Cleaning Baseball Of Its Jim Crow Past

Baseball has been living a lie. Invented by Abner Doubleday in 1839 to be "America's game," it proceeded to draw the most un-American lines - lines designed to exclude African-Americans from the game. In what they called a "gentleman's agreement," organized baseball erected a color bar against black men that lasted until 1946. And for the next 173 years, it has lied to itself, to the American people, and to the world. It is the kind of lie that has left baseball in a perpetual state of fear (of being found out). At times, like during all-star games between white Major Leaguers and Negro League players, "organized baseball" has had trouble breathing.

This past month, they celebrated 100 years of baseball in Boston's venerable Fenway Park - harking back to that glorious day in 1912 when the Boston Red Sox (formerly the Boston Americans) played the New York Highlanders, (re-named the "Yankees" in 1913). Glorious? It was Jim Crow baseball. It would be 47 years after that "glorious day" - nearly half of Fenway's existence - before the first black man, Elijah Green, was allowed to join the team in 1959. How do we celebrate injustice in this country without wincing with each "hurrah!"?

It is time the era of Jim Crow baseball was put in its play - separated from the myth that made legends of men like Ty Cobb, who practiced his bigotry with the same zeal with which he played the game; and men like commissioner Kenesaw Landis who, from 1920 to 1944, guarded the gates like fanged Cerberus.

Let us put an asterisk around all of Jim Crow baseball now - around it hallowed moments, its stars, their hallowed records. Speak no more of Cy Young and Ty Cobb, old Ebbets Field, Roger Hornsby, and Babe Ruth, lest you preference those remarks with an asterisk that states:  THESE MEN PLAYED BASEBALL DURING THE JIM CROW ERA WHEN AFRICAN-AMERICAN MEN WERE NOT ALLOWED TO COMPETE AGAINST THEM.

If some of the greatest ballplayers of the time were not allowed to compete (because they were the wrong color), how could any of the records compiled during that era not deserve an asterisk? How could Babe Ruth be the "greatest baseball player of all time," as ESPN's Tim Kurkjian recently proclaimed, when men his equal, or better, were not allowed to challenged him on the same field where he won his accolades?

It am not saying, "Throw out the 'Jim Crow' records." I am saying, put them in their proper context. You think that will diminish the game they played? Baseball did that when it committed its sins of apartheid.

Time to integrate Negro League baseball - its stars, their records - into the fabric of baseball history. If that means Cy Young is no longer baseball's winningest pitcher, so what? What is will really means is that he was only baseball's winningest pitcher until Smokey Joe Williams and Satchel Paige both passed him by over 50 years ago.

Once you've asterisked Jim Crow baseball, put Negro League baseball into its proper context. Negro League baseball was "organized," too. It was also more "American" than the Jim Crow baseball we persist in celebrating. Where Jim Crow base ball excluded African-Americans, Negro League baseball included all men - black, white, Hispanic. Even a woman made the roster of a Negro League club. She was Toni Stone; here father had played in the Negro Leagues. She began playing in the Negro League's minor league system, for the New Orleans Creoles in 1949. She made it to the Negro majors in 1953 where she played a single season for the Indianapolis Clowns, and hit .243. The following year, she retired.

So what if her stint in the league was an attempt at boosting gate receipts. She was given a shot. In other words, if you were able to play, you were given a chance to play in the Negro Leagues. In that way, Negro League baseball was a true reflection of what America aspired to be: "The land of opportunity."

There will be no integrity in baseball until it expunges its racist past by incorporating that which it has feared most - Negro League players. Yes, the record books will change - they will become more honest. And, look on the bright side: Once baseball has taken that grand step, it will have solved its Barry Bonds problem in a fell swoop - you know, the one neither A-Rod nor Pujols can solve because both men are running out of gas. Josh Gibson, with his 962 career home runs, will rescue baseball and its most cherished record from all taint of steroids. He will do it at the same time he helps cleanse baseball of the taint of Jim Crow.

A wise mans once said, "That which you fear shall haunt you until you confront it." It was the same way with slavery. After 250 years, the South predicted such a mass emancipation would disrupt all of American society. So? Was that any reason to keep a race of people enslaved longer? Of course not. It was not their fault that they had to be freed. Any disruptions that mass emancipation created was the price America had to pay for committing such crimes against humanity in the first place.

Same thing with Jim Crow baseball. any disruptions caused by opening baseball's doors to Negro League stars and their records, is the price baseball must pay for denying these men their full rights as American citizens in the beginning.

Of course, Major League baseball will resist. It is in its nature - an instinct honed over years of misplaced persecutions and unwarranted fears. They will say that they do not trust the validity of Negro League records. Why, then, should anyone trust the records of Jim Crow baseball?

