It was the first day of spring batting practice in February
1958 when Victoria Hall first met Robert Johnson. She was a manager for the
Morehouse College baseball team. Her job duties included tasks that were both
essential and everyday. She kept statistics and gave first aid whenever and
wherever it was needed.
Located in Atlanta, Morehouse College was part of a set of
premier black college in the fifties. It was an all-male college and a
next-door neighbor to the all-black, all female Spelman College (where Victoria
studied nursing and home economics).
According to Mr. Johnson, his first interaction with Byron’s
mom occurred one day when he was warming up before a game. The pitchers stood
at the end of the dugout and pitched along the foul line. Victoria was part of
a student exchange program, working as team manager. She sat on a small wooden
toolbox at the end of the dugout. The toolbox acted as a makeshift first aid
kit, holding only band-aids and elastic wrap.
“Excuse me,” he said as he moved past her and onto the
pitching rubber.
“I’m sorry, let me give you some space.”
She picked up the toolbox and moved it just inside the
dugout wall.
“You’re okay right there.”
“I’m just being safe.”
“You won’t be in any danger with me around.”
Whenever Mr. Johnson gets to that part of the story, Mrs.
Johnson just rolls her eyes.
“He was always out there on the practice mound, trying to
make conversation with me. The coach even had to move him to the opposite end
of the dugout for most of that season.”
“It was hard for him
to get me cornered. Whatever we did, we were in full view of everyone else.”
“He must’ve still gotten chances to talk to you…”
“He had plenty of chances. We’d see each other at mixers. I
was dating someone else, so he never approached us at dances. He did see me a
couple of other times. There were water fights and panty raids.”
“Is that for real?”
“The boys did break into our dorms sometimes, but they never
got far. One of the girls would shout “Boys on the floor!” and we’d lock our
doors. Eventually, a faculty advisor would come down the hallway with a
flashlight and the boys would scatter.”
“Is that how he met you?”
“Heavens no!” she said with a laugh, “he saw me sitting on
the toolbox handle and he always talked about how it wasn’t proper for me to sit
on the toolbox. He always suggested the dugout bench. He knew it wouldn’t have
been possible for me to sit with the team, yet he kept asking. When the handle
finally started to crack, he figured it was the perfect opportunity.”
“I was just doing a good deed.”
“It was a good deed, but it took you three weeks to fix it.
Meanwhile, I had to sit in the bleachers with a small paper bag full of first
aid supplies.”
“It takes time to fix things properly. The dowel got
replaced with a reinforced flat beam, perfect for sitting.”
“It was really sweet, but after he fixed the toolbox, he
decided it was okay to ask me out on a date. He was so pitiful I had to say
‘yes’.”
Whenever Mrs. Johnson recounts the story, she always
imitates her husband’s deep, bellowing voice.
“Are you free this Friday?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“How about Saturday?”
“Nooe.”
“Monday night?”
“I can’t. I’ve got class.”
“Then when?”
“How about next Friday?”
“Okay,” he said with a frown, “next Friday it is.”
“What is it?”
“I’d hoped there was more time to get to know each other.”
“We’ll have plenty of time between now and then.”
In the following week, they still spent plenty of time
together. On Monday and Tuesday, there was practice. For Victoria, it was
merely stoking the men’s washtubs with hot water and cleaning up afterwards.
For Robert, it was light fielding drills and talking with Victoria while the
rest of the team practiced.
On Wednesday, it was the last regular season game for
Morehouse College. Robert was pitching, which meant he’d hardly see her at all.
There were a few strange faces in the stands, including a
man dressed in a three-piece suit, completely overdressed for a hot spring day
in Atlanta. Robert pitched flawlessly through seven innings and picked up the
win as Morehouse beat Western Alabama: 7-0. Robert’s teammates crowded around
him for congratulations. Still, Victoria managed to get his attention.
“Good game,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You want to grab a shake?”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
The man in the suit climbed down from his perch on the old
wooden bleachers near first base and approached Robert.
“Son, I’m Andy Anderson and I represent the Birmingham
Barons Baseball Team. Can I have a word with you?”
Robert glanced at Victoria. She nodded emphatically.
“Sure.”
Mr. Anderson placed a hand between Robert’s shoulder blades
and guided him away from the crowd.
“Professional ball clubs are always looking for the best
talent money can buy, even if it’s a black player like you. That includes my
employer, the Birmingham Barons. We’re a double-A farm team for the Detroit
Tigers organization.”
