26 - June 1981

An ordinary day in June is an extraordinary day by any other standard. The sun is out and the days are bright. Even with the bright sun and clear skies that summer brings, mid-June is typically not a time one thinks about when it comes to baseball. For some of us, however, it’s possibly the most important of times.

In Mid-June of 1981, it was summer sesson at University of Cincinnati and I was alone in my dorm room studying for my Western Civilization final. The four-bedroom dorm was peaceful and quiet. That changed instantly when someone buzzed the room’s intercom. It was Byron.

“Jaaaaaaake! Jaaaake! We’re going out drinking tonight!”

“I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

“That can wait ‘til later! I’m finding Andy and Lee and we’re going out tonight!”

“Why?”

“I got picked up by the Philadelphia Phillies in the eighth round of the baseball draft.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. It’s June.”

“Yeah, there are two drafts: one in January and another in the middle of the year after school lets out.”

“Hmph, I guess that makes sense.”

“Then you’re in?”

“Of course I’m in.”

The mid-June baseball draft had existed for only a short part of baseball history when Byron was drafted. From 1921 to 1964, minor league teams were franchises unto themselves – managed by individual owners who played as traveling teams. When players signed binding contracts with teams, it left little or no room for negotiation. Simply put, players were owned. That even included players like Carl Yastrzemski, Joe DiMaggio, and good old Duke Snider.

Those players weren’t arbitrators and negotiators, though. They were just working class heroes – guys who weren’t about to make waves or betray hometown fans.

In 1965, however, things began to change. The Rule 4 Draft was initiated and the farming system began to fill out. Meanwhile, superstars like Mickey Mantle, Reggie Jackson, and Curt Flood began seeking their true worth through free agency and the players union. The minor leaguers, however, were still owned by a single team. That was good enough for Byron.

 “What’s the good news?” I asked expectantly.

“Wait until Lee and Fitzie get here.”

“They’re coming here?”

Byron nodded, “Lee should be here anytime now. Fitzie’s still on his way.”

The Fitzpatricks had taken an active role in Andy’s life since his days before military school and the changes were evident. They forced him to take a full-time job as soon as he finished military school and kicked him out of the house soon after high school graduation.

While the rest of us went to college, Andy went into the Army and was eventually stationed at Fort Campbell. Even though we were miles apart, we always found ways to keep in touch.

“Hello boys!” said Fitzie as we greeted him in the dorm lobby. He was well-dressed and clean cut. Both Byron and I had shaggy hair and shaggy clothes.

“Where’s Lee?” he asked.

“He’s on his way.”

“How is it that he lives in Mt. Adams and I came all the way from the Tennessee border and he’s still not here? Let’s hunt him down.”

We hopped into Fitzie’s car and traced our old familiar stomping grounds in Mt. Adams. Our first stop was the Heinz house.

“I’m sorry boys,” said Mrs. Heinz, “but he’s been gone all day.”

“Do you know where he could be?”

“I’m not sure, but he might be at the library.”

We started there, but that was a dead end. Then, we stopped by the hamburger place where we always hung out as kids. Unfortunately, the high school acquaintances that worked there didn’t have a clue where Lee was either.

We gave up and decided to head back to the Johnsons. Mrs. Johnson had fixed us meatloaf (it wasn’t what I’d call ‘celebration food’, but it was Byron’s favorite, so that’s what we ate).

“What do you want to do for your birthday?” I asked.

“Let’s hit the batting cage,” said Byron.

“But it’s raining out,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter. The cages are indoors.”

Here it was, the very day Byron got drafted into professional baseball and he wanted to go to the batting cages. We stopped by Lee’s house. This time, he was home, so he joined us. After a few hours at the cages, the four of us went to the drive-thru and picked up a case of beer. Then, we returned to Byron’s house.

“Why don’t we play Wiffle Ball?” said Lee.

Andy scoffed, “We’re a little old for that, don’t you think?”

Lee grabbed a bat and I joined him. Soon, Byron and Andy played, too.

We whooped and hollered as if we were half our age. Soon, Mr. Larinov’s screen door banged as he came out onto his back porch.

“What are you foolish kids doing disturbing my sleep?”

We all apologized to Mr. Larinov.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry; you kids are just a bunch of sorry machines. Well, I didn’t even put my nickel in, so please just be quiet already.”

“Yessir.”

After a good chuckle, we settled around the picnic bench and finished our beers.

“Hey,” said Fitzie as we walked out to his car, “do you think we can crash at your folks’ place?”

I nodded.

“Good, I haven’t had this much to drink in a long, long time.”

