He Couldn’t Make It To The Game. But He Was There.

 Today I will, once again, invoke the “Howard Cosell rule.” Thus, today’s post will only tangentially, if at all, relate to cycling or bicycles.

In previous posts, I have mentioned athletes whom I respect as much as human beings as I admire them for their athletic talents and performance. That list is, and can never be, complete because of people like Willie Mays. 

While I have wonderful memories of his hits and plays, I really didn’t know much about his life or career before playing for the New York and San Francisco Giants and New York Mets. I knew he had played briefly in the Negro Leagues, as Jackie Robinson—one of my heroes—did. But I am ashamed to admit that he endured much of the same bigotry and threats of violence as Robinson did.  That isn’t surprising when you consider that Willie made his major league debut only four years after Jackie—and that both played their Negro League games in a city where Black and White players weren’t allowed on the same field. That city later became synonymous with some of the worst violence that was part of the resistance to the Civil Rights movement.

I am talking about Birmingham, Alabama. Willie Mays began his career there—and his life just outside the city. Last night, one of his former clubs—the Giants—faced the St. Louis Cardinals at Rickwood Field, where Mays played his first professional game.

That game was supposed to be a tribute to Mays, the Negro League team—the Birmingham Black Barons—for which he played and to the many Negro League players—like Henry Aaron—who became stars in the Major Leagues after they integrated.

Sadly, however, Willie Mays passed away two nights earlier, at 93 years old.  Still, the game was all about him.  And the twenty-four former players in attendance—most of them enshrined in the Hall of Fame, wouldn’t have had it any other way.

They included Reggie Jackson, whom many regard as the greatest baseball player to follow Mays. While he never put on the Black Barons’, or any other Negro League team’s, uniform, he faced many of the same taunts and threats Mays, Robinson and Aaron endured a decade earlier. Jackson began his professional career with the Kansas City (later Oakland) Athletics’ minor-league team in Birmingham not long after police chief “Bull” Connor dispersed Civil Rights protesters with a water cannon.  Even after Federal civil rights laws passed, Birmingham—and to be fair, many other places in the South, North, East and West—operated under various forms of de facto if not de jure segregation. So, Reggie was refused service in restaurants and wasn’t allowed to stay in hotels with the rest of his team: the same sorts of abuse Jackie, Willie and Henry endured a generation earlier.

But zfor all the history I have just given you, dear reader, I am sad about Willie Mays’ passing because he was one of the first true superstar athletes I saw live. Although it was late in his career—during his last few years with the Giants—I could see that he was special, as a baseball player and a person. Watching him, even when he stood still, you could feel the joy he felt.  And he could say, matter-of-factly, he was the best player and nobody, not even the other players I’ve mentioned or Mickey Mantle or Joe DiMaggio—whom Mays idolized while growing up—would challenge him. Now that I think of him, I see a combination of the best qualities of Muhammad Ali, Magic Johnson and perhaps “Major Taylor.”

Perhaps the greatest accolades came from two performers of a different kind. Frank Sinatra once him, “If I could play baseball like you, I would be the happiest man in the world.” And Tallulah Bankhead declared, “There have been only two geniuses in this world:  Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare.”

As Reggie Jackson and others pointed out, he may not have made it to last night’s game.  But he was there. And he will be here for many of us.

He Didn’t Know He’d Made History

 Today I am invoking, once again, my Howard Cosell Rule:  This post won’t be about bicycles or bicycling.

Almost any someone breaks a barrier—whether it’s based on race, gender, social class or some other trait—that person is referred to as the “Jackie Robinson” of their field. In fact, I had that title bestowed on me when I was the first person to “change” gender in my workplace.

I took that both as a compliment and a warning: I think some were trying to alert me to what I might (and indeed did) face.  On the other hand, I felt honored to be compared to someone I so respect as a human being as well as an athlete.

That respect and admiration is not abstract or idolatory:  I actually met the man when I was very young and—as I could not have known—he was a few years away from the end of his too-brief life.  Years later, I met his widow Rachel, a beautiful and formidable woman.

The man I am about to mention also, when he was very young, met Jackie. At that time, Robinson was in the prime of his baseball career.  And the subject of the rest of this post would embark on his own athletic career, in a league where no one like him played before.

