more like a challenge or dare. They bought all of who they were to the game. They filled stadiums (with Black and white patrons) and when playing in large cities, leading parades. Professional, organized baseball with Black players who put their own brand of magic on the game.  Players who would find their way south of the border, to Mexico, Cuba, Venezuela, Puerto Rico. There they would find themselves on teams with white counterparts from “Major” League teams in the US. They would then return sometimes never seeing them again. 

But I doubt, if not asked, he would ever say much of that. 

He would be too busy telling the stories of a kind of magic more difficult than pulling a rabbit out of a hat. The magic of maintaining your humanity in a place that would deny it. 

The magic of knowing your worth and expressing the fullness of your human potential; and the joy that comes from doing just that.

For Monte

It is said that history gets recorded by the “winners”.  It resides in the half-truths of books that we feed to our young and around which they, and we, construct our reality. So it’s important that as we learn better, as we understand better, that we do better.  We must fill the empty spaces of our past so we can construct a reality that honors all that is our past and all of those who forged it.

When I read writer, Jerry Izenberg’s tribute to Monte Irvin today, I remembered that day at the Newark/Bears stadium.  Monte in his wheelchair, Ray Dandridge’s son, Geraldine Day (the wife of Leon Day), Larry Doby’s son, Red Moore and me with my father’s great-grandson on my lap.

                    



I also remember the last conversation I had with Jerry when he spoke of Monte Irvin’s declaration that he couldn’t die because there would be no one to tell the story.  When I heard that Monte had passed, I waited for Jerry’s story because I knew it was coming, and I knew there was no one who could write it as well as he.  I knew he could capture the essence of the man and what was important to him.  I was not disappointed. You can read his tribute here.

There are few left who can articulate the stories of the men of the Negro Leagues.  And because their history for years remained largely unrecorded, it is left to those of us who were privileged enough to sit at their feet, who store those stories, images and memories in the libraries of our hearts and minds to tell them and live them day-to-day.  My father met Monte Irvin when they were both freshmen at Lincoln University.  They were both on the baseball team.  They both wanted nothing more than to play baseball.  They both left to try out for the Newark Eagles and both made the team, the youngest members at the time.  Until the day my father died, I could tell when he was talking to Monte on the phone because I could hear him laughing the minute I opened the door.  A loud raucous laugh similar to men telling each other dirty jokes.  Although Jerry describes Monte Irvin as the last of the Newark Eagles, there remains one more...Red Moore, who lives in a small town outside Atlanta.  Red left the Eagles early in his career.  He went on to play with the Baltimore Elite Giants. He was missing from the roster of the dynamic team of the ‘40s; the legendary winning team of the 1946 Negro League World Series.  That team included: Larry Doby, Leon Day, Monte Irvin and my father, Max Manning.  It was managed by Hall of Famer, Biz Makey.   Ray Dandridge, Don Newcombe and Willie Wells, who would also find there way into the Hall of Fame, had left earlier.  There are no members of that 1946 team left.  With the exception of Red Moore, there are no Eagles left.  They have flown to higher ground.
                

They would come together for gatherings at card signings and the meetings of the Negro League Player’s Association.  Before the NLPA formed in the early ‘90s, they would share conversations on the phone or with brief visits.  
                           
For 20 years, they would sit together at their beloved Pop Lloyd Weekends here in Atlantic City with other former league players from the Philadelphia Stars, the Kansas City Monarchs, and the Birmingham Black Barons to name a few.  They would talk way into the night with guests like Congressman John Lewis, Bob Feller, photographer Gordon Parks, Earl Woods, the father of Tiger and most importantly the children of this community.
           

     












They were remarkable men, not because of how they played the game, even though their sheer talent would have been enough to win them distinction.  They were remarkable because of how they lived their lives...refusing to allow anyone to take their joy and by creating a parallel universe that was filled with it...to the brim.
                                

As I have mark each passing, another crack appears somewhere deep inside me.  Although I know that is how the light gets in, I’m also aware that I become more fragile.  We all become more fragile.  When our stories, the fullness of stories of our nation and our world, are not explored and told by those that lived them, all of us become defined by those that are considered the “winners”.  Those pictures, those images, those representations are and will always leave us less than we can be.  They leave us as incomplete as they are.  As Monte would say:  “...true story.”  And tonight I say: "Good Night, sweet prince. One of the sweetest of them all.  TRUE STORY!

                            

For Mahlon

I don’t know what happens when the last Star goes out.  I can only imagine how very dark the night sky will become.  I remember some time ago being in Washington State lying on my back in an open field, and watching stars appear one by one.  As the sky grew darker, I watched and counted them until they began to appear too quickly for me to count and they literally covered the sky.  I remember the feeling of peace and awe that filled my body.  As far as I could see, from the North to the South and from as far as I could see from the East to the West I was covered by the grace of the night sky.  I was blanketed by its stars.  My soul was reminded how important they were in the universe.  There are even songs which speak to the significance of the stars as we once “Followed the Drinking Gourd” (A Negro Spiritual which was code for slaves to follow the big dipper North to freedom.) My entire body remembered to give thanks and acknowledge them.  I was filled with overwhelming joy.  I cried.