Fitzie spent the night on the living room couch, which was a small surprise to my mom, but she took it in stride and fixed pancakes as soon as we stirred to life.

When we finished breakfast, we headed over to Byron’s house. Mrs. Johnson greeted us at the door.

“Didn’t he tell you? His father took him to the bus station early this morning. He’s on his way to Reading, Pennsylvania.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, guys. If I had known…”

As a rookie, Byron should’ve been traveling to the Philadelphia Phillies Rookie League affiliate in Helena, Montana, but the scouts had placed him in A ball – two full steps up the franchise ladder from the rookie level. Still, it was not much different for Byron than the handful of other trips he’d taken in his youth. The only difference now was the fact that he was one of the players.

“Hey mister! Hey mister!” came the shouts from the kids hanging over the top of the dugout.

Every time he entered and exited the dugout, a barrage of tiny grasping hands came his way. Each one held a pen or something to sign. Byron took the time to sign as many programs and scorecards as he could.

When children returned to their seats and tried to figure out whose signature was on the outside of their program, Byron’s name was nowhere to be found in the first few programs and he certainly wasn’t included in the team photo.

Still, he was a major part of the team.

“Byron Johnson, you bat and throw left, correct?” said the batting coach.

Byron nodded.

“And you’re a catcher…a left-handed catcher?”

“Yessir.”

Byron popped his right hand up and clapped the shiny black catcher’s mitt in front of him, as if it were a puppet. The batting coach looked at the mitt for a moment before turning his attention to Byron.

“Can you do me a favor and jump behind home plate for me?”

“Sure thing, coach.”

It was the same old song and dance as he went through the regular run of catching drills. Byron, of course, passed with flying colors.

With Byron’s draft into the Phillies organization, our focus turned back to Major League Baseball. That month was far from ordinary for baseball, too.

Byron had been picked in the same mid-summer draft as fastballer Roger Clemens. Clemens, however, refused his option and returned to the University of Texas for the next two years.

Two days later, Pete Rose got a base hit off of Nolan Ryan. That tied him with Stan Musial as the all-time leader in base hits.

Two days after that, pro baseball went on strike. After several months of heated negotiations, player representative Marvin Miller merely got up and walked out of the room. In the words of Miller, “We’ve accomplished nothing, the strike is on.”

That was all for the pros. The minor leaguers, however, kept their jobs.

It was just three more days until we saw Byron behind the plate. We decided we’d surprise him, but Spartanburg was a long haul from Cincinnati; easily a good six or seven-hour trip.

Still, Fitzie, Lee, and I took turns driving, which made the trip relatively quick. Duncan Park was smaller than our field at Mt. Adams. In fact, the bleachers weren’t much more than the ones at Kennedy Park. The outer wall was painted in whitewash, which was old and chipped. A small booth guarded the entrance. An old lady sat on a folding chair inside. There was no line for tickets and we had our choice of seats, so we sat in the first row right behind home plate.

The usher showed us the way and we stretched out in the front row, our feet propped on the fence rails connecting the backstop to the dugout.

When Spartanburg took the field, we waited for our favorite left-handed catcher to take the field. His bold white jersey had red pinstripes and the regular Phillies insignia, including the number 51 on the back.

“Byron! Byron!” we shouted. He stutter-stepped for a moment and continued on his way to home plate. He acknowledged us with a wave with his gloved hand and settled into position. The pitcher went through his round of warm-ups before the first batter advanced to the plate.

All in all, it was a relatively uneventful game, but Byron did manage to get a hit during his last at-bat.

He was the eighth to bat, which was usually reserved for the worst batter on the team. We thought that was strange. He was one of the best hitters we’d ever seen. He struck out once and grounded out once. His last at-bat came just after the seventh inning stretch. This time, he managed to hang on until the pitch was at a full count, three balls and two strikes. His bat nipped a pitch that was low and away. He pulled it the opposite direction, where it looped over the third baseman’s head. He ran to first base, stopping for an easy stand-up single.

“You got a hit!” I said after the game, “that must’ve been something.”

“It was something alright. I hardly saw any of the pitches and just couldn’t get the timing down. I got lucky is all I did.”

After a few weeks, he settled down and found his groove. The Phillies responded by moving him up to the AA team in Reading, PA.

We were all relieved about that at first, since Pennsylvania was right next door to Ohio. Then, we found out that the trip through all of Ohio and Pennsylvania was longer than a trip to the east coast.

Still, we made sure to take the time throughout that summer to visit Reading and points beyond.