Sixty-six years ago yesterday—18 January 1958–Willie O’Ree’s skate blades glided across the ice in the Montréal Forum.  The hometown fans cheered him and the following day, the city’s sportswriters—lauded his fast, smooth skating.

That Montréal scribes could pay homage to the abilities of á forward who didn’t skate for the hometown Canadiens (Les Habitants) wasn’t unusual, Their praise, however, was particularly interesting given that O’Ree wore the sweater (they’re not called jerseys in hockey) of the Boston Bruins, whose rivalry with the Canadiens is as intense as the enmity between the Red Sox and Yankees.

Oh, and he just happened to be the first Black player in the history of the National Hockey League. That night, Willie was trying to prove himself and win a permanent roster spot in the sport’s top league.  “I did not realize I had made history,” he recalled.

Somehow it seems fitting that he is a descendent of slaves who escaped from the United States into Canada via the Underground Railroad. His family was one of two in Fredericton, the capital of the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Like many of his peers, he grew up as a fan of the Canadiens.

His NHL career was brief, but he played professional hockey—and won scoring titles—well into his 40s. I can’t help but to think that as supportive as his teammates and the league’s fans—in Boston, Montréal and Toronto, anyway—were, racism, conscious or not, on the part of management hindered his development. After all, he had enough natural ability for Montréal sportswriters and fans to notice. But he needed to stay in the NHL longer than he did—parts of two seasons—to refine his skills in the way only nightly competition with and against the best players in the world could have. That is what Jackie Robinson was able to do during his decade with the Dodgers.

When Is It A Motorcycle?

The other day, during a ride in Queens and Brooklyn, I detoured to the Ridgewood Reservoir.  Because the loop around it is flat, I can ride around it a few time and add a few kilometers/miles to my ride without trying.  (I recently learned that the loop is 1.2 miles, or about .7 kilometers:  longer than I thought it is!) I was enjoying myself on a sunny, breezy afternoon when I made the turn near the Brooklyn side.  There, two young men on ebikes without pedal assists whipped around the curve.  One of them popped a wheelie and veered to his left-my right.  I had almost no room to maneuver:  I was well near the right edge of the lane and, even if I could have cut in front of him without colliding, I almost surely would have hit, or been hit by, the other guy on eBike, a cyclist riding in the opposite direction, or a group of people walking with a dog.

The guys on eBikes were going as fast, it seemed, as the car traffic on the nearby Jackie Robinson Parkway. Lately, I've wondered whether those bikes seem faster because I'm getting older and slower.  But that experience--and a couple of reports that have come my way--show me that those machines are indeed getting faster and because prohibitions against them on bike and pedestrian lanes and speed limits are never enforced (if indeed they exist), too many riders seem to feel no compunction about endangering other people.

Folks like David Rennie in Park City,Utah are having similar experiences to mine on bike lanes and hiking trails. In a letter to the Park Record,  he says that allowing such bikes on trails is "an accident waiting to happen" and can "see no reason why throttle-controlled e-bikes should not be treated exactly the same as a petrol-driven bike, and subject to the same licensing and use rules."

From Electric Bike Action

In another Park Record letter to the editor, Mike Miller echoed his concerns and concluded that throttle-driven bikes without pedal assists are really "motorcycles" and should be treated as such.

Happy Ramadan, Passover, Good Friday—And Jackie Robinson Day

 Today I am invoking the Howard Cosell Rule. Today’s post, therefore, will not relate to my rides or bikes, and may not be connected to much else in the cycling world.  But what I’m about to mention is just too important to ignore. 

The athlete I’m about to mention has something in common with Simone Biles, Colin Kaepernick, Billie Jean King, Muhammad Ali and “Major Taylor.  Like them, he was a pioneer, not only in his sport, but in the struggle to be recognized and understood as full-fledged human beings.  In other words, they (have) had as much impact away from the field, court or track as they had on it.

On this date 75 years ago, a second baseman took his position at Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field.  At 28 years old, he was older than most rookies. But that wasn’t because he was a “late bloomer.” Rather, his debut in Major League Baseball was delayed by his World War II military service, where he experienced the very thing that kept him from playing for the Dodgers earlier than he did.

