01 - June 1977

1977 was both the best and worst year of my life. Then again, 1977 was probably the best and worst year for a lot of people in Cincinnati.

In October, I’d turn sixteen years old and things would start changing at an ever-increasing pace. Up to that time, I spent my summer days riding my bicycle to John F Kennedy Park. It was one of the Cincinnati’s new multi-use city planned parks, aimed at fixing the problems segregation had caused in the previous two decades. Kennedy Park had it all: an Olympic-sized swimming pool, outdoor skating rink, bowling alley, recreation center, and a couple of basketball and tennis courts. It also had four baseball diamonds, arranged in a four-leaf clover pattern. Usually, I’d just go there to play a game of baseball with my friends, but sometimes we’d enjoy the other places, too.

When we weren’t playing baseball, we were watching it on television. We knew Cincinnati’s batting line-up by heart: Joe Morgan, Pete Rose, Ken Griffey, George Foster, Dan Driessen, Johnny Bench, Davey Concepcion, Cesar Geronimo, and whoever was pitching that day to round out the order. To baseball fans far and wide, they were known as ‘The Big Red Machine’.

For their fans, December 1976 was the beginning of the end. After winning their second World Series’ in a row that fall, the Reds traded Tony Perez. A year later, it would be Pete Rose. Then, George Foster went to New York. The team didn’t win another championship for another decade. By that time, all the names and faces changed.

They dominated the National League West for the first half of the 70s. For the second half of the 70s, it was the Los Angeles Dodgers. It was about that time I became a die-hard Dodger fan. I must have been the only kid in Cincinnati to wear Dodger Blue instead of Cincinnati Red. I probably did it for no other reason than being different – or just being plain difficult.

More than anyone else I can remember, my grandma was the biggest Redlegs fan I ever knew. She’d sit in her ratty old green recliner in her sewing room and listen to every single Reds game on her little red transistor radio.

”Hello, Jacob! Whaddya know?”

She greeted me as she always did, as if there were nobody else in the world half as important to me. No matter who you were, she always rolled out the red carpet. That was just her way.

“I know what, Grandma. Do you know what?”

“What?”

“The Dodgers are coming to town in a couple of weeks.”

“Psht,” she scoffed.

The mighty Reds, like Casey, had seemed to strike out come 1977. The All-Star break hadn’t even rolled around at mid-season and the Reds were a dozen games out of first, behind the Dodgers. They were all but eliminated from playoff contention unless they could string together an impressive second half.

It was a funny thing, since the Dodgers had never put up much of a fight throughout my childhood. In fact, I was five in 1966, when they went to the World Series. Even then, the Orioles swept them, winning all four games in a best-of-seven series.

That was such a long time ago I could not even remember it, I just remember hearing about it.

“Can we go to the game?”

She leaned back in her chair and rolled to one side. This afforded her the opportunity to squeeze a few fingers into the pocket of her polyester pants. She pulled out a small change purse and flicked through a wad of five and ten dollar bills.

“Oh, I suppose so,” she said.

“Can we take Lee and Fitzie?”

“I suppose we can do that, too.”

Lee Heinz and Andy Fitzpatrick were my two best childhood friends. We played together on several baseball teams throughout our youth. By the time 1977 came around, we all played together on the high school team, too.

I went to my bedroom and threw on my favorite old red shirt. It said “Big Red Machine – 1975 World Champions” on the front and had the batting order listed on the back. Although, I was a Dodgers fan, my dad (who was also a devout Reds fan) would never buy me anything but Reds memorabilia.

Luckily, my mom bought me a new Dodger cap every Christmas. Still, my father sometimes stuffed my ballcaps into the bottom of the garbage cans on ‘Trash Night’, only to have me rescue them as I took trash to the curb.

Like I said, my family was serious about their baseball.

