03 - April 1974

As was always the case in those days, the first pitch in Cincinnati represented the opening of the baseball season for Major League Baseball in America. In 1974, there was an added attraction to opening day in Cincinnati. Hammering Hank Aaron, who played for the Atlanta Braves, had ended the 1973 season just two home runs short of breaking Babe Ruth’s record. The first game for the Braves was April 4^th, Opening Day, versus Cincinnati.

The Braves had planned to keep Hank out of the batting order on opening day so he could both tie and break the record in front of the hometown crowd in Atlanta. The baseball commissioner, however, forced the Braves to keep Hank in the lineup, batting fourth in the batting order.

Hank Aaron was in the spotlight for a lot of reasons. He was about to break Babe Ruth’s career home run record, arguably the most important record in baseball. The underlying issue, though, was that he was black and the record belonged to a white man.

Nobody really talked about that openly. Everybody was busy doing what all baseball fans did best: comparing statistics. It was Aaron vs. Ruth. My father, who was in business school, even wrote a paper for a Comparative Statistics class, showing why “Henry Aaron will never be better than George Herman Ruth.”

It really wasn’t about statistics, though. It was about sentiment.

Just a month earlier, Byron Johnson moved from the wrong side of the tracks. He had grown up on Bond Hill. Bond Hill was mostly black. Mount Adams was, at that time, almost entirely white. When the Johnson’s arrived, there were whispers of “Do they live here?” in dark, hushed conversations.

Mr. Johnson had spent most of his life working as an accountant for a small law firm in Bond Hill. As the neighborhood evolved, due to both inside and outside pressures, the clients changed, the lawyers moved away, and the firm closed its doors.

Mr. Johnson quickly found an opening in Procter and Gamble’s accounting department at their headquarters downtown. It was a paradigm shift for everyone involved. Mr. Johnson’s pay doubled. He immediately replaced his old car with a newer one at a Used Car lot in Mount Adams. He paid for it in cash.

Money continued to flow, but the price of living in Bond Hill was much too much for Mr. Johnson and his family. Crime was rampant. So, too, were the drug dealers and streetwalkers, who peddled their wares in the light of day. Mr. Johnson had wanted to remove Byron from the same culture of fear he’d been raised in his own childhood. The job with Procter and Gamble was their ticket out.

He returned to the place where he bought his used car in Mount Adams, remembering how much he liked the view overlooking the city. The houses, once built for the late 19^th and early 20^th Century elite, were old and fashionable, unlike the newer builds in cities like Norwood or pricey Hyde Park.

Once he found the right neighborhood, it did not take long at all for him to find the right house. That house, of course, sat two doors down from ours.

The Johnson’s moved in to little fanfare. They were, of course, the first black family in our neighborhood, even for a city as diverse as Cincinnati. The blacks and whites usually kept to themselves, at least until 1968.

Mr. Johnson quickly found his place in Procter and Gamble’s accounting department. It sat right next to the Research and Development department, where my dad worked. When Mr. Johnson hung an Atlanta Braves calendar at his desk, everyone took notice, especially my dad.

My father and Mr. Johnson knew they were neighbors, but they only mentioned it in passing. That Atlanta Braves calendar may have been what brought us together. Then again, Byron loved baseball, so it was probably going to happen one way or another.

My father stood at the door, poking his head into Mr. Johnson’s office. There was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson with Byron. There was also the Braves calendar.

“You like the Braves, eh?”

Mr. Johnson nodded.

“You know, that’s sacrilege in this town.”

“Sacrilege or not, I’m from Atlanta. It would be sacrilege to pull it down.”

“You going to the game?” asked my father.

“I doubt it. It’s the hottest ticket in town.”

“You want to go?”

Mr. Johnson perked up, “Are you kidding? I’d love to.”

“I’ve got four extra tickets. Is that your boy?”

“Yeah, that’s my son, Byron. He loves baseball, too.”

“Then we should go.”

“I can’t take a day off,” said Mr. Johnson, “I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Don’t take too long. Like you said, this is the hottest ticket in town.”

My father had his answer the very next day. Mr. Johnson had asked Byron if he wanted to go. Byron whooped and hollered all around, as excited as ever. Now, all Mr. Johnson had to do was tell his boss.