When he was drafted into the Army, he applied for Officers’ Candidate School, for which he was qualified.  His application was delayed for several months.  When he was finally accepted, he led soldiers who, like him, were racially segregated from other soldiers as they fought for the freedom of people in faraway countries.

What this man had in common with the other athletes I mentioned, with the exception of Billie Jean King, is that he was Black.  So, upon returning to the United States, he played a year for the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Leagues and another for the Montréal Royals, the Brooklyn Dodgers’ top minor-league team.

When Jackie Robinson took to the field for the Brooklyn Dodgers on 15 April 1947, he was the first known Black major-league player* since Moses Fleetwood Walker in 1884.  Robinson’s debut also came half a century after “Major” Taylor, the record-setting cyclist, became the first Black world champion in any sport. 

Consider this:  When Robinson played his first game as a Dodger, the United States armed forces had yet to integrate.  Yes, you read that right:  Black soldiers could still be sent to fight for freedoms they couldn’t enjoy themselves.  And, a year later, Strom Thurmond would run for President on a platform of “Segregation Forever!”

All right, this post does relate to cycling in at least one way:  In spite of his accomplishments on and off the field, Jackie Robinson, like Taylor before him, had to endure insults, indignities and even death threats. And, in a sort of parallel, Robinson had to go to other leagues, as Taylor had to go to other countries , for professional opportunities commensurate with their talents and work ethic.

So, if Jackie Robinson doesn’t deserve a mention on this or any other forum, I don’t know who does.

*—For all of the respect I have for Jackie Robinson, I am willing to entertain the notion that he wasn’t the first Black major league player since Walker.  It’s entirely possible that some Black player who “passed” as White—including, it’s been rumored, Babe Ruth—could have played in the major leagues.  

Black Cyclone Coming

There are a number of athletes I admire for their accomplishments in their sports.  But there is a much smaller number whom I respect equally, or even more, as human beings.  They include Jackie Robinson, Billie Jean King, Muhammad Ali, Colin Kaerpernick, Simone Biles--and Marshall Walter "Major" Taylor.

Some day, I'm sure, a documentary or biopic will be made about Ms. Biles.  Films have already been made from the triumphs and struggles of Robinson and Ali.  Five years ago, "Battle of the Sexes" focused on King's 1973 match--which she won--against Bobby Riggs.  While it was a good film, I think it also helped to reinforce the tendency to think of Ms. King only in terms of that, and not on, not only of the way she dominated her game as Martina Navratilova and Serena Williams would later on, but also of her advocacy for women and LGBTQ folks. 

But, to my knowledge, Major Taylor hasn't received cinematic canonization.  One reason for that may be that there isn't anybody alive who saw him ride or can even remember how he dominated bike racing to the same degree as the other athletes I've mentioned towered over their sports.  Thus, most people who aren't familiar with the history of cycling or African Americans don't realize that he was the first African American champion of any sport half a century before Robinson set foot on a Major League baseball field.

Clement Virgo (l) and "Major" Taylor

It seems that situation is about to change.  Canadian director Clement Virgo, who also helmed feature films "Rude" and "Lie With Me" as well as the six-part miniseries "The Book of Negroes," has been tapped to direct "Black Cyclone."  The title comes from one of the more flattering nicknames given to Taylor. (As a black man in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries, he also was called names that I, someone who isn't exactly profanity-adverse, won't repeat.)  John Howard, a three-time Olympic and four-time U.S. Road Champion cyclist (who also set a land speed record that stood for a decade) will serve as a consultant on the project.

Production is set to begin next year.   

Marianne Martin Finally Gets Her Due--Somewhat

 It's one thing to call a baseball player "the Black Babe Ruth."  One player wore that moniker.  But some called "the Bambino" "the White* Josh Gibson."

Gibson died at age 35, three months before Jackie Robinson broke Major League Baseball's color barrier.*  Yet he wasn't enshrined in the sport's Hall of Fame until a quarter-century after his passing.