Although I know that there is no difference but place, those stars are harder for me to find here in South Jersey.  The fact is:  I rarely look up at night.  I know the stars are there but it is a more difficult reach for me to see them because they are obscured.  We have replaced them with street lights, neon signs and the glow coming from security lights left on in high rises and homes.  We use them now as markers to guide our paths.  They mark our “way”.  A way once guided by the stars.  

These are the thoughts that have filled my mind this week.  This is the conversation that churns in my heart and takes me to my bed.  Another Star has faded farther from our view.  The sight line is dimmer, and I feel the void.  I remember when I first met Mahlon Duckett and some of members of the former Philadelphia Stars.  There were quite a few of them then.  They would come together with other members of the Negro Leagues to form the Negro League Players Association. My father was president.  I remember typing up the pages of a directory that was printed by Atlantic Electric, the company where I used to work.  Yes, there were pages. (I add these things for my own benefit.  It’s just part of my internal conversation ... my remembering.)  I remember being surrounded by these men and their hearts melded in shared struggle and joy.  I remember feeling blanketed by their grace and loved by them for simply being. It was very much that same sense of being that I felt on an empty field in Goldendale, Washington.

I don’t know how you explain the beauty of a night sky filled with stars to children/people who have never seen one.  I don’t know how you tell the story of Mahlon Duckett to people who have never witnessed that infectious smile, or the tender gentleness and smoothness with which he would call your name...as if it were his own.  

I don’t know much today except that I need to have this conversation here because I can’t yet speak it. (Can’t even speak his name yet until I figure out how to honor it.) I need to know that real stars/Stars don’t just “go out” even though we can’t see them/it.  I   need to remember that stars/STARS are light and real light is always present. (It’s only the artificial stuff that loses is radiance.)  I need to find a way to look up more, to reach out more, to search the skies for those STARS that really are still there to guide us/me. I need to remember to use my discernment to separate the real from the false.  I need to remember that beyond the sodium vapor street lights and the neon signs, which only provide a false sense of security, there is real light that the universe alone can provide. 

I need to remember that Mahlon Duckett died in the way that he lived:  surrounded by his loving family, and I need to remember that we will continue to tell his story because that’s how stars/STARS continue to shine and light our way in the darkness.

On the Friday before his death, I was speaking with my friend Michael making plans to go see Mahlon.  We never got there. 

You can read read more about Mahlon here:  http://www.csnphilly.com/baseball-philadelphia-phillies/negro-league-philadelphia-stars-mahlon-duckett-dies-92

The 2013 SABR Jerry Malloy Negro League Conference

Ah, the Jerry Malloy Baseball Conference...  Let me work on establishing some wonderfully joyful channels in my brain, rather than focusing on the insanity that seems to want to pervade!

The Society of American Baseball Research Conference was June 13th - 15th in Newark, New Jersey.  It was truly a phenomenal conference.  I enjoyed every minute of it.  Maybe I'll see you there next year as the conference moves to Detroit.

I have a great deal of  respect and admiration for the men and woman who continue to work tirelessly to shine light into the dark places where we have buried much of this countries history.  It's not an easy job to unearth and chronicle some of this history,  like that  of the 1889 Cuban Giants (none of whom were Cuban); nor to talk about the rise of the Cubans from 1880-1885.  I'm always triggered by the enthusiasm of these "historians" to ask the questions:  why and how?

  

I always find the same answers.  In detail, these men and women can articulate their journey from point A to B.   

Much the details of their journeys are different.  Where they were, who inspired them, the miles they have traveled and the many libraries and stadiums they have visited.  But it's not in the details of their journey where my heart finds resonance.  Because the devil is truly in the details. 

It's in every twist and turn, in every hurdle and obstacle that falls in the way.  It's in the absence of a solid trail and in the void created by inattention.  But the beauty, the resonance, is in our search to reclaim our common humanity by rebuilding our common history, by filling the void... story by story.

One of the things we all know is that everything goes better with kids.
 

SABR Jerry Malloy Negro League Conference was no different.  The students of the Bowser School for Excellence in Newark provided conference participants some of the best of what Newark has to offer.

A corp of bright young citizens provided a performance complete with original scripting and music. They designed and produced a set, accompanying multi-media presentation, and original music that would be the envy of Kanye and Jay-Z. 

It was a performance that provided a view of a reality of our schools that we don't get to see often and which the media does not usually report.  The Bowser School students and staff demonstrated the kind of results they achieve through their hard work and dedication.  They wove together children's learning that included a mastery of public speaking, language development, history and self discipline.  They did all this while having fun.   And believe me, we had fun with them.  I feel privileged to have been a witness.


