Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
Howard Bryant covers the Yankees for the Bergen Record. He grew up in Boston
and has written extensively on race and baseball. "Shut Out" traces the Red
Sox ownership's slow progress toward integrating the team in the city which
had its own very public struggles with racism.

Moderating the discussion is Steve Bjerklie. Steve is a journalist and
editor who over the last 22 years has published articles, editorials and
commentary in dozens of publications, including The Economist. A Well member
since 1995 and a baseball fan since 1958, when he saw Willie Mays hit two
out of old Seals Stadium in San Francisco, he roots for the Oakland A's when
asked about favorites, but supports more generally and enthusiastically
baseball as a whole.

Please join us in welcoming Howard and Steve!
  

    
Thanks for having me, and Steve every time I shopped at my old Safeway
on 16th and Potrero, I thought of which aisle I had to stand in to be
in Mays' center field spot!
  

    
Probably somewhere near the sugar, don't you think -- the "sweet
spot"? Or maybe where the cans o' corn are sold. 
  

    
But anyway. On to the book!

Howard, the two sentences you wrote to open "Shut Out"'s third chapter
compellingly capture a thousand stories and legends and probably a
million or more hot-stove-league debates:

"Virtually everything about Boston baseball is conditional. >>>What
would have happened if...?<<<"

Perhaps a good place to begin our conversation here is by taking on
what is arguably the Red Sox's biggest "if" of all. Howard, would you
give us the details and comment on the meaning of Jackie Robinson's
humiliating 1945 tryout for the Red Sox?
  

    
The Robinson tryout is one of the more interesting pieces of Red Sox
history because, at the time, no one had thought much about the
significance of humiliating Jackie Robinson at the time, for no one in
baseball had in 1945 even begun thinking too seriously about
integrating the game. 

Still, in this environment, Robinson and two other players, Sam
Jethroe and Marvin Williams were reluctantly invited by the Red Sox to
try out at Fenway Park in April 1945. I say "reluctantly" because the
Red Sox were pressured by a city councilor named Isadore H.Y. Muchnick,
who had threatened that he would seek to revoke the club's permit to
play Sunday baseball. This was a major threat to the Sox ability to
generate income. 

Bowing to pressure, the Red Sox allowed Robinson, Jethroe and Willias
to don Sox uniforms, take hitting and fielding practice. Hugh Duffy,
the old Red Sox legend, ran the tryout. Joe Cronin, the manager, was
there, and apparently said nothing. 

When it was over, Duffy informed the three players the Red Sox would
be contacting them soon. No one heard from Boston again. 

Robinson would go to his grave bitter at the Red Sox, so much that 22
years later, when the Red Sox were locked in the great pennant race of
1967 with the Twins, Tigers and White Sox, Robinson said he hoped
anyone would win it but Boston, because "everyone knows Tom Yawkey is
one of the most bigoted men in baseball." 

Cronin, who later said the tryout went nowhere, "because he was afraid
many blacks didn't want the Negro Leagues broken up" and that he felt
"everyone thought it was better to have separate leagues" never
reconciled with Robinson, either. 

Nine days before a blind, diabetes-stricken Robinson died, Cronin
refused to appear on the same field with him for a opening-day, pregame
ceremony in 1972, though he was the president of the American League.
According to Monte Irvin, who worked in the commissioner's office,
Cronin sat under the stands at Riverfront Stadium, eating a hot dog,
waiting for Robinson to leave.
  

    
Hi Howard. My wife and I still recall you fondly from your days with the
Oakland Tribune. I'm in the middle of the book and I notice that you include
a lot of quotes from the Tribune and Bay area writers, like Ray Ratto and
Monte Poole and Leonard Koppett. So you've been working on this story for at
least a few years. You come from Boston. Tell me how this story grew upon
you and how you decided that the history of the postwar Boston Red Sox is an
illuminating vantage of the wider American struggle over race.
  

    
Hi Howard! The book is amazing. I'd like you to talk a little bit about 
the circumstances in Boston - not just the ownership and the management, 
but the political climate during the late 40s and 50s, and what you have 
been able to find out about the attitudes of the other players who were on 
the Boston roster during that time. By which I mean: do you think that 
Boston was materially more backward than everyone else? Obviously they 
were last, and that stands for something, but is that the single 
definitive fact?
  

    
Hi <alden>! Sorry we missed you at the book signing in SF at ACWLPB.
As Steve noted, Art Howe, Brad Fischer and Kenny Macha were there,
happily talking baseball. 

For me, the book was a natural. It was just a matter of having the
opportunity to write it. Throughout the research, one issue came back
to me consistently and it was, "how come no one had written it before?"
It is not a new story, especially for people who are close or familiar
with the club. 