Five years ago,  Rogatien Vachon was inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame--more than three decades after he played his last game in the National Hockey League.  When he retired, he was among the sport's top five or ten in several categories for his position.  He spent the bulk of his career with the Los Angeles Kings, where he became the franchise's first superstar. But, as great as he was, he was overshadowed by other goalies like Ken Dryden, who played for the dynastic Montreal Canadiens teams, and Ed Giacomin, who spent his career with the New York Rangers and Detroit Red Wings.

So why am I mentioning them on this blog?

Well, a parallel just played out in the world of cycling.  On 6 November, Marianne Martin will accept her induction to the US Bicycling Hall of Fame in Colorado Springs.  She actually was inducted last year but, due to the pandemic, her ceremony was postponed.  

Her enshrinement comes three decades after she retired from competition and nearly four after her most notable achievement on two wheels.  That her induction was so late in coming is also a sad commentary on the state of competitive cycling.

Marianne Martin and Laurent Fignon, winners of the women's and men's Tour de France, 1984

In 1984, she won the inaugural edition of the women's Tour de France.  The race, 18 days long, ran in tandem with  (though on shorter courses than, with the same climbs and peaks as) the men's version.  Six editions of the women's Tour were held, the last coming in 1989, the year Greg LeMond came back from a near-fatal hunting accident to win the men's Tour for the second time.

LeMond got his induction, well-deserved as it was, five years after his last race.  Martin's honor took a quarter-century longer to come her way.  Still, she doesn't express anger or resentment. "Half my friends don't even know that I was a cyclist.  It's not something I carry out in front of me," says Martin, who is a photographer.  While she says that cycling was something she did, not who she was, it's hard not to compare her post-cycling life and reputation with that of LeMond who, in turn, is less famous than the disgraced Lance Armstrong.

*--The only athletes I respect as much as human beings as I respect Jackie Robinson are Billie Jean King, Muhammad Ali, Colin Kaepernick and Simon Biles. That said, I will not refute (or confirm) the rumors that Jackie wasn't the first Black Major League Baseball player, as others--including Babe himself--were rumored to be Black.  Also, it wouldn't surprise me if some light-skinned Black players moved north (where all of the MLB teams were, and Jim Crow laws weren't) and passed themselves off as white.  

Jackie In The Jersey Theater

Today I took a ride into New Jersey for the first time, I think, since the pandemic began.  I know, that sounds odd, considering how often I’ve pedaled to Connecticut. But I finally got up the courage to board the ferry—which, much to my surprise, was nearly empty—to Jersey City.

I’d forgotten just how odd and interesting parts of the city are.  In Journal Square stands this monument to one of the icons, not only of sports, but also of racial equality and human rights:

Jackie Robinson is one athlete I wish I could have seen in his prime.  What I learned from looking at this sculpture, though, is the emotions he tried not to show, and the ones that he couldn’t help but to reveal.

Sporting events at their best are theater, or at least dramatic. So, perhaps, it’s not surprising to see this theatre across Kennedy Boulevard:

It’s long fascinated me that during the 1920s, when movies first reached mass audiences and studios built towering, cavernous shrines to them, Art Deco and a fascination for all things Egyptian defined the visual style of the time just as jazz was its soundtrack.  Looking at buildings like the Loew’s Jersey, though, shows me how congruent those things were: the lines and shapes of Art Deco building details and Egyptian carvings mirror each other as much as they echo the tempo changes of the era’s best music.

So a theater stands across from a monument to a man who played out one of this country’s real-life dramas.  To his right, across Pavonia Avenue, stands another former movie theater:

Like many other former cinematic cathedrals, it’s become a house of worship. That makes sense, as the interior dimensions of those old movie houses closely resemble theaters.  And when you come down to it, a mass or service is a kind of theatrical performance—just like a ball game or bike race.

And I got to see the theater of the street from my bike.

The First—To Be Recognized

On this date 50 years ago, two baseball teams took to the field.  The game they would play would have little bearing on league standings:  One team held a comfortable lead in its division; the other was fighting to stay out of last place.

Two players,  however, noticed that something was different.  Pittsburgh Pirates’ catcher Manny Sanguillen recalls that his teammate Dave Cash alerted him that something unprecedented was happening.  “We have nine brown players on the field,” Sanguillen, a native of Panama, said to himself.