Is Josh Gibson's 962 career home runs any more fantastic than Cy Young's 511 pitching victories compiled from 1890 - 1911? (Three of the greatest pitchers of the modern era - Tom Seaver, Nolan Ryan, and Roger Clemens - won only 311, 325, 341 games, respectively.) Neither is Gibson's 84 home runs in 1936 - the true single season record for home runs, (not Bonds 73) - any more incredible than Jack Chesbro winning 41 games in 1904, and Ed Walsh winning 40 games in a single season four years later.

The African-American community put its love of baseball into the hands of those Negro League players and scorekeepers, just as the white community put its love of the game into the hands of Major League Baseball. They are the same hands - American hands. It is the same love - American love.

Men and scorekeepers; scorekeepers and men. You cannot beat the man, so you attack the scorekeeper? Is that all you got, baseball; is that your last line of defense against your African-American brethren?

Enough! You are the scorekeeper - you kept score at the gates of Jim Crow. Now you want to blame your victims for not being the great scorekeeper you were. As Abe Lincoln would say, "That stunt won't scow."

Time to put Josh Gibson's and Buck Leonard's numbers alongside those of their contemporaries - Ruth, Gehrig, and Hornsby. So, too, must Satchel Paige's and Smokey Joe Williams' career pitching stats take their rightful place alongside those of Cy Young, Walter Johnson, and Grover Alexander Cleveland. These men not only played in a league the equal of the "Majors," but when it came to "put-up time" - in head-to-head matches, the Negro League players defeated the Major leaguers where it counted: on the field, between the lines.

Pitcher Smokey Joe Williams, alone, was 20-7 against Major league competition. Josh Gibson, who hit .347 over a 17 year career in the Negro Leagues, hit .426 against Major league pitching. So says your scorekeepers, scorekeeper.

The gig is up. Kenesaw Landis is dead; so is Jim Crow baseball. Time to scrape away the last vestiges of that sorry period in American sports history. Release baseball from that musty dungeon so that it can breathe; so that it can experience this rebirth. Time baseball claimed the integrity it has never had. Time it reclaimed its infinite mystique.

When Men Become Boys

There is this thing called "discipline." It is the key to all great societies - to great militaries, great companies, and great marriages. Without it, as Shakespeare would say, "the enterprise is sick."

This matter of the Secret Service cavorting with prostitutes in Columbia more than anything is a matter of discipline - that thing that separates men from boys.

The first thing we teach a child is discipline. It is called "potty training." The Secret Service in Columbia forgot their "potty training" and "pooped" in their pants. Boys will be boys? No. Let us call it how it is:  Those men become boys who cast aside their discipline.

There is a saying among military men as they cast off for overseas deployment:  "Wheels up, rings off." I'm sure they get a good laugh out of that. But, it is no laughing matter. First, with that declaration, they instantly reduce themselves and their marriages. Second, their wives have, no doubt, heard that saying, too. Chances are, she must be saying the same thing at precisely the same moment: "Hey girls, wheels up, rings off. Let's party!" (Still laughing?) How about when you "boys" come home and there's a marble rye in oven when before all of your loaves were wheat? (Will you be laughing then?)

Where discipline is lacking, consequences can be severe. When discipline broke down in the Roman Empire, that empire became corpulent and depraved. Soon, the walls began to crumble.

The Secret Service is on the front lines of this nation's defense. Discipline there is suffering. Some say, "What happened in Columbia was an isolated incident." No, that was an incident that, by pure chance, came to the light. (They say that for each time a person is busted for "drunk driving," he has already gotten away with it a hundred times before.)

There is a discipline deficit in America's Secret Service, just as there is in America's military. Pictures of soldiers pissing on enemy corpse, posing with enemy body parts, and reports of our soldiers wreaking murder, rape, and mayhem on civilian populations are tips of the iceberg. For each incident to which we are exposed, bet that there are a hundred more played out in nooks and crannies across Iraq and Afghanistan that we know nothing about.

Instead of making excuses for our "boys", why not demand that they be "men"? Either that, or resign ourselves to a sickness that will bring the walls down.

Raising the Roof on America's Pastime

"Who is the greatest baseball player of all time?" That was the question asked of Tim Kurkjian, baseball guru at ESPN. He mulled the names of the usual suspects aloud - Ruth, Mays, Bonds - and then settled on Babe Ruth. Satisfied with himself, he and the hosts of the Mike & Mike radio broadcast went on to other topics. Nowhere did the name "Josh Gibson" enter the debate.

Babe Ruth played his entire career against all-white teams in the Major Leagues. During the same time, a man named "Josh Gibson" was playing his entire career against all-black teams in a parallel universe - a universe they call "The Negro Leagues."

The Negro Leagues began forming in the early 1920's because the black man was not allowed to play in the white man's league. They were the same men - American men. They shared an equal love for the game. They even played by the same rules; their ballparks bore the same dimensions. But, officially, these leagues and their players never crossed paths.