The Red Sox became a focal point for two major reasons, the first
being I had always been fascinated by their relationship with the Af-Am
community in Boston. I think in the intro I relayed a story to new Sox
owner John Henry about how when I was a kid virtually no one in the
black community born before 1970 rooted for the Red Sox. The old
timers, like my grandfather, was very pointed about it. He was a
Dodgers/Cardinals man, and others were "anything but the Red Sox" men. 

This fascinated me, because in the 1940s and 50s the Red Sox were no
more or less racist than any of the other teams, with the marked
exceptions of the Dodgers, Giants and Indians. Why did the Red Sox
legacy linger when others remained into history? That question never
went away. 

A side note to this was the visceral reaction so many black former
players had toward Boston. In 1993, I was 24 and working on a piec for
the Oakland Tribune on the Negro Leagues. Joe Black, the old Dodger and
the first black pitcher to win a WS game, asked me where I was from. I
told him Boston and he looked at me with a firmness that elevated the
intensity of the conversation. He was still bitter about the way the
Red Sox had treated Jackie Robinson and he was angry that a young black
kid, a reporter, no less, rooted for a team he knew nothing about. 

It was such a humbling and demoralizing moment for me that I resolved
to find out about this team. 


  I can answer the second part of your question by saying that the Red
Sox began to serve as a mirror of the city for me because of their
import as an AL flagship. I don't think the story has the same power if
the Red Sox weren't such a culturally dominant team in baseball. I
became intrigued by how the club _ which in reality, not the
imagination of the fan _ has been over the past half-century one of the
least dynamic in terms of promoting real change and progression in the
game could have so much power, in the Commissioner's office, the
media, and (post-1967) as a real force as a New England institution.

To me, the contrast of that power against how bitter black players _
even those who never set foot in Boston _ struck me as a very fertile
ground to leap into some of the real issues in the game and the
country.
 



 

 
  

    
Hi <vard>! Thank you for the kind words on the book. I did my best. 

You've asked two great questions, and I found myself stumped on both.
The first _ the political climate in Boston _ is tricky in of itself
because of Boston's schizophrenic personality between the Harvard set
and the blue-collar political "machine" that found itself constantly
immersed in some form of corruption. 

Unlike some of the bigger cities _ Chicago, NY, LA_ the black
migration hadn't touched Boston so much during the Robinson era and
earlier that would have forced its hand in how its politicians and the
financial powerhouses dealt with African Americans. As late as 1949,
Boston's black population was as low as 4 percent. Therefore, the
relationship between the black population and City Hall was one of
minor concern, really, on both sides. Blacks never demanded much from
the politicos, preferring instead to rely on the goodwill built from
the forceful ties built in the previous century. The black condition
had completely changed _ abolition and the "special relationship" was
long dead by the end of WWI nevermind WW2 _ but the black electorate in
Boston preferred compromise to protest. Besides, they were in a
terrible position, anyway, because _ unlike the Irish _ they couldn't
produce the voting numbers to scare the power into action. 

Also, in 1949, what chances blacks had to mobilize politically went
out the window when a charter change turned city council seats into
at-large positions, meaning a black candidate _ at 4 percent of the
population _ would virtually never be able to win a citywide election.

Therefore, this reality makes the moves of Izzy Muchnick _ the
forgotten, misunderstood Jewish City Councilor _ even more courageous
and dangerous. By putting his name on the line for a cause no one
seemed to support seems all the more like political suicide. In short,
there was nothing _ outside of that old strain of Boston liberalism
that held from the Garrison-Sumner-Douglass mythology _ happening in
Boston at the time to suggest integration had more of a chance there
than anywhere else.


As for the ball club, I don't think the Red Sox rank-and-file were
even in a position to have an opinion. The one thing we do know about
the Red Sox of those days is that they would have never crossed Tom
Yawkey. He paid them so well _ for the times _ that they never did
anything to upset the apple cart. Thus, it is no surprise that during
the strike vote before the first labor stoppage in 1972, the Red Sox
were the club most opposed to walking out. 

All of which brings us to one Mr. Theodore S. Williams. I just
returned from Boston a few hours ago and still, to this day, despite
the 1966 HOF speech and him being the only player to warm up and
welcome Pumpsie Green that first year, there are still many people in
the black community who believe Williams to have been the secret engine
behind the Red Sox' reluctance to integrate during the 1950s. 

I don't think I buy this, for 1) it simply seems too convenient to
blame the biggest star on the club's hiring policies and 2) I found no
evidence of it at all in any research I did. 


