05 - May 1968

Mr. Johnson and the attorneys at St. Pierre and Maddux met every night until May 6th, the night of the Bond Hill-Roselawn Community Council Meeting.

The Meeting was held in the same gymnasium Mr. Johnson and Mr. St. Pierre gathered registration forms only two weeks earlier. The basketball court was reconfigured, with two rows of folding chairs sitting at center court, facing a dais and the two cafeteria tables that sat on either side. An easel stood to one side, minutes quickly scribbled on the drawing pad with a red marker.

Council members milled about next to the coffee maker at the back of the gymnasium, just before the meeting began. These were familiar faces to Mr. Johnson and Mr. St. Pierre. Several of the parents had come to support Mr. Johnson's new league.

The janitor approached a man who looked to be the council president.

"Walt, do you want me to get more chairs for these people?"

"I think we'll be fine," said Walt in a dismissive tone.

"But, sir, what about these people?"

Walt tilted his head to the side as he stepped towards the janitor. He scanned the group for on-lookers. Mr. St. Pierre and Mr. Johnson caught his eye.

"Yes, I think we should get some chairs. Hurry now, run along."

The janitor rushed to the back. Meanwhile, the council president called the meeting to order.

"Ladies and Gentleman, I want to welcome you to the May 1968 Bond Hill-Roselawn Community Council Meeting. We will start with the reading of last month's minutes by Elsie. Elsie, can you approach the dais?"

The little old lady stepped up to the microphone and reached into her pocket. She unfolded a small piece of paper and recited the minutes without looking away from her notes. A council member approved the minutes and another seconded the motion. The minutes were approved. Now, it was on to this month's business.

Mr. Johnson waited and watched as council members moved seamlessly from one item to the next. Everything was neat and procedural.

"When will we get a chance to speak?" Mr. Johnson whispered to Mr. St. Pierre.

"There will be an open session at the end of their regular activities."

Mr. Johnson nodded as he watched the council talk about zoning ordinances and permits for the old grain silo at the top of Bond Hill. Motions were made and moved. A councilwoman stood up and presented a report.

“We would like to now address the proposed signal tower at the Bond Hill rail stop. There have been concerns about the signal tower’s operations during overnights and the proposed height of the tower. I spoke to Mr. Abernathy of the Cincinnati Transit Authority. He recommends we proceed with the Signal Tower as planned and he will register an Amendment to the height limitations and noise impedances of towers and antennas to provide for this signal tower.”

“Mrs. Barrett,” interrupted the Council President, “”Can I see the copy of that report?”

Mrs. Barrett passed a copy to the President.

“Are we following the recommendations of the CTA on this matter?”

“Yes, we are.”

“On the recommendations of Mr. Abernathy and the CTA, we’ll table this and look back at this issue after Mr. Abernathy files the Amendment with Cincinnati Council. Are we agreed?”

The council members nodded in unison.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

“The ‘Ayes’ have it. Let’s proceed to the next item.”

“Thank you, your worship,” said Mrs. Barrett. She returned to her seat as procedures continued. Finally, the Council President went through general issues.

“We then move along to the matter of adding a new Assistant Librarian at Roselawn Public Library. Are we agreed?”

The council members nodded.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

“And then the matter of disclosure of Council wages. We submitted a provision to Cincinnati Council in April on that matter. After their review, they agreed to non-disclosure as a matter of personal privacy. Are we agreed?”

The council members nodded.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

“Now we move on to the addition of by-law 169 under section G, Item 3 of the capital development plan. This by-law requires individual business owners to clear any and all debris on their sidewalks on a regular basis. Are we agreed?”

The council members nodded.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

“Mr. President?”

“Yes, Councilman Collier?”

“This meeting has dragged on over two hours. It seems we are drifting. Would it be possible to wrap this up until our next meeting in June?”

“Are there any pertinent matters that cannot wait until June?”

Mr. Johnson raised his hand. The councilman ignored him.

“And for future business, our next council meeting is scheduled for the first Monday in June. Are we agreed?”

