07 - May 1974

My friendship with Byron Johnson grew quickly in the spring of 1974. We were blessed with a first outing that included baseball, hot dogs, and a sunny day with Hank Aaron setting a milestone baseball record. It would be hard to top that, but we were going to try.

Almost every day since the Braves game, we’d spend it in the front yard of one of our houses, playing pitch-and-catch.

As early as May 7^th, we’d already returned to a Reds game with our fathers. St. Louis was the visiting team and Ted Simmons was their catcher. The only reason I remember that is because of how Byron watched baseball.

He didn’t ever watch the game like a fan. He studied the game – every aspect of it, from batting and fielding practice, to every at-bat and every interaction between the catcher and the rest of the team – especially the pitcher.

“A good catcher is the true captain of the team,” he said as he pointed to Johnny Bench in the dugout.

We were about fifteen rows back in the red seats – the cheap seats – and we had to use binoculars to see the field clearly. Still, we did just that. Two die-hard baseball fans sitting high in the red seats with our binoculars pressed against our faces, spying on Johnny Bench and Don Gullett

“The catcher’s job isn’t the job you think it is. Catching the ball is the smallest part of catching. He’s the field general. He keeps a cool head in hot times, making sure the pitcher throws the right pitch to the right batter at the right time.”

“How does he do that?”

“He studies,” interrupted Mr. Johnson. “Let me tell you a little story about Johnny Bench. His rookie year in Cincinnati, he was only twenty years old, barely out of high school.

He took his usual position behind home plate and received pitches from Jim Maloney. Jim was one of the greatest pitchers back then. He’d won World Series games, he’d thrown no-hitters, and he’d pitched to Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra.

What could this kid from Oklahoma possibly know that a seasoned fastballer like Jim Maloney didn’t?”

So…Johnny kept asking for curves and sliders while Jim kept trying to throw fastballs. Finally, Johnny approached the mound to confront Maloney. He told Maloney that his fast balls weren’t popping in his glove. He should stick to something else. Maloney cussed at Bench. Bench returned to his place behind home. Bench put two fingers down – a curve. He got a fastball. So, he gave Jim just what he wanted: one finger down – which called for the heat – a fastball.

Jim nodded and reared back for the pitch. As he did, Johnny quickly popped his catcher’s mitt off his hand. The fastball slid to the outside of the strike zone for a ball. Johnny reached out and snagged it with one naked hand. After that, whenever Johnny asked for a curve ball, he got a curve ball.”

“Is that true?”

“I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but it tells you something about the importance of catchers. They are the field generals. They call the shots.”

I eased back into my stadium seat and placed my elbows on the armrests. It allowed me to sit my binoculars on top of my hands so I could study Johnny Bench. Maybe he was nothing spectacular or maybe he was a god. Either way, I couldn’t keep my eyes off that entire game. It was nothing spectacular, either.

Johnny’s game seemed unimpressive on the scorecard. He got two singles in three at bats and got caught stealing once.

Ted Simmers was the Cardinals’ catcher who got him out. Catching Johnny Bench stealing wasn’t a heroic feat. Johnny was never known for stealing bases. He got caught more often than not. Coach Sparky Anderson should’ve just let him rest between hitters.

Still, when Bench bolted for second, Byron’s eyes were on Simmons, not Bench.

“Did you see the way he pivoted to his feet…all while he pulled the pitch from his catching hand to his throwing hand? That throw was something else, too. Right on the money; the guy at second base didn’t even have to work. He just caught the ball and swept his glove over Johnny’s feet.”

Byron loved baseball more than anyone I ever knew. That’s saying something, because all boys want to grow up fantasizing about standing in the batter’s box with two outs, a full count of three balls and two strikes, and the tying run on base. Still, Byron’s love of the game always transcended that. He didn’t just talk baseball. He lived it.

To see a person truly excited about anything is awe-inspiring. When it came to baseball, Byron was always excited. Even if the rest of us thought we’d had a bad game, it didn’t matter to Byron. Every game was a good game. Anyone who stood near him when he was in his catcher’s gear felt the excitement. It was a fever, truly infectious.

The game ended around 9 p.m. and it was a school night, so we drove straight home.

“How was your day?” asked mom.

