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!

                            

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

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! 

How do You Honor 90 Years?

When the John Henry "Pop" Lloyd Committee published: "Out of the Shadows", Gils Wright, formerly with the New Jersey Historical Society, included these words in his introduction:

"This work of art thus serves as an impediment to historical amnesia; it is a reminder that black baseball players were historical actors in a story that was truly dramatic and compelling, a story of black athletes who excelled in the face of racial bigotry and adversity who demonstrated beyond a  shadow of a doubt that their mastery of the art of playing baseball was inferior to no one..."

On December 20th, the former Philadelphia Stars player, Mahlon Duckett will turn 90 years old.  Duckett continues to live in Philadelphia where he grew up and attended Overbrook High School.  

So, what do you give a 90 year old, former Negro League Player from Philadelphia for his birthday?  A man who happens to be the last living player for the Philadelphia Stars.  One of the few living Negro League players who played in Rube Foster's powerful social and economic construct that served as a focal point for the African-American community prior to "integration".  

 One of the few living pioneers  who can remember the 1946 Negro League World Series, and the 1946 Newark Eagles believed by many to have been "one of baseball's all time greatest franchises".

"The ’46 Eagles showcased a collection of players that rivaled any ever assembled.  At first base was Lennie Pearson, owner of a gaudy .393 average in the series.  Up the middle was Pearson’s high school friend, shortstop Monte Irvin, who led the Negro National League in runs batted in that year. He would go on to win a World Series ring with the ’51 New York Giants. His double play partner, Larry Doby, would be the first African American to play in the American League, where he won two home run titles.

The pitching staff included Leon Day, who marked his return from two years of war service by pitching a no-hitter on opening day that season. Another war veteran in the group, Max Manning, used a deceptive sidearm delivery to rack up an 11-1 record in ’46.

Three members of the ’46 team – Day, Doby and Irvin – would go on to be enshrined with the sport’s all-time greats in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  There they would be joined by two other Eagles: Ray Dandridge, regarded as one of the best third basemen in any league, and shortstop Willie Wells, who anchored the team’s “Million Dollar Infield” in the late ‘30s.  Even the team’s co-owner and business manager, Effa Manley, would be remembered as an extra-ordinary pioneer in the male-dominated world of baseball."   Soaring Eagles, Newark and the Negro Leagues

And Mahlon Duckett can describe for you what it was like at a packed stadium  during the Negro League East/West All Star Game.

Since it's formation in '90s, Mahlon Duckett has been an vital part of the work of the John Henry "Pop" Lloyd Committee, and has made yearly journeys to Atlantic City to share his knowledge, his warmth and his unmatchable generous spirit.

Believe me, Mahlon Duckett has all the ties, shirts, sharp suits, slippers and soaps-on-a-rope anyone could ever need.  He's got enough books, radios, magazine and newspaper subscriptions.  So, how do we honor the birth of this man 90 years ago?  We say "thank you", for his contributions to our legacy.  We say "thank you" for that sweet and gentle spirit that has only modeled dignity, humility and strength of character.  We then share his story and those of the men and women of the Negro Leagues so they are never forgotten.

Take a few moments to send Mahlon Duckett a birthday wish.  We're collecting 90 cards for 90 years.  Add your name to the numbers.