After I put on my Reds shirt and my Dodgers cap, Grandma took me downtown to the ticket office at Riverfront Stadium. I always loved going with her – the tall, round coliseum towered over me. It was the one place where I felt truly on the same wavelength with Grandma. She’d tell me stories about how Riverfront Stadium had no character, like ‘good old Crosley Field’. I never understood that, because I thought Riverfront Stadium was one of the greatest buildings ever created.

Grandma bought us 4 tickets in the green seats right behind home plate. They were great because you could see everything from there – and sometimes you’d be lucky enough to catch a foul ball.

We returned home and I went straight to the garage to get my bicycle. It was a dull orange Huffy with swooping handlebars and a silver banana seat. The seat also had lime green speckles. It wasn’t the prettiest bike on the block. Still, it got me from point A to point B and that’s all that mattered to any fifteen-year-old.

I threw it in Lee’s front yard as I reached his house. He was in the living room with his dad, watching the Reds game. I rapped on the screen door.

“Come in!” said his father, who was reclining in front of the television. Lee was sitting on the front room floor keeping score.

“Hey, you want to see the Reds and Dodgers this weekend?”

Lee turned toward his father. Mr. Heinz simply nodded.

“I’d love to go.”

“Is your father taking you?”

“No, Mr. Heinz, it’s my Grandma.”

“That should be fun.”

“I can’t wait,” I replied.

I sat beside Lee as we watched the rest of the game. Ever since I knew Lee, he or his father kept score of every single Reds game in a Baseball Score Keeper. It was complete with a grid of baseball diamonds and ten columns for scoring games just like the pros. That day, the Reds beat the Padres 5-0. Clay Carroll pitched a complete game to get the win.

After the game, we jumped on our bikes and pumped the pedals all the way up the steep hill to Fitzie’s house. Mrs. Fitzpatrick greeted us at the door.

“Hey boys, he’s at the swimming pool.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Fitz!” shouted Lee as we sped towards the pool.

The ride to the swimming pool was easy, since Kennedy Park was at the bottom of the hill. We coasted downhill and went straight to ‘The Swim Club’, and stopped at the front gate. Jayne, the old swimming guard captain, was working at the check-in counter. She was maybe 40 years old and ‘built like an Army captain – and as ‘rough as a goat roper to boot.’ – at least that’s how my dad always described her.

“Jayne, can you call Fitzie?”

“He’s watching the diving boards. Break is coming in just a few minutes. How about I just let you in?”

“We didn’t bring bike locks.”

“That’s okay, put your bikes here in the back.”

We wheeled our bikes through the entrance gate and into the small clerk’s office in the guardhouse. We headed towards the diving boards in the back of the Swim Club. Fitzie stood next to his guard chair, all tanned and built like a swimmer. He wore his dad’s sailor’s cap like a white floppy hat. His nose was covered in zinc oxide and a whistle hung about his neck His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. He waved us over as soon as he saw us.

‘What’s up?”

“We’re going to the Reds game next weekend. You want to go?”

“You know I can’t. I have to work.”

“Come on,” I begged, “Jayne will give you one Sunday afternoon off.”

“I know, but she’s not the one who you have to convince. I’m saving up for college.”

“It’s just one stinking Sunday.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

We exchanged high fives and then stripped out of everything but our shorts before jumping into the deep end of the pool, on the other side of the dive line. We stayed at the pool until Fitz was finished at 3 o’clock.

Afterwards, we made the rounds to each of our houses, grabbing our baseball uniforms before heading back to the park. We got there just after 4:30. Mr. Klein, the traveling team coach, was waiting with the team for us to show up.

“You guys are late,” he said to me, “have you been swimming?”

We shook our heads.

“I can smell the chlorine in your hair.”

Lee shrugged.

“But I work at The Swim Club, coach.”

“But you don’t have to swim unless someone’s drowning.”

“Well, I fell into the dive area today and he had to rescue me,” I said.

“Yeah,” added Lee, “I had to jump in after him, too.”

“Just put on your gloves and get out in the field for batting practice.”

Mr. Klein chopped grounders to Fitz and Heinz, who played second and shortstop, respectively. He also popped Texas Leaguers into the outfield so I could shag them down and make throws to Fitzie at second. He made the cutoff before firing it home to Byron Johnson, our catcher.