The next morning, the accounting department was called into a staff meeting.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the Chief Accountant, “as you know, next Monday is Opening Day for the Reds. There have been a few of you who have requested that day off. Unfortunately, we’re right in the middle of tax season, so that means I can’t give anyone in my office any time off. No exceptions.”

Mr. Johnson went straight to my dad’s office after the staff meeting.

“Bad news. I can’t go.”

‘Why not?”

“This is tax season.”

“That’s just a veiled threat. The whole office is empty on Opening Day. I don’t even know why P&G doesn’t just call it a holiday.”

“I still can’t go.”

“We’ll see,” said my father.

My father, of course, knew something Mr. Johnson didn’t. He had been in the offices on Opening Day. Half of the offices were empty, and that included the accounting and management offices, too.

I counted down the days and then the hours and then the minutes all through that weekend. When Monday came, my mother forced me to go to school.

“Just for a half-day, Jake.”

“But it’s opening day.”

“And your father will pick you up at 11:30, right when lunch begins.”

I let out a long, heavy sigh.

“I don’t care how much you grump and groan, you’re going to school and that’s that.”

I still wore my game-day outfit, complete with a Red’s shirt and a ball cap. On opening day, my father always got his wish – I was a die-hard but true-blue Reds fan.

I suffered through morning classes while dad suffered through work (or so I thought, until he re-told the story years later).

At 10:00 a.m. sharp, my father stood outside Mr. Johnson’s office.

“Did I tell you or what?”

About half of the staff was gone, including the chief accountant.

“You sure did.”

“Let’s go to lunch.”

Mr. Johnson looked at this watch. “It’s only ten o’clock.”

Dad checked his watch. “Already? I’m famished. Let’s go.”

The two men went down to the parking garage and got into dad’s car.

“Where are we eating?”

“In the red seats,” chuckled my father.

“Come on, you know I can’t play hooky.”

“I’m taking you home to get you out of that monkey suit. Meanwhile, I’ll go down to my house and change into something more comfortable, too.”

Mr. Johnson grabbed an extra set of clothes for Byron and then he and my dad arrived at school, about an hour earlier than my mom promised.

“Jacob Jolley and Byron Johnson, please come to the Principal’s office,” announced the P.A.

We waited while Byron went to the boy’s room and switched out of his school clothes. Byron and I hopped in the back seat as dad sped off toward Riverfront Stadium.

“I thought we couldn’t go,” said Byron.

“That’s what I thought,” replied Mr. Johnson.

We drove through downtown, passing Fountain Square. Riverfront Stadium appeared in the distance between the two rows of skyscrapers. Dad pulled his car into the parking garage. It was just before noon.

The car snaked through the parking garage until dad found a spot near the roof.

“Do you think we’re facing the river?”

“Nah,” replied my father as he pointed across the back of the car, “it’s back that way.”

“It can’t be,” said Mr. Johnson, “we came in from that direction.”

“I’ll bet you one beer,” wagered my father.

“How about the loser buys a meal for the winner instead?”

“Deal,” said my father.

My father had been to the stadium numerous times before. He was sure he was right. When we got out of the elevator on the stadium level, Byron darted around the corner.

“There’s the river, just like I said!”

Before we even found our seats, we went to the concession stand. As promised, Dad bought the first round of sodas and hot dogs for everyone.

I helped him, carrying the drink tray up the steep incline to the red seats. We turned around and looked down towards the field. It seemed small and far away.

“These are the greatest seats ever!” said Byron.

“They’re pretty good,” chuckled my father. He had been just about everywhere in the stadium, including seats in the Skybox and Club Level, right behind the Reds dugout.

After batting practice, Byron and I did a lap around the stadium, checking out the posters on the wall and sneaking a view from the Mezzanine. Then, we stopped at the store and bought two signed fungo bats. Mine had Joe Morgan’s signature and Byron’s had Johnny Bench.

Our seats were located directly behind centerfield. As Cesar Geronimo and George Foster ran into the outfield, cries of “Geronimo!” filled the outfield stands. He tipped his cap as he faced us. Then, he turned towards home plate and propped his hands on his knees.