“Pretty terrific,” I said.

“The Reds won, I take it.”

“No. They lost, 2-0.”

“Did you catch a foul ball?”

“No.”

“Did you get someone’s autograph?”

“No.”

“Then what made it so terrific?”

“I’m not sure. It just was.”

Mom turned to dad. Dad shrugged his shoulders. I went upstairs to my room and stripped down to my Fruit of the Looms. I grabbed a baseball and glove from the closet and took them to bed. I set the baseball against my hip and pushed the glove onto my right hand with my left. The leather in the webbing squeaked as I stretched my hand. I inhaled deeply after I caught a whiff of the oiled rawhide.

Although spring had just started, I always considered the beginning of baseball season the beginning of summer (which was still seven long weeks away). The feeling only grew deeper with each passing day. Behind the smell of lawnmowers, this was the smell that I most identified with summer.

I snatched the baseball into my left hand and rolled it about, tracing the red stitching as it meandered around the ball. I gave it a toss into the air and caught it. I did it again and again, watching the ball twirl above me as it went up and down. The ball smacked the glove lightly with a little kiss each time I caught it.

After about five minutes, I missed. The ball caromed against the mattress and bounced on the wooden floor beside my bed. Footsteps came down the hall.

“Jake?”

“Yeah, mom?”

She opened the door slightly. I withdrew my right hand beneath the blanket.

“What’s this?” she asked as she pulled the sheet away to reveal the baseball glove.

She took it from me and retrieved the baseball from the floor, too. She put the ball into its rightful place inside the glove and rested it on top of my chest of drawers. I turned my head to the side and stared at that ball sitting inside that glove until I finally fell asleep.

Morning came quick as mom appeared at the doorway again.

“Get up. It’s time for school.”

I pulled myself from bed, ate a bowl of Cheerios, and got on my way to school. Conversation was mostly about the previous night’s baseball game as we played kickball on the playground during lunch.

Meanwhile, our fathers were having similar conversations at work.

“Is there a good youth baseball league in Mt. Adams?”

My father shrugged.

“How about near Mt. Adams?”

“There’s Tall Oaks. I’ve got a team there.”

“They play in Ault Park, right?”

My father nodded.

“…And that’s in Hyde Park…”

My father nodded again.

“That’s an affluent neighborhood.”

There were times when my father and Byron’s father talked in code, but it was never that subtle. It was like saying ‘f-word’ instead of just saying the f-word. Affluent was Mr. Johnson’s way of saying  ‘white people’, and although Mr. Johnson was a leading accountant and lawyer at Procter & Gamble, he would always not be ‘affluent’.

I had played in the Tall Oaks league since my T-Ball days around ’66 or ’67. Up to this point, my dad had never coached any of my teams. He’d always just been the assistant to one of his friends from work. After Opening Day, however, he decided he’d coach a team, which meant I’d automatically be playing for him.

Nearly all of the kids in the Tall Oaks league came from Hyde Park. My father had watched the games, but didn’t know one Hyde Park kid from the next. He’d grabbed extra registration forms and talked several of the guys from work into signing their boys up for Tall Oaks Youth Baseball.

“Robert, why don’t you sign Byron up for Tall Oaks?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged.

“All of our sons are playing,” said one of the other accountants, “You should sign up. What does it hurt?”

Mr. Johnson took the registration form and set it beside his lunch tray. As lunch progressed, he kept a steady eye on the form.

“What would it hurt?” he thought to himself, “Plus, these are some of Byron’s schoolmates.”

Just after lunch, Mr. Johnson sat at his desk, filled out the registration form, and went to my father’s desk.

“That was quick,” said my father.

“I can’t let my prejudices keep Byron from opportunities.”

“Good. I’m sure Jake will be happy that Byron’s joining Tall Oaks.”

My father came home late in the afternoon. My whole gang of friends was in my backyard, playing a game of Wiffle Ball. We were dirty and sweaty. My father was in his favorite blue suit.

“Byron,” announced my father, “I talked to your father today and it looks like you’ll be joining the Tall Oaks Baseball League.”

Byron frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“I was just thinking…”

“About?”

“I won’t get to play baseball with all my friends in Bond Hill this summer.”