The council nodded.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

“I’ll go ahead and make a motion for adjournment. Are we agreed?”

The council nodded.

“Any opposed? I see none.”

Mr. Johnson quickly raised his hand. “Wait. Wait!” he cried out.

The council, who had began rising from their chairs, looked at Mr. Johnson.

“What is it?” asked the Council President.

“I had something I wanted to say.”

The President checked his watch.

“Make it quick.”

“I am forming a baseball league for the kids of Bond Hill.”

“Cincinnati already has several Babe Ruth Leagues.”

“But those are held in the more affluent communities. Many of Bond Hill’s residents can’t get there.”

“I don’t think we have the time for this,” countered the president.

“You don’t have to do anything really. Me and some of my lawyer friends have already assembled a small league and we will handle everything else.”

“Alright, we’ll see you next month.”

“Next month? The boys want to play now.”

Mr. Johnson circulated through the gymnasium, passing out fliers to anyone and everyone who would take them.

“We’re starting next week. Come out and see our game.”

“This isn’t approved by council.”

“This isn’t anything official. It’s just boys and their dads playing baseball. Just come see us.”

“Alright, we’ll see you next week.”

The council members dispersed and the gymnasium quickly emptied.

“You think they’ll come?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“I don’t think it really matters. You’ve created a league and the parents are going to stand by your side.”

“Let’s hope that’s enough.”

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Johnson entered the law office with a stack of registration papers. He went from office-to-office, inviting the attorneys to an informal lunch in the meeting room.

He handed some money to the law clerk and sent him to pick up Italian subs and drinks for the lawyers. The clerk returned with two large sacks of food and placed them in the middle of the boardroom table.

“Everyone dig in,” said Mr. Johnson.

Lawyers took off their jackets and loosened their ties. As the lawyers unwrapped their subs and began eating, Mr. Johnson rolled up his sleeves and immediately got down to business.

“Good to see everyone’s here. I’ve got 105 boys interested in playing baseball this summer. There are seven coaches here, so that means fifteen boys per team. Each coach automatically gets his son. After that, we can either distribute them randomly or hold a draft.”

“Let’s just distribute them randomly,” suggested Guy.

“I think a draft would be more competitive,” said Bill Meyer.

“Bill, it’s an unfair advantage to you. Your son goes to school here. My boy goes to a Catholic school. He doesn’t hang out with these kids. I’d just be drawing straws.”

“That’s the best way to do it.”

“Fellas, fellas,” said Mr. Johnson, “This is our first year. Let’s make it as fair and fun as possible. Our only goal is to create a solid and stable league where kids want to play. An unbalanced league isn’t going to achieve that in the slightest.”

“You’re right, Robert. Let’s do it how Guy wants it.”

“Good, let’s distribute the players randomly. That way, everyone’s happy.”

Mr. Johnson distributed the registration forms among the attorneys and everyone had a team.

“How do we want to pick team names?”

“We’ll draw names from a hat,” said Guy as he tossed his fedora into the middle of the table. They created a list of popular major league teams – Yankees, Dodgers, Giants, Phillies, Pirates, Cubs, and of course, the Reds.

Mr. Johnson drew the Phillies. It wasn’t the team he wanted, but the rules were fair and that was that.

“Call the parents of your players tonight and let them know we’re start practices next week.”

“I thought you wanted Council to visit next week.”

“This will be the perfect opportunity to show them what we’re about.”

“We won’t even be ready.”

“We’ll be ready.”

After lunch, the lawyers adjourned and went back to business as usual. Mr. Johnson rushed through his accounting, eager to get home and share the news with Byron.

“Byron, we’ve got our team!” he announced as he burst through the front door.

“Let me see!”

A frown grew on Byron’s face as he filtered through the registrations.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Phillies?”

Mr. Johnson nodded. Byron frowned as he scanned through the team roster.

“These kids are on our team? We can’t win any games with them, they’re the worst in school.”

“Byron, it’s not about winning or losing.”