Jack Billingham was the starting pitcher for the Reds. Ralph Garr was Atlanta’s leadoff hitter. He grounded out. Mike Lum was next. He hit a single. Darrel Evans batted next, hitting a blooper to right field. Foster ran it down and threw a bullet to Joe Morgan at second based. Lum stopped at second while Evans stood at first.

A mixture of cheers and boos erupted as Hank Aaron approached the plate. Billingham’s first pitch was a fastball straight down the middle. Hank’s stance was wide open as he swung at the pitch. Crack! The ball sailed up, up, up. Cesar Geronimo took a few steps backwards before peeling off to his right and racing the ball to the fence. All four of us rose to our feet and watched it sail over the fence.

“All right!” cheered Mr. Johnson. In fact, everyone, no matter whose colors they were wearing, celebrated. There were high fives all around as Hank Aaron circled the bases. The scoreboard lit up with 714 and fireworks exploded overhead. Hank tied Babe Ruth’s home run record and we were there to see it.

The crowd settled down until the fourth inning when Hank returned to the batter’s box. This time, the old man got a standing ovation from the crowd. Jack Billingham, however, did not fare so well. He threw four straight pitches outside the strike zone.

After Billingham made it through the fourth inning, Mr. Johnson went to the concession stand with Byron, fetching the second round of hot dogs and soda.

The lead went back and forth until the ninth, when it was tied 6-6. After the 11^th, the Reds finally scored another run and won the game.

“Do you think we should return to work?” said Mr. Johnson.

“You’re kidding, right?” asked my father.

Mr. Johnson sat in his stadium seat, stone faced.

“Right?” said dad.

Mr. Johnson smirked slightly.

“Right,” said Mr. Johnson, “Let’s get out of here.”

We waited in post-game traffic, passing under the causeway that fed onto the main road. A couple of kids shouted at us as they passed overhead. Then, one of the kids tossed a large rock at the car. It smacked the front window and cracked the windshield.

“Hey, you punks!” shouted dad. When he stepped out of the car, the kids ran, shouting back at dad.

“Come on, Greg,” said Mr. Johnson. He reached across the front seat and grabbed my father by the wrist. My father immediately snapped out of his tantrum.

“I’m sorry, everybody.”

“It’s okay. It’s just a meaningless slur.”

That phrase stuck with me for a long time – ‘meaningless slur’. When Mr. Johnson said it, I had no idea what he meant. I always thought it meant that my dad slurred his speech or something.

The boys used the word.

My father turned on the radio and we listened to the post game show as we continued to wait in traffic. We eventually made our way to Procter &Gamble. We waited for Mr. Johnson to get his car out of the P&G Parking Garage. Then, we followed them back home.

“I don’t think we should call it a day,” said my father, “Let’s end it on a good note.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s unwind on my back patio.”

“Do you care if my wife tags along?”

“Sure. The more, the merrier.”

Mom reheated some leftovers – ham salad sandwiches and potato chips. Those of us who had been to the game were stuffed. The women, however, enjoyed small portions of food while they kept company.

“You want to play Wiffle Ball?” I asked Byron.

“With just two of us?”

“Sure, we can play pitcher’s hand.”

“Pitcher’s hand?”

“Yeah, just pitch it like regular, but if you field the ball, you shout “Out!” when you snatch the Wiffle Ball. I shout “Safe!” when I touch the base. Whoever is first, wins. Runner, of course, gets ties.”

“What do you do if you get a double?”

“Ghost runners.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We played Wiffle Ball while the adults watched from the patio deck. Mr. Johnson talked about the decision to leave Bond Hill.

“In under a decade, we went from being one of the only black families in Bond Hill to be being part of the greater majority. I wonder if the same would happen here in Mount Adams.”

“You say it like you’re ashamed to be black,” said Mrs. Johnson.

Her words cut through the still night air.

“I just mean,” she stammered, “It doesn’t matter all that much. You shouldn’t worry about who you are or where you are, just as long as you’re happy.”

“I’ll toast to that,” said my father.

While the adults chatted on the patio, we continued playing, even after sunset. Byron and I swatted at the fireflies as they flashed their faint yellow strobes in the darkness of my backyard. Each time we hit one, it flickered and faded as it sailed lifelessly through the air.

We had no idea what changes we affected on those meaningless bug's lives, nor did we care. To us, it was just something to pass the time.

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