The two leagues did, however, play each other in exhibition/all-star games, during which time the Negro leaguers regularly beat their major league counterparts. Pitcher, Smokey Joe Williams, a teammate of Gibson's on the Homestead Grays, won 20 games and lost 7 against major league competition.

For the record, Josh Gibson played most of his 18 year career for the Homestead Grays. A catcher, he led the league in home runs ten consecutive seasons. In 1936, he hit 84 home runs. (The most Ruth hit in one season was 60. Ruth hit 714 home runs over his 20 year career.) Afflicted with a brain tumor, Josh Gibson died of a stroke at the age of 36. The year was 1947, the same year Jackie Robinson broke the mythical "color barrier" in major league baseball. For his career, Gibson hit 962 home runs and batted .347. Against major league pitching, he had a .426 batting average.

But for racism, Josh Gibson would reign Bunyan-esgue in this country. Racist convention deprived him of his due 80 years ago. How is it that in this enlightened 21st century society, those rules of exclusion still apply?

We, in this country, will declare Robert E. Lee "America's most beloved general", though he championed a Confederacy whose ultimate goal was to extend slavery in America. And there is no end to our celebrating of Ruth, though he be the standard-bearer of "Jim Crow" baseball. Yet, we shun Josh Gibson who played in a league where there was little money, but an abundance of heart. With hat in hand, and an indomitable spirit, he raised the roof on America's game when few Americans were looking. Perhaps the most prodigious of all of America's sports stars, we still refuse him his place among the pantheon of legends.

As much as we bemoan the racial divide in this country, we continue to pick at it with our curious remembrances. They are shameless celebrations unbefitting a great nation however we drape them in bunting.

On the strife-torn African continent, nations have established Truth and Reconciliation Commissions. Their purpose is to confront demons of the past, and to purge as many of those demons as humanly possible.

Perhaps it is time for America to set things aright - to try some "Truth and Reconciling" of its own. It can start with its shameful treatment of an American hero who took America's great pastime to a new level.

The Chardon School Shootings (and the legacy of Manifest Destiny)

We look at the Chardon shootings and ask, "Why?" Perhaps we should look into the history of America - which is a history of violence - to find our answer.

We need go no further than the genocide of Native American. We have all heard about it, but apparently, we do not fully comprehend the breadth of the killings that comprised that genocide. We think of it as a single word, a single event. It was a total and horrific narrative - an inch by inch slaughter of men, women, and children. From the shores of the Atlantic to the Appalachians, we drove entire nations of people over the mountains, across the Mississippi, killing them all of the way to the Pacific. And for the few who survived - of the millions that once lived freely upon this great land - we herded onto reservations, supposedly for their own good.

It was violence from "sea to shining sea," and we imagined our acts forgivable, born as they were of "Manifest Destiny" - God's plan. It was never God's plan that we kill like we killed. That was "our" plan. We laid the seeds at the doorstep of this continent, and sowed endless rows across its regions. Diligently, we reap that bitter harvest.

We are wed to violence, even unto this day. The marriage document is a defense budget (aka, "offense budget"), larger than the next ten nations combined. We cloak our vows within such expressions as "Defenders of Democracy" and "National Security." These words become our license to kill.

Why should we suppose that there is a disconnect between the violence nations wreak upon helpless peoples, and the violence individuals of that nation wreak on one another?

The other day, at the Republican presidential debate, the candidates were asked if America should negotiate with the Taliban. Three of the four candidates, led by Newt Gingrich, cried out, "We don't negotiate with our enemies, will kill them." The audience erupted in applause.

I hear that among the victims of Chardon, was a boy who was dating the shooter's ex-girlfriend. Chances are, the shooter saw that young rival as his enemy. Are you sure, Mr. Gingrich, Mr. Santorum, and Mr. Romney that we want to send such a message to our young people as, "We don't talk to our enemies, we kill them."? There is a nexus between how adults conduct themselves, and how children behave.

Recently, Benjamin Netanyahu, the prime minister of Israel, was in America trying to convince our president to join with Israel in an attack against the sovereign nation of Iran - not for something Iran did, but for something Israel imagines Iran might do.

In particular, Netanyahu wants Obama to back a pre-emptive strike on Iranian nuclear facilities. Such an attack would be an act of war, one that not only would kill many of innocents, but could unleash deadly nuclear fall-out upon hapless millions in that region. That our president would entertain such an irresponsible prospect reflects the uninhibited nature of our willingness to kill.

And today, a young man of Chardon - more child than man - is charged with the murder of three fellow children. Even now, he might be asking God, "Why did you allow this to happen?"

God did not allow this. Better that he ask America's leaders: "How do you kill so freely, and not expect your killing ways to rub off on us?"