“What do you want with me?”
“I want to see you at tryouts in Birmingham as soon as
possible. Here’s a voucher for a bus ticket. Just come to Birmingham this
weekend.”
“Birmingham, Alabama?”
“Do you know another Birmingham?”
“No sir.”
“Then Birmingham, Alabama it is.”
Robert turned back toward his teammates.
“I’m going to Birmingham for tryouts!”
The entire throng collapsed upon him. Victoria was lost in
the shuffle as Robert and the boys headed for the locker room. It was long
after dark when he returned outside. Victoria sat alone on the steps, bathed in
a pool of lamplight.
“I guess you’re not interested in a chocolate shake?”
“Oh. Yeah. I really want to get packed. Why don’t you come
along and help me?”
“Robert, you know I can’t go into the men’s dorms.”
“Oh. I really want to get packed.”
“I understand completely. You go ahead. We can always see
each other after you get back.”
“I can see you after I get packed.”
Robert walked Victoria to her dormitory and they parted
ways. He returned to Morehouse and quickly packed a suitcase. When he returned
to the front steps of the Victoria’s dorm and knocked, another female came to
the door.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for a co-ed named Victoria Hall.”
“It’s past curfew.”
“I know, but I just need to see her for a moment.”
“She can’t come out.”
“Please do me this favor.”
The girl sighed. “Alright.”
She returned after a few minutes. Unfortunately, there was
no sign of Victoria.
“She’s sleeping.”
“Can’t you wake her?”
The girl shook her head and closed the door.
A light drizzle began soon after Robert started walking
along the narrow road to the bus station. His mother always told cautionary
tales about empty dirt roads like this one. Robert imagined lynch mobs hiding
in the thick bramble along the roadside. His pace was quick and light. He was,
eager to see the bus stop appear in the distance.
When he finally arrived, only a handful of people were
there, waiting on benches inside. Robert went to the window and validated his
ticket and returned to the outside porch. It wasn’t long until the bus arrived,
just after midnight. The other passengers joined him, waiting to board. The
driver collected their tickets and began storing people’s suitcases in the
cargo hold. He stopped in front of Mr. Johnson.
“You can’t store your luggage in here. You’ll have to carry
it with you.”
Robert gave him a slight look. Then, he quietly proceeded
toward the door.
“And boy,” said the driver, “I don’t want you sitting near
the front or bothering any of the white passengers.”
“Are there assigned seats on this bus?”
“No, but I want you to sit in the back.”
“Why can’t I choose my seat?”
“This is my bus and if you don’t like it, you can always
walk to Alabama.”
Robert quietly went to his seat. He kept his eyes out the
window, fixed on the roadway below. The newly constructed and newly paved
Interstate 20 that linked South Carolina to Texas was a straight shot between
Atlanta and Birmingham.
Stretches of highway still hadn’t been painted or equipped
with overhead lights. At times, the darkness seemed to swallow the bus whole.
“Folks, we’re going to stop in Oxford for a short ten minute
break in Oxford. Birmingham is about 60 miles away.”
Robert remained in his seat as the rest of the passengers
filtered in and out of the bus station. He shifted uneasily in his chair, but
remained seated for the duration of the stop. When the driver finally returned,
Robert was eager to get to Birmingham and leave the smelly old bus and its
surly driver behind.
When a new set of passengers boarded, two men stopped in
front of Robert’s seat. Robert was startled by the sound of someone clearing
their throat.
Robert’s gaze had been fixed on the highway outside the
window. He looked up to see the bus driver standing over him.
“Boy, you’ll have to move.”
“What?”
“These boys want your seat, so you’ll have to move.”
“I was sitting here.”
“Are you givin’ me lip service again?”
Robert shook his head. When he stood up, the three men
braced themselves. Robert was about six inches taller than any of them. Robert
shuffled behind the two men as he picked a new seat. The entire bus was focused
on the four men in the back of the bus.
“You sit there,” instructed the driver.
Robert took his seat in the empty row directly in front of
where he’d just sat. The two men took his seat in the back row of the bus.
“Is there anything else I can get you two?”
“No. We’re good now,” said one.
Robert shifted in his seat until he was comfortable. His
eyes were focused on the darkness outside. The driver started the bus and
pulled away from the station. Robert sat quietly in his seat and minded his own
business until he felt someone kicking the back of his seat. Robert fidgeted
slightly.