“It won’t be about winning.”

“Hey, at least we have baseball, right?”

“I guess so.”

Byron went silently to his room as Mr. Johnson made the phone calls. Mrs. Johnson, who had been watching her husband and son’s interaction, visited her son’s bedroom.

“Byron? Why did you treat your father like that?”

“Our team stinks.”

“Your father has worked very hard on this baseball league. I don’t want you raining on his parade because these boys aren’t your best friends or the best players. That’s not right. You need to buck up and play this game like you love it. Some of these boys may be better than you think.”

“I don’t think so, ma.”

“It doesn’t matter. You support your father. You’ll play this and you’ll enjoy this no matter what, alright?”

“Alright.”

Mrs. Johnson returned to the sofa next to her husband while he diligently called each and every parent and invited their sons to become part of the 1968 Bond Hill Phillies.

Byron grabbed a tennis ball and glove and went to the backyard. He tossed the tennis ball at the back wall. It caromed off the brick and he caught it effortlessly in his glove.

The sounds of the tennis ball bouncing off the wall and popping in Byron’s glove made a simple rhythmic sound that echoed through the neighborhood. It was a familiar sound to all the houses near the railroad tracks. After a short while, Mr. Johnson appeared at the back door with a glove on one hand and a catcher’s mitt and baseball in his other hand.

“You want to play pitch-and-catch?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Byron replaced his fielder’s glove with his catcher’s mitt. He and his father stood on opposite ends of the front yard. Byron crouched down in a catcher’s stance while his father threw pitches to him. They tossed the ball back and forth until dinner. There was no conversation, just the unmistakable sound of a baseball repeatedly popping in the heel of a well-oiled catcher’s mitt.

The next week came and went without much excitement. Monday, May 13^th came along and the coaches headed over, en masse, over to the elementary school after work. Mr. St. Pierre and his boy Andy pulled into the crowded parking lot right next to Byron and his dad.

“This is quite a sight, isn’t it Robert?”

“Indeed it is.”

The parking lot and side streets were all crowded. Some parents waited with their kids in their cars while others filled the bleachers beside the old ball fields. Boys were already tossing balls back and forth. Fathers were holding fielding practices. A crowd of boys stood in the outfield, waiting for fly balls to come their way. They clamored to be the one to catch the balls, but it was always the tallest boys who caught the balls. The rest just blindly held their gloves up, hoping to get lucky.

Mr. Johnson stood with the attorneys between the two diamonds, calling all the players and their parents to the center of the fields. He introduced the coaches and the coaches introduced their boys. Even Mr. Johnson’s Phillies got large rounds of applause.

They practiced for almost two hours.

“Guy? Do you see anyone from the Council?”

Guy shook his head.

“What do you think we should do?”

“Play ball.”

Mr. Johnson blew his whistle and the coaches brought their teams to the center of the field.

“Each team will have practices three times a week. Since there’s only a limited amount of space, some teams will practice at 4 p.m and the others will practice at 6:00. I’ve also created a schedule. Let’s start scrimmages in two weeks and we’ll start the regular season in June.”

The attorneys did finally collect money from the parents, only to pay for new uniforms for the boys. The uniforms were nothing more than simple t-shirts that said the team’s name and player’s number on the front. To save money, the backs of the shirts were plain and unmarked.

“Pink shirts?” groaned Byron.

“We couldn’t have red. That’s the color for the Reds.”

“Put it on,” urged his mother.

Byron stripped out of his regular shirt and pulled on his Phillies Jersey. Number 5, just like Johnny Bench.

“I’m catching, right?”

“I was thinking of using you as a pitcher.”

“But I’m a catcher.”

“Byron,” said mother sternly.

“I can be whatever we need,” he quickly replied.

Mr. Johnson, however, did find a couple of boys with arms strong enough and throws accurate enough to be pitchers. Byron could be catcher after all.

As practices dragged on, council members did make appearances at the elementary school, especially the early practices right after school. When the first week of scrimmages began on the last Monday in May, the entire Bond Hill-Roselawn Community Council was there, including the Council President.