Thank You Bowser School.  You honor your namesake as well as all of the men and women of the Negro Leagues you portrayed.

This one was quite special to me.  He did an awesome job!

For more information about SABR and the Jerry Malloy Negro League Conference follow these links: 

Society for American Baseball Research Jerry Malloy

Jerry Malloy Conference on Facebook

Yet Again and Again...

In honor of John Carlos Birthday, I'm reposting this article to my blog.  I originally posted it in 2012.  Hope you'll find it worth a few minutes.

I suppose for the most part we could call this an oxymoron.  A painful one.  I find the arena of the athlete, no matter the country more and more difficult to watch. I find myself lost in cynicism.  I can remember my father's final days still being able to lie in the bed and enjoy a good baseball game.  I didn't get it.  But what I know now is that those games were being played out in a different part of his mind and his body.  There was actually a process of displacement.  Every throw of the ball and every crack of the bat triggered a memory that displaced the one on the screen and replaced it with a young, long lean athlete. One, who took to the fields at another time in this country where segregation was the rule of law; and yet they played THEIR game.  And one that gathered them and their families together to follow the sun to countries of Latin America to play winter ball and be hailed as heroes.

But I don't want to dwell on the seedy side of sport. I want to elevate the heroes. Those that allow us to speak of the nobility of the athlete and the contribution that he/she has made on and off the field. Those who make my heart jump and bring me to my feet. Those who have grabbed their moment in time, at great sacrifice, expose the harsh lines that separate us as human beings, and forced us to have to bend our perception of reality, wrestle it to the ground and force it to succumb to truth.  These are the ones that kept me up last night.

Listen to a few words from Dr. Harry Edwards, then click on the links below to check out some videos.

There was John Carlos and Tommie Smith...

And there was also...  Peter Norman.

I'm having a hard time moving away from the story '68 Olympics this year.  It continues to resonate in my heart and travels deeply into my soul.  Maybe it's the recent publication of The John Carlos Story, his book written with Dave Zirin.  The great respect I have for all of these men.

Order Here

Maybe it's because it was also my time in history.  I was a sophomore in college at the time.

Maybe it's because it allows me some kind of molecular connection that I can maintain to G. Larry James, "the mighty burner" himself a '68 Olympian.  A man so dear, a  friend with a heart of pure gold, whose song was song all to softly, and who left us all too soon.

I remember the 40th Anniversary, the return to Mexico.

The celebrations, the honors, the "redemption".

But today I relearned a very important lesson.  We cannot be one story people. It destroys the human experience. It denies our growth. It makes us less than complete. The rest of that lesson: we are not the author's of the stories of others.  Our job is to listen, with an open and willing heart. To hear the truth from another perspective, to honor it as another's truth and allow it to come into our hearts. And it is an honor to hear the story from the author of the life. It is a responsibility to "pass it on" with the honesty and integrity with which it is told.

My last "again"... on the '68 Olympics is that there were 3 men who stood on that podium that day.  One who is too often forgotten, but one whose image though muted is as strong as any other.  There were three men.  John Carlos, Tommie Smith and Peter Norman;

What's Cuter Than a Second Grader?

What's cuter than a second grader?  Eighty-eight second graders, eager and ready to learn.  What a joy-full afternoon!  I was invited to South Main Street School in Pleasantville, NJ to collect 88 cards from the second graders who had so lovingly made them and their teachers who thoughtfully guided them.

I took along books and pictures to share. They were appropriately curious and excited about new discoveries.  Their little bodies squirmed and wiggled like mine does when the energy to see and take it all in is just too much to contain.  They shared with each other generously even when their turn to hold on to the picture seemed too short, and they wanted just one more minute.

One of my hopes is that some of my favorite books become some of their favorites.  You've got to go pretty far to beat the artwork of award-winning artist, Kadir Nelson, and so "We Are the Ship" takes a front row seat.   Although the text is a reach for a second grader, the illustrations captivate any age!

Also sitting front row is this gem...  Perfect for kiddos!

Leagues Apart is a little harder to find, especially in hardcover. Former New Yorker illustrator did a great job with this award winner.

But back to the kids.  I'm sure they were all that could have filled a heart broken by a torn rotator cuff.  Because a teacher is what he really was. Not necessarily in how we see or image them to, but as THEY really are.  TEACHERS teach in every moment of their lives and in aspects of their lives.  They explore each moment as a "teachable moment" and live as if someone is always watching.  Because "someone" always is.

I'm reminded of that each time I walk into a classroom.  I am reminded each time I share his story in ways his humility would never allow him.  In ways that none of the "true" heroes would. 

I'm reminded of our heroes, especially the men and women of the Negro Leagues whenever I see I child searching for a path to follow, a story that could be theirs.  When I see children, our children looking for a hero that looks and lives as they do, I share the missing stories of their history.  Because in those stories, they can find themselves and know how rich their lives are and what a powerful legacy they have inherited.

And on those days...    I am fulfilled!