10 - July 1968

“This country knows what power is; knows it very well. It also knows what Black Power is because it has deprived black people of it for 400 years. We are on the move for our liberation. We have been tired of trying to prove things to white people. We are tired of trying to explain to white people we are not trying to hurt them.”

- Stokely Carmichael
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The upheaval of values presented in the 1950s resonated far and wide. The small two-bedroom, two-children homes that were portrayed on black and white televisions seemed to have very little relevance in the turbulent sixties. Instead, there were civil rights leaders literally dying left and right. The boys that went off to war were not being portrayed as heroes, but as victims, shipped back home in rows of boxes inside the bellies of military cargo planes.

This violence, coupled with the bloody civil revolution waged within the urban jungles, resonated within every house in every neighborhood. That included Bond Hill.

Up to that point, the only bright spot in the Bond Hill Phillies’ season was little Jimmy’s win against Andy St. Pierre and the Pirates. In fact, it had become a ritual that Byron had not only accepted, but one to which he’d become accustomed.

Often, every hitting, scoring, and fielding highlight for the Phillies was Byron’s alone. Even though he was playing catcher, he had somehow managed to chart three double plays. When the Phillies lost to the Yankees 14-3, Byron went 2-for-3 with two home runs and two walks. Additionally, he stole second, third, and home.

Still, he didn’t complain to his father once. Instead, he internalized it, pushing it far below the surface. When he got to school, however, he’d usually find himself standing on the diamond at the beginning of recess with Mark, Andy, and a group of other boys.

Today, he was captain against Mark Meyer for a game of kickball. Mark had first pick. He claimed Andy. After that, the picks didn’t seem to matter much at all. When it came down to the last two picks, Jimmy Witherspoon stood next to a boy named Stefan Weaver.

Stefan was wiry and soft. Byron’s friends often picked on him. Mark had even gone so far as to stand behind Stefan’s seat and hang a loogie over his head. When Stefan looked up, Mark slipped, letting the wad of spit drop squarely on Stefan’s forehead.

Stefan did not say a word. What could he say? Mark would surely have made him feel worse or even gone so far as to slug him in the chest. He merely swept a shirt sleeve across the spit and wiped it off as best he could. He sat there in quiet humiliation. Meanwhile, every kid on the bus chattered and laughed.

Jimmy Witherspoon, who had managed to strike out Andy St. Pierre, was not held in any higher regard. The boys had nicknamed him ‘Snotnose Jimmy’ because someone had caught him eating his own boogers a year earlier. It was a nickname that he wouldn’t shake until he left Bond Hill High School.

It wasn’t a hard choice. Jimmy was a far better athlete. He was also much more determined to prove himself to Byron and his friends.

“Alright, you get the snotnose and I get the girl. Girly, you stand in right field behind Andy and don’t get in the way.”

Stefan did as told. When a ball kicked in Andy’s direction flew past him, it bounced past Stefan, too.

“Come on, Stefan!” spat Mark.

Stefan loped after the ball and threw it towards Andy. His throw was off-course, letting all the runners score.

“Can’t you do anything right?”

Byron never liked the way Mark yelled at the smaller kids, but he never said anything about that, either.

Stefan avoided any further conflict by letting Andy fetch anything that came his way. After awhile, though, he just walked off the field and headed back to the social safety of the playground. Mark didn’t even notice.

When Jimmy was next in the batting order, things hit a stopping point.

“Everybody bring it in for Snotnose Jimmy,” said Mark as he waved his outfield to the outskirts of the infield. That was nothing unusual, since Jimmy rarely kicked it beyond the pitcher’s mound.

Mark wound up and threw a spinner. It skidded wildly over the gravel. Jimmy swung one leg at the ball, only to completely whiff.

“Easy out,” said Mark as he delivered a second spinner-pitch. This time, though, Jimmy ignored it. Mark pitched the same skidding pitch two more times and Jimmy stood there with his hands on his hips.

“Quit wasting time, snotnose!”

“I’m waiting for the right pitch.”

“My pitches are right over the plate.”

“I can wait all day.”

“Alright, baby boy. I’ll pitch it slow and easy, just for you.”

Mark laid down a slow roller, straight and steady. Jimmy watched it cross the plate without kicking yet again. He had expected another spinner.

“That was perfect! Come on Byron, make your little buddy kick or we’re counting strikes.”

