“I remember the hottest day in 1946,” said Mr. Johnson, “I was barely 12 years old and I went with my father to Ponce de Leon Park near downtown Atlanta. I remember seeing baseball greats like Rube Foster, Buck Leonard, Cool Papa Bell, and Josh Gibson.”
His memory obviously faded with age. Rube Foster had died in 1930, some four years before Mr. Johnson was even born.
However, he saw the rest of them.
“Why do I have to put on this shirt and tie?” he asked his father.
“Because Night Baseball isn’t something you get to do every day.”
Gus Johnson bent over and fixed little Robert’s bow tie and golfing cap. They took the bus to mid-town. Then, they walked to the stadium with a crowd that quite easily numbered in the thousands. It rose in the distance, a great cathedral of baseball, where mass took place as often as the good lords of baseball would allow.
Ponce de Leon Park sat on a gently rolling hill. Home plate was down and the outfield was up. A giant magnolia tree stood in deep center field. Anything caught in its branches was still in lpay, just like a childhood Wiffle Ball park. It must’ve been eighty feet tall if it was a foot. In spring, leaves unfurled and the tree took shape – a glorious bouffant of dark green leaves accented by the budding white flowers that delivered that unique scent to the stands behind home plate.
There were, however, four sides to this diamond-shaped park, and whenever the Atlanta Black Crackers (more affectionately known as the ABCs) played ball, all four sides were filled to capacity. It was especially true whenever a team from the more prominent Negro American and Negro National Leagues arrived to play an exhibition. That hot August day in 1946, the war was droning on and the casualties were piling up. Everyone wanted something to take their minds off the war.
Robert Johnson went with his father to Ponce de Leon to see the Homestead Grays. The Homestead Grays were from Pittsburgh in the far north and they had all the stars of days gone by, including Cool Papa Bell, Buck Leonard, and Josh Gibson.
They were all shadows of their former selves. It was particularly true for Josh Gibson, the catcher for the Grays.
Robert and his father waited in line for quite a while, just to buy tickets to the game. By the time they arrived, the infield stands and outfield bleachers were completely sold out. The only thing left were lawn tickets, situated on the slope behind the outfield fence.
“I’ll take two,” said Mr. Johnson.
They entered the stadium and proceeded around the stadium to the far gate. It opened into a large grassy area. Mr. Johnson grabbed Robert by the hand and led him out towards center field.
They stopped just on the near side of the magnolia tree. It afforded them a view of everything but the far part of left field. That was good enough for Robert.
The smell of two-stage fuel emanated through the hilly patch. So, too, did the sound of the generator that powered the outfield lights.
When the Homestead Grays trotted onto the field, the hilly slope came to life. The crowd let out a roar as old Buck Leonard, with his cool, casual smile and pop-bottle glasses came out and waved to the crowd. He normally played at first base, but today, there he was, standing in right field, within earshot of Robert and his father.
They all shouted his name. Some fans tossed fresh baseballs to old Buck so he could sign them and return them to the crowd with an effortless toss.
“Son, these guys are true heroes,” Gus said to little Robert.
“It says here they are in third place.”
“They’re still heroes to me.”
Josh Gibson, the Grays’ catcher, who was also known as the “Babe Ruth of the Negro Leagues”, stood behind home plate and surveyed the crowd. He twisted his cap so it faced backwards and fitted his mask over his face as he took his position behind home plate. From where Robert stood, the larger-than-life Gibson looked small, nearly insignificant. Still, Robert got to watch Cool Papa Bell go through his warm-ups. He reared back and let loose great fireballs that steamed towards home plate. They landed squarely in Gibson’s mitt, a fat round piece of leather stuffed with padding. Each pitch landed with a ‘Pop’ that echoed through the stadium. The sound was loud and clear, even from far out on the hilly slope.
It was a miracle to even see Josh Gibson play. He had gone into a coma in the spring of 1943 with a brain tumor. He refused to allow anyone to operate. Instead, he struggled against severe headaches and bouts of amnesia. By the time 1946 rolled around, his migraines could no longer be controlled by medicine.
When Gibson stepped to the plate, his figure towered over the others, even at such a distance.
The pitcher for the ABCs kicked his left leg high as he reached back with his right arm, the baseball held tightly in his hand. He let loose a mighty fastball that sped headlong towards the plate. Gibson swatted at it with his bat. With a smack, he sent it high and away. It flew towards Robert and his father. The right and center fielders ran into deep center, shagging down the fly ball. It dropped fast, landing just in front of the hilly slope and bounced over the outfield fence and into the crowd.
The shortstop waved his arms, forcing Gibson to stop. Gibson had reached second on a ground rule double.
“That, right there, is the greatest guy to ever play the game.”
“Including Babe Ruth?”
“Of course I’m including Babe Ruth. The Major Leagues is full of white owners. We can never prove Gibson’s better because they’ll never let Josh play in the Majors…Never.”
It didn’t matter anyway, because in three short months, Josh Gibson would have a stroke and pass into the afterlife. He was just 35.
Of course, it would only be another three months after Gibson’s death until Branch Rickey introduced Jackie Robinson to the world – changing that world forever.
On the way home from the ABCs game, Robert held a bag of popcorn in one hand and a soda pop in the other.
“Dad?”
“What is it, Robert?”
“I’m going to be a baseball player one day, just like Josh Gibson.”
“You are?”
Robert held his head high as he nodded affirmatively.
“Well, I’ll be your biggest fan,” said old Gus Johnson as he scruffed the top of Robert’s head. Robert took occasions to glance back at old Ponce de Leon Park and the bright white halo emanating from the stadium lights.
“Yep,” he said as he flipped his cap backwards to imitate the old catcher, ‘I’m gonna be just like Josh Gibson, just you wait and see.”
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