“You’ll get to play with your new friends in Mt. Adams.”

Byron dipped his chin as he gave a slight nod.

“Oh man,” I reassured him, “Tall Oaks is the greatest league in town. It’s even better than the Babe Ruth League.”

“Yeah,” said Byron.

We returned to our game as soon as my father went inside. While we did, my father took a short walk to the Johnson house.

“Hey, Craig,” said Mrs. Johnson, “Robert’s in the back. Let me get him for you.”

She called for Mr. Johnson and he came to the screen door.

“What’s going on?”

“I just talked to Byron and the boys about Tall Oaks. It seems Byron’s already missing some of his friends from Bond Hill.”

“He’s only been here a month. Give him some time and he’ll get over it.”

“I was thinking, if you could talk to some of the fathers in Bond Hill, we could get them to join Tall Oaks.”

“Craig, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’ve got some idea, but everything will work out just fine. Trust me.”

Mr. Johnson made phone calls to the houses of Byron’s old friends. He talked to their fathers, but got a lot of the same replies.

“Tall Oaks? Are you kidding? That’s a white league.”

“It’s open to the anyone living in Cincinnati,” Mr. Johnson reassured them. Still, they wouldn’t budge. The next day, my father confronted Mr. Johnson at his desk.

  “So, what’s the verdict?”

“A resounding no.”

“Maybe you didn’t ask the right people.”

“Craig, I asked everyone.”

“Maybe I should go there and talk to them.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“It’d be a good thing for all the boys.”

My father, always open-minded and optimistic, loved to stare danger in the face. He wasn’t about making a scene or causing trouble, just about fixing ‘the wrongs of society’ one person at a time. Today, it was the fathers in Bond Hill.

That evening, Mr. Johnson took him on a road trip to Bond Hill. My father, the only white person in a black neighborhood, insisted on walking door-to-door, canvassing the neighborhood around Bond Hill Elementary and Byron’s old house.

They must’ve knocked on 100 doors. Still, my father felt he was victorious, collecting four completed registration forms. One of those included the signature of Guy St. Pierre.

“That was some day.”

“Some day indeed,” replied Mr. Johnson.

When draft day came along, my father got a chance to pick-up each and every one of the boys he’d encouraged to join Tall Oaks. In addition to me, of course, that included Byron, Lee, Fitzie, and Andy St. Pierre.

We practiced in the empty field that would soon become J.F.K. Park. In 1974, it was just a tall fence backstop and circular patch of dirt.

The park had a lot of open space. It was also empty, except for us, so we had the run of the place.

Mr. Heinz, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. St. Pierre joined my father in coaching the team. Each of them ran it like a miniature training camp, with each father taking on different coaching duties.

Mr. Johnson was the pitching coach. He also worked with Byron and the pitchers.

His main goal was to keep the pitchers from getting into the bad habits he’d developed during his own youth. He’d been a pitcher when he was a kid. He had a wicked curve ball that stymied batters from Babe Ruth leagues through his high school years.

By the time he got to the college level at Emory University, he’d developed arthritis throughout his wrist and shoulder socket. Often, his wife would have to help him pull his dress shirts over that right shoulder. He made sure none of the boys he coached would suffer that much.

Mr. Heinz hit flies to the outfielders and ran through a series of drills, including gap protection, communication, and the ‘power-hitter shift’.

Mr. St. Pierre worked with the infielders. As my dad hit grounders, line drives, and pop-ups, Mr. St. Pierre stood in the grass behind the infield, coaching us on stance and position.

He also worked on the finer points, like shading toward a certain part of the infield depending on where runners stood and how many outs were left in the inning.

Our practices were just about two hours long. They were the longest practices I’d had, including playing for Mr. Klein at Mount Adams. They were also the most rewarding. Not one of the boys on our team ever wanted practice to end…

…Maybe it was because there was something magical about playing baseball as a kid. Maybe it was that you left all your worries at home. Maybe it was that you could dream to be a player for the Big Red Machine or the Dodgers or that you could be Babe Ruth or even Casey at the Bat. This time, though, you never let Casey strike out. Instead, you initiated that perfect swing and that perfect hit at the perfect time, to win the game for your team.

Then again, maybe it was just the joy of being a kid.

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