A quarter-century after Jackie Robinson became the first known* Black player in Major League Baseball, the Pittsburgh Pirates—who would win the World Series that year—fielded an entirely nonwhite lineup against their cross-state rivals, the Philadelphia Phillies.

I am mentioning that milestone on this blog because some have accused cycling of having a “color problem.”  I don’t disagree, though I believe the “problem” is different from what is commonly perceived.

If you look at images of cyclists in advertising and other media, you might come to the conclusion that cycling is “a white thing” or that “Blacks don’t ride.”

Just as African Americans have been playing baseball for as long as the game has existed (and Latin Americans for nearly as long), black and brown (and yellow and red) people have been riding almost since the first bicycles were made.  

Anyone familiar with the history of cycling knows about Major Taylor, the first Black cycling World Champion.  There have been other Black and Brown elite riders in the century since Taylor‘s victory, but they haven’t received the recognition, let alone the money, of white champions—including some who won by, ahem, questionable methods. Their lower visibility causes bike makers and related companies to conclude that people darker than themselves don’t mount.

If you live in any large US city, the kids riding BMX in the park are more than likely not to be White.  So are the folks who deliver portfolios or pizzas—or go to work in stores, warehouses or other places—by bicycle.

Oh, and I’ve seen more than a few groups, formally organized or not, of Black or Hispanic people, riding to train or just for fun. In fact, when I was a regular off-rode rider, I pedaled singletrack and local trails with a “posse” in which I was the only White rider.

The thing is, such riding usually goes unnoticed by those who form the public images of cyclists,  just as great Black and Latin American hitters and pitchers—who were at least the equal of their White counterparts—remained as invisible as most Little Leaguers when they played in the Negro Leagues rather than the self-appointed Major Leagues.

*—I have enormous respect for Jackie Robinson. But it’s entirely possible that he wasn’t the first Black Major League Baseball player: Others, including Babe Ruth himself, were rumored to be Negroes who passed as white.

A 400-Year Debt

My birthday is 4 July:  US Independence Day.  So, what I am about to say may seem treasonous, or even sacrilegious, to some.

The most important, if not the singular defining, event of US history did not happen on 4 July 1776.  Rather, it occurred 400 years ago on this date.

On 20 August 1619, the White Lion (you can't make this stuff up!) landed in Point Comfort, near present-day Hampton, Virginia.  Of the White Lion's commander, one Captain John Jope, colonist John Rolfe wrote, "He brought not any thing but 20.  And odd Negroes, which the Governor and Cape Merchant bought for victuals."

The details that would have fleshed out Rolfe's clinical description are lost to history.  Did he mean that  twenty-some-odd black people disembarked from the vessel?  What sort of "victuals" were exchanged for the captive human beings?  Peanuts?  Corn?  Barley?

What is not in doubt is that the dark-skinned arrivals from Africa were the first documented black slaves in America.  This does not mean, of course, that they were the first black slaves in the so-called New World:   Columbus reportedly brought slaves on his second voyage, and some historians argue that there were Africans--who may or may not have been slaves--on this side of the Atlantic even before Columbus' arrival.  But the arrival of black slaves on the White Lion is the first documented importation of African slaves to the soil of what would become the United States.  Moreover, it is the first documented sale of slaves.

The White Lion was not the first ship in which those slaves would be imprisoned on their way from the West Coast of Africa to the East Coast of North America. They started their terrible journey on the San Juan Bautista (really), bound for the Spanish colony of Vera Cruz on the coast of what would become Mexico.

But just a couple of days before the San Juan Bautista would have reached port (Transatlantic journeys in those days typically took about two months), it was attacked by pirates looking for Spanish gold.  Some of those pirates were on the White Lion; the others sailed on the Treasurer, which would arrive in Virginia a few days later.

As James Baldwin has pointed out, African-Americans are the only race of people (save for Native Americans) to be conceived in America.  And, at the time he was writing his seminal essays, the United States was the only nation besides South Africa that had a legal definition for black people--and used it to subjugate them.