Jimmy glanced towards Byron. Byron simply nodded.

“Give him another roller.”

Mark did just as asked, delivering a pitch right to the sweet spot. Jimmy blasted the ball with his foot, popping it into the outfield. Andy ran it down while Mark covered second base. Jimmy was safe at first.

“Is that what it’s going to take to get you to play?”

Jimmy just glared at Mark.

Byron was next up. The outfielders moved back to their positions in the grass. Mark wounded up and threw his hardest spinner at Byron. Byron kicked a hard line drive down the middle of the field. Mark snagged it clean out of the air.

“You’re out!” he said,.

Jimmy had been caught halfway between first and second.

“And you’re next!” he said, pointing right at Jimmy.

He could’ve easily thrown the ball from there. Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to jump out of the way. Instead, Mark charged at Jimmy as he stood there. With a long windup, he hurled the ball at Jimmy’s head before he could react.

The ball popped against Jimmy’s cheek and rolled into the grassy outfield behind Andy. As Andy retrieved the ball, Jimmy collapsed onto the ground, holding his face in both hands.

“Get up, you sissy!”

Jimmy got up to his feet and pulled his hands from his face. They were covered in dirt and blood.

“You didn’t have to throw it that hard,” said Byron.

“I didn’t throw it hard. He’s just a pansy.”

Byron and Andy carried Jimmy towards the school. A flock of kids stood on the playground, looking at Jimmy as he held his nose. His plain white t-shirt was soaked in blood. The teacher shooed the children inside without a line-up. Then, she walked with Andy, Byron, and Jimmy to the Nurse’s office.

“Lordy me!” exclaimed the nurse, “let me see that.”

Jimmy uncovered his nose. It sat awkwardly in the middle of his face.

“It might be broken. Does this hurt?”

“Ahhhhh! Stop!” shouted Jimmy.

“Come here and sit down while I fix an ice pack.”

Jimmy cringed as she carefully applied to pack on his nose.

“You’ll have to hold it steady. You can lie down, but I still need to elevate your head to keep your nose from clogging. Here, take an aspirin.”

They left Jimmy in the Nurse’s office and returned to class. Mark was brought into the office, but immediately sent back to class. It was dismissed as ‘boys being boys’ and left at that.

A plague of riots struck one hundred U.S. cities throughout the spring of 1968. Student protests turned to rebellions on college campuses like Columbia, Kent State, and U.C.-Berkeley. Neighborhoods like Columbia Heights in the nation’s capital and Watts in Los Angeles erupted in violence. Chicago’s Mayor Daley gave his police force ‘shoot to kill’ orders for any rioter holding a Molotov cocktail – a glass bottle filled with jellied gasoline and stoppered with a cloth wick.

It wasn’t until the Glenville Shootout happened in Cleveland that the effects of the Vietnam War and Civil Rights movement truly hit home. On the night of July 24^th, It was the lead story on the nation’s evening news.

“Last night in Glenville, an urban ghetto of Cleveland, several police officers were shot and killed following a skirmish with members of a black militant group and their leader, Fred ‘Ahmed’ Evens…”

That was the first report on the events in Glenville. As the week progressed, the neighborhood unraveled. Militant snipers shot at police cars from barricaded houses. After the first night, seven people were dead and tens of houses and stores were in engulfed in flames. By the time it was on national news, the riots extended to a 20-block area in east Cleveland. The mayor enacted a citywide curfew and called in the National Guard to contain the situation.

Even though Bond Hill was on the opposite end of the state, Byron’s parents ordered him and his sister to stay inside until tensions subsided. Mr. Johnson also cancelled the next week’s worth of games on the Bond Hill Youth Baseball schedule.

Downtown, students from the universities of Cincinnati and Xavier were staging sit-ins at Fountain Square. Unlike any of the other cities, however, Cincinnati approached the protests with more of a laissez faire attitude, keeping to a code of “live and let live”.

After a week of being penned up inside his house, Byron was ecstatic when his mother shooed the children out of her house. He immediately went to the playground, searching for friends. Instead, he found Richie and Bobby.

“Where have you been hiding?” asked Richie.

“At home,” replied Byron.

“You want to hang with us?”

Byron shrugged.

“Come on, there ain’t any ball games around here.”