It was great watching Byron. The road trips were unforgettable. Each of these teams and towns had their own distinct personality. There were strange mascots and even stranger promotions. Farmer’s Day was one such promotion.

Just before the game, a parade of cows walked from the bullpen to the center of the infield. Each cow had someone tending to her. Byron was one of sthe players given the privilege of representing Reading. The visiting team was from Vermont. That seemed to be a distinct disadvantage for Byron, especially since he’d never been on a farm, let alone this close to a farm animal.

He placed a small wooden stool beside his cow before taking his place on the seat.

We all knew what was to come next. Unfortunately, Byron had never worked the business end of a cow, so this was going to be entertaining, to say the least.

The referee rang a cowbell and the race began. Naturally, the Vermont players had an unfair advantage. Still, Byron tugged on his cow’s teats as best he could. By the end of the race, we figured Byron was done milking cows and the cow was done with him.

The baseball strike, which lasted two months, became a sideshow by the time it was all over.

Major League Baseball’s commissioner, Bowie Kuhn, led the owners in formulating a solution for a baseball season with a big hole in the middle. They voted on creating a two-season system, where the first-half champion of each division would face the second-half champion in a playoff. This meant that the first-half champion was given a spot regardless of their second half performance.

…And that wasn’t even the worst part. While the Dodgers won the NL West in the first-half, the Reds finished second. The Astros won the second half. Meanwhile, all of Cincinnati was up in arms because the Reds (who finished second again) had the best overall record in the NL West.

The best overall record in the NL East belonged to the St. Louis Cardinals, who also finished second during both halves.

Both the Reds and Cardinals received an E for effort. As the Dodgers and Yankees advanced to one of their epic World Series clashes, our collective gaze was fixed upon Byron Johnson.

“Son,” said the coach, “you’ve got the most advanced catching skills of any double A player I’ve ever seen. Any team would be lucky to have you on its roster. Unfortunately, we have another strong starting catcher – and he can hit the ball.”

Byron’s head slumped.

“You just have to keep your head up,” said the coach.

He pulled Byron’s chin up with a couple of guiding fingers. To Byron, those gnarled fingers smelled like baseball: dried chewing tobacco, tar and rosin, diamond dirt and dugout dust.

“I just can’t get the timing down.”

“We’ll work on that. We’ll also work on all your bad habits in the batting box. It’s too bad your dad didn’t work you to death on batting, too.”

Byron nodded.

“Now buck up, you’re in the line-up tomorrow.”

Since it was a Friday, the Johnsons and Jolleys had already planned a long weekend in eastern Pennsylvania. We packed up our Microbus and went on our way.

Mr. Johnson and my dad took turns driving. The two seat rows made for plenty of space between Mrs. Johnson, my mother, and me.

Even with a pit stop about halfway through the trip, the last two hours dragged on and on. It didn’t help that eastern Pennsylvania is all straight highways with tree-covered cliff walls on either side. It looked just like that in western Pennsylvania, too, which looked just like that in all of Ohio if you substituted long, flat farms in place of rolling hills.

For all practical purposes, Reading, Pennsylvania sits in the middle of nowhere, but it’s about an hour from Philadelphia, Easton, Bethlehem, and Allentown. Additionally, it’s about two hours from New York and four hours from Pittsburgh, which meant it was pretty close to everywhere at the start of the 20^th Century.

As anyone who’s ever played Monopoly knows, the old town was home to Reading Railroad. Back in the early 1900s, the Reading moved coal between mines and steel mills, offering cities all along the Atlantic coast a chance to build upward when they could no longer build outward and even though Reading was the home to its namesake railroad, it took very few people to keep the Reading moving. That meant Reading was a big city draped in small town clothes. Small row houses and brownstones were built along a few major thoroughfares and that was it – everyone lived near the railroad and everything they needed was close by.

Byron always said that Reading, Pennsylvania was his most favorite place in the world – and mind you – this is from a guy who’s been around the world and seen just about everything it has to offer.

We sat in the same old place we’d always sat – right behind home plate. Byron was hitless in five at-bats, but the Phillies won 6-0 anyway. On top of that, Byron made a few spectacular plays, including one that turned a suicide squeeze into a double play.

I waited outside the stadium for Byron while our parents returned to a little bed and breakfast up on the hill.

“Want to grab a few beers?”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’d be great.”

We walked to a little tavern called “The Hole in the Wall” and it was just that, a tiny tavern that was just wide enough for two bars – one for the bartender to walk behind and another for the patrons to lean against on the opposite wall. The bar was poorly lit and nearly empty, so we bought a six-pack of beers and returned to the stadium where Byron’s car waited in the empty parking lot.