  
  

    

Why would people want to believe that? That's astonishing.
  

    
Howard, before we get too far removed from the ill-fated '45 Jackie
Robinson tryout and into other interesting territory, I want to ask you
a question that occurred to me when I read about the tryout in "Shut
Out": Was that the first tryout of a black player for a meajor-league
team in the 20th century? Or were there others before? If so, do you
know what was the first? 

I'm curious, because it'd be interesting to know if any other teams
besides the Dodgers were actively -- not just giving lip-service to --
considering hiring black players to break baseball's color line.  
  

    
To my knowledge, and I believe I say this in the book, Isadore
Muchnick's forcing of the Red Sox to try out the Robinson trio was the
first time anyone came away with a *result.* 

In the past, there had been demands for tryouts. I believe in 1944,
there was a protest in NY of both the Giants and Yankees, that was
quelled quickly by Commissioner Landis. From everything I've read and
gleaned from the few people who are still with us _ cutting the Buck
O'Neil chapter from the book was truly agonizing _ no one believed
integration would begin in earnest until Landis was dead.


I believe this, because once he died, integration came rather quickly.
WW2 may have had plenty to do with it, but I don't think that's the
only factor. 

After Fenway, the Chicago White Sox held a tryout for two black
players later in 1945 that came and went with little notice. 

The Dodgers, in either late '45 or early '46 did the same before
settling on Robinson. I believe this Dodger tryout was a lip-service
tryout, and there had been talk that Branch Rickey was annoyed to have
been pressured politically by black activists. He took umbrage to that
approach for change. 



<vard>, I too believe the Williams talk to be absurd. Art Rust Jr., an
old black journalist who wrote a book with the title "Get that nigger
off the field," (in reference to the rumored slur yelled at Robinson
during the tryout), called me the other day 1) 'cause he wanted a free
book! and 2) to tell me he knew many of the characters in the book said
he believed the same, that Williams may have mellowed, but during his
heydey was the backbone behind the Sox racist policies. 

There's only evidence to the contrary about this, but I think it is
illustrative of many blacks' need to *find some plausible explanation*
for why the Red Sox were so recalcitrant during those times. And
remember, Williams was the public figure, Yawkey stayed behind the
scenes. 

I have a moment in the book about Mabray "Doc" Kountze, a black
journalist who worked for the Boston Guardian, the old black weekly. He
believed this about Williams, too. In the late '80s, Glenn Stout, who
wrote the fabulous "Red Sox Century" told Kountze about Williams' '66
HOF speech and it made Kountze cry. 

For all those years _ though he never wrote it _ he thought Williams
was a racist. He wrote Williams a letter apologizing to Ted for even
*thinking* ill of Williams. Williams wrote him a long letter accepting
the apology, and easing Kountze's conscience. 

 
  

    
That was a sweet anecdote to have included, Howard. I thought it spoke
very well of both men. 

I suppose one big challenge in writing any baseball book is choosing
the anecdotes. 
  

    

Howard, I think you've done a huge service to baseball, informed discussions
of race and society and to history both in Boston and the country as a
whole, in exploring this subject.   The topic of racial relations and how
they relate to the sports life of the Boston community has been just below
the surface here in Boston for as long as I can remember, but it's rarely
tackled head-on.  In the past generation, Dennis (Oil Can) Boyd, Jim Rice
and Mo Vaughn have publically commented on being part of the organization's
history, and I've personally heard Vaughn muse on the impact he'd like to
have had on the team and the community.  As I haven't yet had a chance to
pick up a copy of "Shut Out" (I will, I promise), can you speak to the
effect of Mo's tenure here, his efforts to be front and center while he was
wearing the Red Sox uniform, and whathis impact could have been had he
stayed?
  

    
To me, Mo Vaughn is THE seminal figure in Boston's sports history. As
Boston Herald baseball columnist Tony Massarotti said, "When Mo first
got here, Ellis Burks was the only black face in the clubhouse, and now
it's all different." 

The thing I love most about Mo is how he was the first black baseball
player in Boston to not shy away from the obvious issue that comes with
being a black player in Boston. He was the first black player to
expect to be treated on his own terms and to welcome the responsibility
that came with that. 

When you think of the other black players who have played for the Sox,
they usually fall into two categories, 1) the meek and quiet, even if
they aren't by nature (Pumpsie Green, Cecil Cooper, Bob Watson, etc.),
players who will avoid all racial discussions even if they are burning
a hole in their skin. Those guys just won't get involved. 

The other is the emotional player, the Oil Cans and Reggie Smiths of
the club who seemed so affected by every slight, and simply couldn't
enjoy playing in Boston for a minute. 