The Great Assassin

Our president, Mr. Obama, has become a great assassin. We, the American people, will be held accountable.

A few months ago, President Obama - with his drone strike force - had Anwar al-Awlaki assassinated. A few days later, he assassinated al-Awlaki's 21 year-old son in the same manner. That son was just a kid! We will go too far; perhaps we have already gone too far.

Are no other Americans sickened by our purposeful killing of a 21 year-old? Whatever his guilt, was he so guilty as to warrant an execution on the spot?

They say he was a militant. So? There are militants in every city on Earth, including every American city. Militants are come by naturally in human society. Many of the young African-Americans who waged a struggle against racial injustice in America were militants. America's own minutemen were militants - standing guard against British oppression. Native American braves were militants. They stood up to the "new" Americans' inexorable encroachment onto their lands.

Today, we assassinated 21 year old Yemeni for being a militant in his own land. Have we become the Mafia. Has Obama become Don Ciccio, the Sicilian boss of Godfather II who, having killed Antonio Andolini, sought to kill all of Andolini's sons lest they see vengeance for their father's death?

Mr. Obama, You stand accused of the murder of a 21 year-old. I draw the line here. Will no other American do the same?

Let Your Sister Play

When we were boy, we owned the outdoors. We fished, fought, climbed trees, and cross swamps; we hunted, and trapped; we fashioned every weapon imaginable and then tested them upon each other. We pitted antes and waged acorn wars. Then, our mother would holler out of the back door, "Let you sister play."

"Oh, mom…"

Well, the girls want in, again. They want - and will be allowed for the first time - to box in the Olympics. They want to be stationed on the front lines in our wars so that they can advance themselves by killing and dying.

On the home front, the older women have set their sights on younger men. Some of these women have axes to grind. They want to chase like the boys chased. They call themselves "cougars" - these nouveau chasers - and they will take down boys. Their dynamics here - no pun intended - are absolutely screwed.

Older men have always chased younger women. It was no big deal because the women controlled the situation. the man would say, "Come sit on my lap." The young lady would say, "Get lost." No harm, no foul. That man is working at a 10% success rate, at best. In the end, reputations are saved simply because the lady said "No" - "no", as in no diseases, no pregnancies, no regrets.

Comes the "cougar". When she says, "Sit on my lap," the young guys come a'runnin. Her success rate is phenomenal - that young man will not say "No." Follow, the deluge; there may be arrests.

Certainly, women should enjoy many of the same opportunities as men. But there are limits to what society can legislate; limits to what women should do. It may be a simple matter of biology. For instance, women want to drink like men, but they are not built for that - they lack the muscle mass necessary to absorb the punishment alcohol inflicts. They go down quickly, and more completely. Once down, some get raped. When men get smashed, they end up on somebody's floor.

Once, after a beach party, I returned to the scene the following morning and found a lone reveler face down in the sand. How was he able to breath, I do not know. I did not try to wake him. I simply turned his face to one side so that he could breathe. Man's game.

There is a limit to how deeply women should go into the pool. A man can walk from one end of this country to the other, and the worst that might befall him is that he is chased by a dog. A women cannot walk around the block at night. It has nothing to do with politics; it is biology Women are wanted; men are not.

And speaking of cougar-dom: It may be the most backward, upside-down social experiment ever - the equivalent of people growing younger as they age. Here, the woman presumes that she has turned the tables on man by replicating his rakish behavior. It it is respect she seeks, she will not get it - not like the men who notch the names of women on their bedposts like gunslingers once boasted notches on their belts.

The cougar's conquest of young men, by contrast, is hollow because there is little, if any, resistance. She is being used, and everyone knows it. Only now, she seeks her debauching, when before she guarded against it.

One Moment in Time

She was at the height of her powers. In was 1991, and Whitney Houston had just belted out "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the Super Bowl. and with that rendition, it was like she had absolved all of the people before and after her - those who had tried to sing our national anthem, and had mangled it. She seem to have spoken these kind words to all of them, and to all of American: "Don't worry. I got this." And in that moment, she assured us that through countless renditions, hers shall echo unvexed across the ages.

The following year, Whitney sang "I'll Always Love You" in the movie, "The Bodyguard." She added "I Have Nothing," and "All The Man I Need." Out of that brief window, songs exploded from her physical and emotional frame. Never had a singer opened her mouth so confidently and then let it out so well.

She and Bobby Brown had recently married. And, for all of his faults, Whitney may never have hit those heights had it not been for Bobby and the brief moment of unbridled happiness he gave to her. he may have been the one who stretched those doors wide so that great voice could get out.

After that moment, it was all downhill - not immediately, of course, but soon. In subsequent years, when Whitney called on that voice, it would not come out. Could it be, because she was no longer as happy, it was no longer as sure?

Thank God she had that "One Moment In Time." Now, we all have it, and will love her for that…always.