“I know a place,” said Byron.

We drove only a little way and Byron parked his car in an empty lot next to a paint store. Then, we hiked up a small grade to a  rail yard. He placed the six-pack atop a transformer and hopped on top. I followed suit.

“This is the perfect place to gather my thoughts,” he said.

“It is?”

“Yeah, I just lose myself inside the sound of steel-on-steel.”

I popped the bottle cap off my beer and flicked it towards the rail yard. It landed about 30 feet away with a clank. I took a long, slow swig of beer and let it melt in my mouth. I could barely hear a conversation at the other end of the rail yard. Then, it disappeared in a fog of non-train sounds: crickets and birds chirping and wheels buzzing over the interstate in the distance. Still, it completely soothed me.

“How do you like it here?”

“Reading is really good to me.”

“Do you ever get homesick?”

“Not really.”

  “I’d be homesick.”

“Aw, these guys are great,” said Byron, “It’s just like a second family.”

By all accounts, being on a sports team (any team) was like being in a family. You had leaders and followers, parents and children, sibling rivalries, and certain responsibilities. In the end, everyone towed their own weight, but they also rely on each other when the going gets tough. Still, even the father figures can turn out to be like ornery older brothers.

The Reading Phillies’ first-string catcher, Anthony Romero, was always a practical joker. When his birthday came around, everyone was sure to play some sort of trick on him. Unfortunately, Romero usually caught the joke before the joke caught him. This year, however, Byron took it upon himself to get the wily veteran.

He snuck into Romero’s catcher’s equipment and lined everything with black shoe polish. When Romero went to change into it, the polish would leave stains on his forehead and around his face.

As luck would have it, that was Byron’s night to catch. Still, Byron waited expectantly to catch Anthony.

“Hey coach,” asked Byron, “is there any chance you can put Romero in for me?”

“Not tonight, kid.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Alright, Johnson, you’re out and Romero’s in.”

As Anthony turned his helmet around, the shoe polish rubbed off on his hand. He rubbed his thumb against the liner. It was coal black with polish.

“Who did this?” asked Romero.

A few eyes pointed to Byron as everyone remained silent.

“You did this?”

Byron let out a sly little smile.

“You better watch who you’re messing with, kid. I’m an old pro at this, you don’t want to tango with me.”

“The good thing is, you can’t get me because I’m black.”

Indeed, one-ups-man-ship is a tricky dance in any clubhouse. Every single player gets hazed for a good part of his career. Saying you’re immune is an invitation to any and all takers, so they all accepted.

Just before a home game about a week later, Romero approached Byron.

”Hey, you gotta suit up for the game tonight.”

“But I’m not on the lineup card.”

“Last minute substitution. I’m a little under the weather.”

Byron hurried to his locker and jumped into his clothes. As he trotted up to the dugout, he passed the coach.

“What are you doing, Johnson?”

“Getting ready to play.”

“You’re not playing tonight.”

“Yeah, Anthony just told me he was sick.”

“What do you mean? I just saw him during warm-ups. He didn’t say anything to me.”

At that moment, Romero trotted up the dugout steps. He wore a smile as wide as Pennsylvania itself.

“What’s up, kid?”

“Aren’t you sick?”

Anthony shook his head.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he chuckled.

Byron glanced at Romero, then at the coach.

“Go on and change. You’re resting tonight.”

Byron walked back to his locker and proceeded to unsnap his gear. After he undid his uniform pants, he knew he’d been had.

Approximately one hour earlier, one of Byron’s teammates kept watch at the entrance door while Anthony and a few other players did the masterwork. Two guys turned his uniform pants inside-out and held them outstretched. Then, Anthony began coating them in white shoe polish. As the polish dried, it seeped into the thread pores, coating it in white. As the players let loose of the pants, they collapsed back into place. Byron would barely feel anything different as he stepped into his pants. However, as the fabric stretched, the white shoe polish would rub off on his legs, coating them in a sort of whitewash.

After the game, Byron did not say a thing to any of his teammates. Instead, he packed up and went home. He spent a week straight taking private showers, far away from the stadium and peering eyes. Still, he heard the snickering whenever he got ready for games. Finally, after about two weeks, he made his return to the showers. His teammates gave him a standing ovation and patted him on the back.

“It’s good to see you taking a shower,” said Anthony, “you’ve been stinking up the place the last week or so.”

The locker room filled with laughter. Byron rolled his eyes and went about his business.

“Welcome back,” said another.

Even with all the grief his teammates gave him, Byron always said that the Reading Phillies were his second family.

.