“Does that bother you, nigger?”
Robert ignored them. The kicking got harder.
“Boy, I’m talking to you.”
Robert held his tongue and stared outside. One more hour:
sixty minutes, 3600 seconds, 5000 more kicks, and then he’d be free.
“I think we got an uppity nigger in front of us,” said one
of the men.
He flicked a finger at the back of Robert’s head. Robert
just held his breath and said nothing. His thoughts, however, were on making it
through the rest of the journey: sixty minutes, thirty-six hundred seconds,
five-thousand kicks and flicks.
Robert’s head popped forward as one of the men gave the back
of his seat a swift kick. It made a loud thud that echoed throughout the bus.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?”
“You leave that boy
alone!” came a shriek from the front of the bus, “He ain’t done nothing to you
no-how.”
“Or what?” asked the man.
The old lady didn’t respond. The two men laughed a bit and
then the one sat back down. Robert was relieved when the kicking and flicking
stopped completely. Then, a balled fist landed squarely in the back of Robert’s
head. He stood up and turned around.
“Hey, boy!” shouted the bus driver, “Sit your ass down.”
Robert ignored the driver and stared at the two men. The
bigger one glared directly into Robert’s eyes. The smaller one’s eyes darted
back and forth, never making eye contact with Robert.
“What do you want?” said Robert.
Robert found an empty seat further towards the front of the
bus and sat down. The bus driver turned on the overhead lights but continued
driving. The two men stayed in their seats. The overall mood on the bus was
unsettled and anxious.
“Just wait until we get to Birmingham,” called a voice from
the back. Robert paid no attention. However sincere the threat, it would surely
resolve itself whenever the bus stopped again.
Robert looked at all the heads that poked out from between
the seats. He wasn’t even sure which lady called out for him. It wasn’t as
important as the simple fact she called out. It empowered the every single
passenger on the bus.
It wasn’t going to come to blows, though. Andy Anderson rose
from his bench outside the Birmingham Bus Station. He held a piece of white
poster board in his hand. It simply said “JOHNSON” on the front.
Robert found Andy’s little signboard amusing. It temporarily
took his mind off the two guys in the back seat. When the bus came to a stop,
however, he immediately got up and made his way to the front door.
The bus driver’s glare was unimpressive and unimportant.
Robert went directly toward the station as everyone else began unloading their
luggage.
“Hey, where you going, you dumb nigger?” came the call from
the bus. Robert just ignored them, motioning Andy away from the station.
“What was that all about?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
”Yeah, I’m fine. They’re just a few of my fans.”
Andy sped off, leaving the two men and everything else
behind. Robert breathed easy as he rolled down the window. The cold night
breeze relaxed Robert as it blew over his right arm and across his cheek.
“You’ll get lots of folks like that over here in
Birmingham.”
“We got ‘em in Atlanta, too.”
“I guess you just have to take in stride.”
Robert nodded.
“I’ll put you up at my house tonight. Then we’ll get you set
up somewhere later this morning when you get up.”
“We’re going to your house?”
Andy simply nodded. His demeanor was nothing like Robert
expected. It was relaxed and easy going. Robert liked that. Still, he wondered
how a white man could be so calm driving through the streets of Birmingham,
Alabama at three o’clock in the morning with a black man sitting by his side.
It almost didn’t matter, since the streets were deserted. The one time they
passed oncoming traffic, Robert wanted to crouch down in his seat. He just
stared straight ahead without moving as the car passed.
“You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof.”
“I am? I’m just not used to these surroundings.”
“You’ll get to like it once you get to know it.”
The drive to Andy’s house reminded Robert of the walk to the
bus station. The backcountry road was desolate and dark. Houses sat on hills up
and away from the winding gravel road. Their lights dotted the landscape sporadically.
Andy pulled his 1958 Chevy Impala onto the sloping gravel
drive and pulled up beside his house. As the car doors opened and shut, they
echoed against the cluster of trees surrounding the house.
“I’ve got an extra bedroom in the back,” said Andy as he
tossed his keys on the coffee table. He motioned through the living room and
past the kitchen. Robert went in and immediately settled down.
“The restroom is at the other end of the hall if you need
it. We can just leave the bathroom light on so you can find your way.”
Robert nodded.
“Do you need anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Good. Get some sleep. You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
Andy Anderson’s
house was immaculate: a two-storey four-bedroom house with the add-on fifth
bedroom off the back for guests.