Mo didn't fall into either category, which is a tribute to his
self-confidence as a person. He proved that a black player could be
embraced, could enjoy Boston and be the face of this franchise. That is
new and significant.

Even Bill Russell, for all of his greatness, couldn't navigate Boston,
couldn't corral the public. It took nearly 30 years after he retired
for Russell and the city to face one another with positive reflection.

Not only did Mo love it there, but he never wanted to leave, either. 

He goes beyond race. He always talked about being "The last of the
Great Red Sox," which is amazing in an era where players no longer tie
their personal legacy to that of a team. Mo wanted that, esp. in a
place that needed it the most.

I could talk about Mo for days, obviously...
 
 
  

    
Howard, (to repeat a question I asked at your reading), what was it
that Mo did in Boston to become the seminal figure in Boston's black
sports history, and how did he do it? You mentioned at the reading that
he is a New Englander (Connecticut, I believe). Was this a factor? And
in the book you write that Mo "wore his blackness unabashed"; can you
tell us what you mean specifically? 

And then there's the matter of Mo's relationship with Dan Duquette,
who you identify as the other person in the modern Red Sox to have made
a huge and productive difference in terms of black athletes, even
though Duquette is pretty much universally despised as a human being
(and no longer has a job with the Red Sox)...
  

    
For years, black players were nervous about playing in Boston. Part of
the reason was the fragile racial climate, but mostly it was because
other blacks in the game saw how unhappy and difficult the experience
had been for Reggie Smith, Jim Rice, etc. That made players not want to
play there. 

When Mo arrived, he didn't shy from racial issues. He took it upon
himself to bring difficult questions into the open instead of brooding
and allowing it to weigh on him. By doing this, Mo took the pressure
off of his teammates. 

Mo was one of the first black players _ certainly the most important _
who said good things about the city and truly enjoyed playing in
Boston. Where Rice always seemed beaten down by the climate, Mo said
there was no other place he'd rather play. He went into black
neighborhoods and cultivated community groups that had long boycotted
the Red Sox as an entity. His charity work, his presence, for the first
time allowed blacks in Boston to believe that the Red Sox belonged to
them, too. 

As for his personality, my argument was that black players were so
fearful of being roped into the discussion of race in Boston _ by
interviews, commentary, etc. _ that they rarely said or did anything
that attracted attention to themselves. Mo was different. He hung out
with rap stars, even infamous ones like the late Notorious B.I.G. and
Puffy Combs. He was part of that black celebrity lifestyle and
Bostonians were not used to seeing that in a black athlete. 

By doing this, I believe, Mo made it possible for other players to be
less fearful of Boston because he proved it was just like any other
place. You could be yourself there.
  

    
In one place you talk about the razzing that ballplayers do (or did) with
their opponents. In the all-white days, the guys would insult each other's
ethnic groups with impunity. When black (and latino) players started coming
up, this couldn't be done. The taunts ("hey porter, get my bags") were too
harsh. You quote an exchange between pitcher Clem Labine and writer Roger
Kahn. Labine didn't quite get it: "If someone called me a French-Catholic
bastard, I'd tell him to go fuck himself. I wouldn't come crying to you."
Kahn replied that "in Mississippi they're not lynching French-Catholic
bastards, only niggers."

So I guess white players had to learn new razzing behavior. (I assume they
haven't given up the habit.) What are the guys yelling these days?
  

    
Today's players are more part of a club. The established players
hardly razz anyone anymore. They are all part of the million-dollar
fraternity. I was talking to some of the older reporters and players.
Yogi Berra told me even as early as the start of the 1960s, bench
jockeying was a dying art, and most people seem to think integration
was a big reason for that. As Don Zimmer said, "We did it then, but
there's no place for that now." 

After watching his documentary, I think Hank Greenberg might think
there was no place for it then, either.
  

    
Sorry, lost train of thought. As for Dan Duquette, I truly went into
this project expecting him to emerge as a hero. There was just one
problem: 

No one would say a good word about him. 

The reason? The way he treated people. Regardless of how much credit I
believe he deserves for changing the culture of the Red Sox _ before
his tenure the Red Sox had signed exactly two black free agents in the
18 years of free agency _ his lack of interpersonal skills and
downright meanspiritness prevented even people who are usually pretty
fair to dislike him intensely.
  

    

Big surprise.  Any thoughts on how the new regime might behave, from what
you've seen and heard?
  