Because there were seven teams and only two diamonds, two teams played early and one played late. The extra team sat out that week. For the first week, that was the Phillies. Still, Mr. Robinson’s team was there, sitting together behind the fenced backstop.

“I want to welcome everyone to the first games of the Bond Hill Youth Baseball League. It’s a perfect day, so let’s play ball!”

A cheer rose from the crowd. Most of the boys were watching the Yankees vs. the Pirates. The Yankees had a lot of the playground athletes and most of Byron’s closest friends.

The Pirates had some good players, too, but nothing like the Yankees. Andy St. Pierre played for the Pirates. Naturally, Byron rooted for Andy’s team.

Andy St. Pierre had one of the better pitching arms in Bond Hill. Unfortunately, the Yankees had a lot of the older kids. The first batter hit a double, the second hit a single, and the third hit a ball that landed on the playground and rolled all the way to the school. Three hitters and it was 3-0.

Andy pitched for two more innings. At the bottom of the third, it was 11-0.

“We’re killing you guys. You should just forfeit now,” said Mark Meyer. He was Mr. Meyer’s son, one of the big hitters for the Yankees.

Mr. St. Pierre brought Andy to the side and placed his hands over Andy’s shoulders as he looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Son, let’s put in another pitcher.”

“Dad, I’m not tired at all.”

“They’re hitting everything you pitch.”

“They’ll hit everything anybody pitches.”

“If it’s fine with you, it’s fine with me.”

Andy nodded as his father dumped the baseball into Andy’s open hand. As he approached the pitcher’s mound, chants came from the Yankee’s bench, led by Mark Meyer..

“We want a dozen! We want a dozen! We want a dozen!”

Andy struck out the first batter. Mark Meyer was next. He pointed to the playground where the first inning home run landed. Andy reared back and let a fastball go. It drifted up and right. Mark turned his back and the ball nailed him directly between the shoulder blades.

As soon as the ball bounced off his back, Mark raced towards the mound. When he did, Byron jumped up and raced to the mound, along with all the kids on the Yankees and Pirates’ benches.

Parents and coaches raced after the kids, peeling them off the pile and separating one from the other. Mr. Johnson grabbed Byron by the back of his neck and led him off the field. Meanwhile, Mr. St. Pierre and Mr. Meyer argued over whose child was to blame. Mr. Johnson ran back to separate the two. As he held them apart with his arms, he turned towards the bleachers. Council members began filing out. Mr. Lattimer, the Council President, simply shook his head and went to his car.

“Come on guys, not here. Not now.”

“We weren’t even fighting, Bob.”

“You sounded like it.”

“It was a heated discussion. You should know both of us well enough by now that’s how we do things.”

“Not with everyone watching.”

The baseball game ended immediately. It was only the top of the fourth inning. The Reds and Cubs took the now empty field – over an hour early – and played a quiet, fun, game of baseball while the Dodgers-Giants game on the adjacent diamond went on without any of the drama of the Yankees-Pirates game. Afterwards, Mr. St. Pierre and Mr. Meyer made their boys apologize to one another and all seemed as well as could be expected.

Byron and his father cleaned up the diamond after the Reds-Cubs game was over. They picked up trash and removed all of the bases.

“Son, I want you to go with me to the council meeting next month. We’re going to have to apologize for this mess. I don’t know if they’ll let us ever play again.”

“I didn’t start the fight,” said Byron.

“But you jumped in. There’s nothing any better about that. You’re my son and I am the league commissioner. That title holds a lot of responsibility for the both of us. There’s an old phrase your grandpa used to say to me when I was your age, ‘Anyone can be a follower, but to be a good leader, you have to lead with example. I want you to set the example.”

Byron nodded.

“I’ll meet with the coaches to see what we can do to keep this from happening again, but it’s also your responsibility to set the example. The first thing we need to do is apologize to City Council, okay?”

Byron nodded again.

"Remember, Byron, S.T.E. - Set the Example."

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