Byron reluctantly followed them through a deserted lot to the Chesapeake & Ohio rail yard. Richie stuffed his bike between a two piles of railroad spars at one end of the yard. Two rows of tracks splintered into eight full rows before filtering down to two rows again at the other end of the yard. Boxcars, tankers, and flats were lined up along each set of rails. Two men tended the yard. One ran the switch car while the other coupled and uncoupled the cars.

“Come on,” Richie motioned to the others.

He jumped onto an empty boxcar and pulled Richie and Byron into the car. Within moments, he was firing up a joint.

“Give me a hit,” said Bobby. His voice echoed in the long, empty boxcar cabin. Byron cleared his voice. It echoed. After Bobby took his hit, he offered it to Byron. Byron fixed his gaze on the tiny cigarette.

“Come on,” said Bobby.

Byron glanced over at Richie.

“I got it,” said Richie as he plucked the joint from Bobby’s fingers..

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Bobby.

Byron shrugged.

“Leave him alone, he’s alright.”

Byron sat and watched as Bobby and Richie got stoned. After a short while, they heard a bird call. Bobby cupped his hands over his mouth and mimicked the call. A couple of their friends appeared behind two of the cars. Bobby swung an arm outside the boxcar to signal them. They scurried over the gravel and jumped into the car.

“What’s happening?”

“Just tokin’ and jokin’,” said Richie.

The taller boy motioned toward Byron.

“Who’s your little buddy?”

“This is Byron. He’s cool.”

The boy nodded.

“These are my boys, Roland and Keith.”

The boys, however, were much older than Byron. Richie was the oldest, at fifteen. The other two were probably fourteen or fifteen. Even Bobby, who was only twelve, was still much older than Byron. Byron tagged along with very little say in where they’d go or what they would do.

“We were hanging out at the market and everyone was talking about Glenville.”

“You know it was a set-up,” said Bobby, “two cars full of white cops in a black neighborhood.”

“That’s trouble from the get-go.,” said Roland.

“You got that right. I hate cops.”

“Me, too.”

Bobby lit another joint and passed it around. Again, Byron refused to take a hit. He was relieved when Roland reached across Byron and took it out of Bobby’s hand.

“We should find something to do…” said Bobby.

The car jumped as the loud crash of metal came from outside. Richie poked his head outside.

“It looks like we’ve got something to do.”

The boxcar lurched one way and then the other. Soon, the other cars moved outside the opening.

“Get back,” said Richie. They all moved to one end of the cabin. Screeching steel filled the interior of the hollow boxcar. Byron wanted to cover his ears, but didn’t since all the bigger boys seemed okay.

As the train hobbled out of the rail yard, Byron watched the faces of the other boys.

“Where do you think it’ll go?”

“I dunno,” said Richie, “I guess we’ll find out.”

The train picked up speed as it left the yard. Byron watched the railroad spars passing by beneath the train. They began to blur. The longer Byron waited, the faster the train went, and the harder it would be to escape. Still, he wondered if he should make the jump.

“Hey,” said Bobby, “I have to get off.”

“You’ll break your arm if you jump now.”

“I have to get off,” said Bobby.

He leaned one leg outside the door and peered down the tracks. The gravel sloped down to a patch of thick grass. The thick grass would be Bobby’s best chance.

“I’ve got to time this just right.”

He watched the tracks for a few seconds more. Then, he took three quick steps back and sprinted out the door. Everyone rushed to the door and looked back. Bobby was curled in the grass, grasping his knee.

“I think he’s all right,” said Richie.

“He looks hurt.”

The train slowed as it neared a crossing. Byron stood in the opening and looked at the cars at the stop. Then, another clearing came up. The train slowed further still. Finally, it came to a rest.

“Let’s get off here,” said Richie.

The rest of the boys quickly jumped off. Byron’s ankle twisted slightly as he landed in the gravel. Otherwise, he was completely fine.

“Bobby! You all right?” shouted Richie.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

The boys jumped to the middle of the tracks as soon as the train passed and jogged down to Bobby. His arms were all scraped and his jeans were torn on one leg. He missed landing in a pile of rubbish by only a few feet. Still, he looked completely fine, too.

Now the boys had to hike back to the rail yard. It seemed like a very short distance aboard the train. However, they were about five miles away. Just like Bond Hill, houses and apartment communities sat with their backs to the tracks.

“Maybe we could take a shortcut through there,” said Bobby.

“It’s probably quicker than walking around the bend on the tracks.”