    
Had two very interesting conversations with the Post-Yawkeys. The
first was in the intro with John Henry, the new owner. What I didn't
add into the intro, 'cause I was 1) off the record and 2) fearful of
being turned into a puppet, was Henry's telling me that he has for some
time been looking for a minority partner for a piece of the Red Sox.
This would be gigantic if only to send a message that the new days
aren't the old ones. 

That was in April, and nothing seems to have happened yet. 

The second conversation was with Charles Steinberg, a member of the
Henry group that Peter Gammons recently touted as being a "necessity"
for the commissioner's office in some capacity. Dr. Steinberg spoke at
length about the need to "corral a generation" of new fans to provide
the antidote to the way the previous generations of black fans thought
of the Red Sox. He didn't specify how he and the New Sox intended to do
this, but certainly they are very aware that at least in the short
term, my book makes them look good.
  

    
Howard, one of the (many) fascinating items you report in the book is
that Tris Speaker, Boston's great star of the pre-World War I period
(and arguably the best Red Sox until Ted Williams; the second hald of
Speaker's bifurcated career was spent with Cleveland), was a member of
the Klan. To tell you the truth, this news saddened me greatly, as I've
long admired Speaker. More importantly, I haven't seen this reported
about Speaker anywhere else -- nice work. 

In your research, did you find other players who belonged to the KKK? 
  

    
There certainly were pockets of players who belonged to such
organizations, esp. members of the Detroit Tigers, whose names I've
actually been stumbling upon (I'll name names when I'm sure). The hard
part of the discussion is reconciling how these facts affect the
admiration you have for certain players _ Ty Cobb, of course, being the
greatest example. The part easier to accept is that Speaker's playing
days coincided with the most pronounced rise of racism in the nation's
history. I would imagine in certain towns, especially the Southern
ones, the real surprise wasn't who was a member of the Klan, but the
people of a certain age who weren't.

I cannot _ damn it all! _ take full credit for Speaker. His KKK
affiliation has been documented in a few places, one of which is the
Hall of Fame (where I found it), accompanied by a photo of Speaker
chomping on a cigar, wearing a suit and hat, while sitting on top of an
alligator. 

Peter Golenbock's book "Fenway: An unexpurgated history of the Boston
Red Sox" also makes mention of Speaker, and Smokey Joe Wood, page. 46:

"In 1916, the two star players of the Red Sox, Tris Speaker and Smokey
Joe Wood, mysteriously were no longer members of the Boston Red Sox.
History has recorded that Speaker was traded on the eve of opening day
because Lannin didn't want to pay his high salary. Wood has said he
quit the Red Sox in 1916 because of a salary dispute. Maybe.

"There is evidence that Speaker and Wood may have left the Red Sox
because, as non-Catholics, they didn't get along with their Irish
Catholic teammates in Irish Boston. Speaker, a Texan, was a member of
the Ku Klux Klan. His best friend Wood, was an Orangeman. Both were
Masons...Speaker in particular did not hide his contempt for his
Catholic teammates, including Babe Ruth, Duffy Lewis and Harry Hooper."


I had been told of a deep Catholic/non-Catholic rift in the first
half-decade of the Yawkey regime as well, which was surprising
considering that Eddie Collins and Joe Cronin were both rising to power
in the Boston hierarchy during the mid-1930s. 

And not to be exclusionary, old Sox third baseman Frank Malzone, among
others have long known the Red Sox of those days to be very
anti-Italian, which explains _ similarly to the black experience _ why
Boston's huge Italian-American population was alway partial to the
Yankees, which of course was the team of Italian America during those
years.

  
  

    
Along these lines, I learned from your book that ball clubs were not
segregated before 1884. I imagine that by 1946, when reintegration began,
there was no trace of this historic experience left in the game. This should
be old news, I know, when we see how long it's taken minorities and women to
make progress in our lifetimes--but I'm still impressed with the weight and
depth of inertia in social institutions. A new owner can't come in and wave
a magic wand. It takes decades of concerted effort, even for a lousy
baseball team. For those not familiar with the structure of baseball, could
you say why it has been so hard to change?
  

    
>>>Speaker in particular did not hide his contempt for his Catholic
teammates, including Babe Ruth, Duffy Lewis and Harry Hooper.<<<

Wow. For one thing, I didn't know Ruth was Catholic. For another, the
Burns/Ward book "Baseball," from the television series, has a nice page
of photos showing Speaker and Hooper as roommates in a Boston boarding
house. I'm not doubting the report of Speaker's anti-Catholicism, just
feeling surprised that he could abide the rooming arrangement. 

Please tell me Harry Hooper, a Stanford grad, was all right. He's my
absolute favorite old Red Sox, even above Speaker. (I'm not counting
Ruth.)