Byron was one of our friends, too, but he just joined our group two years earlier. He had literally moved from the wrong side of the tracks to the house near the end of my street. He was the first black kid in our neighborhood. In fact, he and his sister were the only black kids any of us knew, so they really had nobody to hang around with. Luckily for Byron, there was baseball.

After practice, we returned to the Swim Club – just to see all our high school friends and hang out. Byron tagged along, too.

We played basketball on the old asphalt court inside the Swim Club. It really wasn’t much of a court, since it only had one basket. The basketball wasn’t much either: red, white, and blue – just like the old ABA basketballs, but it had ripped along one of the seams so the inner-tube bulged on one side.

It made dribbling nearly impossible, since the ball would carom randomly whenever the seam hit the pavement. It forced us to play games of H-O-R-S-E or 21.

Still, it didn’t matter; we were worn out from a full day of swimming and baseball practice. Like I said, we were just there to see our friends.

“Hey Jake.”

“Yeah, Fitz.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I’m going to the game.”

“Why not?”

“You know I’m saving for college.”

“That’s a long way away.”

“Yeah, but my dad promised he’d match any money I saved in the bank. Plus he’d give me a separate allowance as long as I worked full time during the summer and half-time during the school year.”

“He wouldn’t make a tiny exception? This is once in a lifetime.”

“We go to ballgames all the time,” said Fitz.

“But we never get to see the Reds versus the Dodgers.”

“They’re in the same division. They play each other like a dozen times every single year.”

“Aw, come on Fitzie.”

“I bet Byron would like to go. What do you think Byron?”

Byron wasn’t expecting to go out with us to a game. It was shocking enough for him to join us at the Swim Club, even though he hung out with us throughout the whole school year and the summer, too.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“There you have it,” said Fitz, “problem solved.”

We finished up playing basketball and headed back to the large lawn beside the pool. We pulled up one of the old wooden backrests and undressed to swim. Byron kept his clothes on.

“You gonna join us?” asked Fitz.

“Nah,” said Byron.

“Come on, man. You never go swimming.”

“I don’t really like it.”

 Byron left soon after that, but the rest of us stayed until The Swim Club closed at ten o’clock.

We never really questioned why Byron never swam. We mostly thought it was because he couldn’t swim. What we didn’t know was the certain stigma of being the only black person in a white neighborhood. We never felt the sudden parting of waters whenever we got into the water. For Byron or his sister, though, they’d felt it before. It was like a drop of oil hitting the surface, pushing all the white people to the farthest edges of the pool.

That was something we just didn’t understand, because segregation was over.

At ten o’clock, everybody walked to the parking lot and waited for the pool to clear out. Around 10:15, after all the guests had left, we went back inside with a handful of swim staff and specially invited guests.

Fitz fixed the P.A. system, taping the handle in place and stringing the microphone wire out the window and placing it next to his boom box. He tuned it to a rock station and turned up the volume. Jayne came right behind him and turned the volume “to an acceptable level”. Still, it was loud enough to be heard by all of the houses surrounding the park.

We grabbed Wiffle Ball bats from the changing room and went to the far end of the Swim Club, just beyond the kiddie pool. Fireflies flickered in the darkness, signaling each other of their whereabouts. We chased them around and took long swings at them with our yellow plastic bats. They’d click against the plastic as we hit them. Then, the fireflies’ tails would trail off in a long, swooping arc until they landed somewhere in the grass and their beacons flashed sporadically before fizzling out.

We swatted at fireflies, like we always did, until the second closing time around midnight. Afterwards, we parted ways. I rode to the edge of the park with Lee, where his house sat. Fitize and I continued up the longest hill in all of Cincinnati to his house. When we got there, we partied ways, too.

As soon as I got home, I stashed my bike in the garage and went straight to bed. I was glad summer had just begun. Looking back, I recall these long summer days and nights as the best time of my life.

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