The boys cut through the thicket and across the parking lot at the bottom of the hill. A police car approached.

“Just act natural,” said Richie.

Byron stayed in the back as the car stopped.

“What are you boys up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Where do you live?”

“Over there.”

“You live in this community?”

Richie nodded.

“What’s your address?”

“Uh…”

“Have a seat on the curb.”

“The boys sat down obediently. Bobby leaned over and whispered in Richie’s ear.

“What’s he doing?”

“Probably calling for backup.”

“Man, I hate cops.”

“Don’t worry. This isn’t Glenville.”

“But he’s white and we’re in a white neighborhood.”

An additional police car arrived on the scene, followed by a third.

“Aw, man…”

“Relax.”

The police officer returned toward the boys.

“Where do you boys live?”

“I told you,” said Richie, “over there.”

“What’s your name, son?”

Byron looked up at him. The officer was talking to him.

“Byron Johnson.”

“Are you from here?”

Byron shook his head slightly.

“Where are you from?”

“Bond Hill.”

“Are all you boys from Bond Hill?”

The boys nodded reluctantly.

“What are you doing here?”

“The train brought us here.”

“You hopped the train? You know that’s dangerous – and illegal, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“How are you going to get home?”

“We’ll be fine,” interrupted Bobby.

“Let’s just make sure you get home safe,” said the officer.

He loaded them into the backs of police cars, two by two. Byron rode with Roland. Keith rode with Richie. Bobby, however, was loaded into a separate car.

The cars filed out of the parking lot and onto back streets Byron had never been to before. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew it was a rich white neighborhood. The cars pulled into a gas station. Two Bond Hill Police cars waited in the lot.

“We’re transferring you into the custody of the Bond Hill Police.”

When Byron got out, the third police car holding Bobby wasn’t with them. All the boys were silent as they switch from one set of cars to the other. Then, they went to the Bond Hill Police Station.

“We’ve calling your parents to pick you up.”

“Oh shit,” Byron thought to himself.

His eyes met his mothers as he crossed through the lobby and into a small windowless room.

“Wait here,” said the officer, “And don’t touch anything.”

The room was basically barren except for a row of chairs and a single table with a stack of cards, inkpads, rollers, and a roll of paper towels. Byron wondered if he’d get fingerprinted. The answer came soon enough.

“Byron, come on out.”

Byron walked out to the lobby where his mother stood. She crossed her arms and looked across the top of her nose at him.

“Come on,” was all she said.

One of her P.T.A. friends, Mrs. Walters, had driven her to the station. Byron was glad for that. He couldn’t imagine his father’s reaction.

“Thanks, Margie,” said his mother as Byron and his mother arrived at home.

“Anytime.”

“Byron, go to your room.”

“Does my father know?”

“Not yet.”

“Does he have to know?”

His mother nodded.

His empty bedroom felt like a prison cell. Byron imagined all the tortures his father would put him through as he looked at a dark ceiling and four walls.

And although his bedtime was 9 p.m. sharp, when it came and went, he was still wide-awake and waiting.

“Byron, come out into the living room,” called his father. His voiced boomed through the house.

His father stood in the middle of the living room floor. His mother sat on the couch, her legs delicately crossed, her hands resting in the middle of her lap.

“Son, I cannot begin to express how disappointed I am in you.”

“I know, sir.”

“I didn’t say you could speak.”

Byron looked down at his feet. His father reached out with one finger and pulled up Byron’s gaze by the chin.

“But I expect you to pay attention. First off, I’ve decided to ground you from Bond Hill baseball for the rest of the summer.”

Byron’s body slumped.

“You’re also grounded for the next four weeks. Your mother and I are going to draw up a list of daily chores for you to do around the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Also, I don’t want you to ever hang out with those boys again. They’re nothing but trouble. Do you know that boy Bobby? The police think he was trespassing on a construction site and he dropped a cinder block on a police car?”

Byron shook his head.

“You become a reflection of the people to which you’re closest. If your best friends are criminals, you’ll end up becoming a criminal, too. Instead, you should hang out with boys like Andy St. Pierre and Mark Meyer.”

Byron, however, disagreed. He’d seen the things Mark Meyer had done to all the kids like Jimmy Witherspoon. He’d also seen the way Richie acted, too. When it came to being right or wrong, there were just too many shades of gray.

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