The hardwood floors and copper-cast ceiling tiles with brass
chandeliers were unlike anything Robert had ever seen. Robert carefully peeled
off his clothes and placed them neatly on the cedar chest in the corner. The
heavy cotton bedspread comforted him, even in the humid spring heat of central
Alabama. He curled beneath the blanket and fell fast asleep.
“Hello?” called a sweet voice from the doorway. Robert
opened his eyes to see a tiny white girl standing at the edge of his bedroom.
It startled him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Are you one of the new ballplayers on my daddy’s team?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Do you like blueberry pancakes?”
Robert nodded.
“Me, too. My mommy made you a whole stack for breakfast.”
The little girl closed the door. Robert heard the pit-pat of
her feet as she ran across the kitchen floor. Then, he heard the little girl
talking to her mother.
A fresh white bathrobe and slippers sat next to his clothes
on the hope chest. He looked at it for a few moments before getting up to try them
on. They were crisp and clean and a perfect fit. The smell of fresh cooking
greeted him as he opened the bedroom door. When he crossed through the dining
room, the little girl, who was sitting at the dining room table, directed him
to the restroom with one tiny finger. Robert smiled at her.
“Howdy!” said the cook, “I’m Andy’s wife, Trixie. Great to
meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too.”
“Bathroom’s around the corner. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Robert showered quickly and returned to the bedroom and
started to put the clothes he’d worn on the bus away. He gave them a sniff.
They were fresh and clean. Someone had washed them overnight. He put them on
and returned to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mr. Johnson. I’m Abigail Anderson, but you
can just call me Abby.”
“Alright, Abby.”
He smiled brightly as Andy came downstairs and joined them.
“How was your sleep?”
“Good, good.”
“That’ll help you look your best for tryouts. Didn’t you
bring a uniform for practice?”
Robert shook his head.
“I’m sure we’ll find you something.”
Andy gobbled his
food and got up from the table.
“Let’s hit the road.”
Robert, who wasn’t quite finished, took a couple of pancakes
and folded them in his hand. Andy chuckled as he led Robert to his ’58 Impala.
“Help me with this top,” said Andy as he folded the vinyl
roof into place.
Andy quickly drove the car along winding gravel roads. Hot
wind and dust clouds swirled around Robert as he finished off his breakfast.
Robert wiped the dust and sweat from his face as they stopped at the
intersection to the highway. Andy just grinned. He knew Robert would be dirty
from head-to-toe by this afternoon’s end.
Rickwood Field was tucked between the parkway, the warehouse
district, and the construction of a brand new neighborhood. The noises of each
echoed from the wooden grandstand that surrounded the ballpark. Andy parked right next to the backstop and
motioned to Robert. He led Robert up the staircase that snaked back and forth
behind the stands.
When they reached the top landing, it led to the announcer’s
box on the roof. Andy walked gingerly as he cross the asphalt walkway. Robert
followed close behind. A group of men were standing inside the announcer’s box,
watching the activity below.
“Good morning, Mr. Sims!”
“Good morning Andy. I take it this is Robert Johnson?”
‘It sure is.”
“Good to meet you son. Andy’s told me all kinds of good
things about your pitching. You interested in becoming a professional player
for me?”
“Yes sir,” said Robert.
“We’ll have to see how you work out, but I’m sure you’ll fit
in just fine here.”
About two-dozen black men were practicing down on the field.
Strangely, it was not something Robert had ever taken into consideration during
his bus trip.
“This is a Negro League team?” he asked.
Mr. Sims nodded, “This is the home of the Birmingham Black
Barons. We’ve been a proud part of the Negro Leagues ever since Rube Foster
created it in 1920.”
Robert knew that name very well. Rube Foster was one of the
legends his father often talked about when Robert was just a boy.
Andrew ‘Rube’ Foster was born in the late 1870s. He rose to
prominence among the black baseball players who barnstormed in the early 1900s,
when black baseball was considered a sideshow. Rube Foster, however,
transformed that in 1920 when he sat down with other owners and created the
National Negro League.
“When will I get a chance to tryout for the Detroit Tigers?”
“I don’t know when that will ever happen,” chuckled Mr.
Sims, “the Tigers don’t hire coloreds.”
Robert stared down at the field. Who knew if this was his
big break or not? Certainly, it wasn’t the break for which he’d hoped. He
studied the men on the field for a little while longer. Maybe one of them had
the answer.
.
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