I believe, as some black historians and writers believe, that the arrival of slaves (even if they weren't the first) on this date 400 years ago marks the real beginning of American (or at least US) history.  For one thing, it marked the beginning of European subjugation of a land and its people, which would not have been possible (at least under the conditions that prevailed) without the forced labor of black people.  The wealth of this country was built, literally, on the backs of Africans, even in those parts of the country where there weren't plantations and slavery ended before the Emancipation Proclamation.

What is commonly forgotten is that during our Civil War, there were large pro-Confederate contagions in some northern cities.  In fact, New York, which then consisted only of the island of Manhattan, was a bastion of Dixie sentiment, as many of the city's bankers and merchants had ties to the cotton- and tobacco-growing industries of the South.  (In contrast, Brooklyn, which was then an independent city and didn't have the same ties to plantation owners--and where freed and runaway slaves settled in Weeksville and other communities--was staunchly pro-Union.) 

So, no matter where one was at the time of the Civil War--or long afterward--its economy was, in some way or another, a product of slavery.  Everyone in this country is a beneficiary, in some way or another.  I include myself:  My grandparents, as poor as they were, still had more rights in this country than any African (or Native American) had the day they arrived in a port built, at least in part, by the labor of those people who had no freedom--and the profits of those who traded them, or traded with plantation owners, merchants and others whose prosperity built by them.

Of course, it wasn't just our economy that "benefited" from slavery.  The terrible experiences endured by slaves--and their children who were "freed"--were the raw material of some of the greatest art this country has produced.  I am talking, of course, about works by writers like Baldwin and Toni Morrison, but also jazz--the only truly American musical genre besides country and western--which has influenced all of the music, everywhere in the world, that's come along since.

And, finally, it's hard not to think that the "generational trauma" and prejudice experienced by the descendants of slaves motivated some of the greatest athletes this country has turned out.  Forget about "some of":  I am willing to say that the four greatest athletes to come from the United States are Muhammad Ali, Serena Williams, Jackie Robinson and, of course, "Major" Taylor, the incomparable cyclist who became the first African-American champion in any sport.  

The country in which I was born and have spent most of my life owes, I believe,  much more to what took place on this date 400 years ago than most people realize--or I was taught in school.

(In my next post, I'll return to matters more directly about cycling--my own and in general!)

The World's Fastest Man: A Century Before Usain Bolt

I haven't owned a television in about six years.  I do, however, listen to a fair amount of radio, mainly the local public and independent stations.

One program to which I listen pretty regularly is "Fresh Air," which is something like a radio version of 60 Minutes dedicated to the arts or contemporary issues.  A couple of nights ago, "Fresh Air" featured Dave Davies (no, not the Kinks' guitarist) interviewing journalist Michael Kranish, whose latest book just came out.

The World's Fastest Man:  The Extraordinary Life of Major Taylor, America's First Black Sports Hero documents, not only Major Taylor's athletic exploits, but his contributions to the cause of civil rights.  He was, arguably, as dominant in cycling of his era as Eddy Mercx or Bernard Hinault were in theirs, and towered over his sport the way Michael Jordan, Martina Navratilova and Wayne Gretzky did in their primes.  But, perhaps even more important, he was as unflinching in the face of discrimination as Jackie Robinson and Muhammad Ali were more than half a century later.



I haven't yet read the book, but I plan to. One reason is that, from what I gather in the interview, Kranish's book shows how bicycle racing was the most popular sport in America and much of Europe and Australia during Taylor's time.  Also, he seems to cover in greater detail the discrimination he faced, not only from restaurants and hotels that refused him service, but also from other racers who sometimes even tried to injure him before or during races.  Finally, during the interview, Kranish mentions business ventured that failed--including one from which a white competitor stole his idea after no bank would finance him.

You can listen to the interview here:

Jackie Robinson

Yesterday was the 70th anniversary of one of the most important events in US history.  It, and the actor in the drama, if you will, should be commemorated--though not exactly for the reasons that they are.

On 15 April 1947, Jackie Robinson played his first regular-season game for the Brooklyn Dodgers.  It is often said that on that day, he "integrated" the "national pastime."  It is true that he was the first openly, visibly black man to appear in a modern major league baseball game.  That is, if you define "modern major league" as today's National and American Leagues.  Before 1901, though, the American League didn't exist and the National League's chief competition--the other major league, if you will--was the American Association.

The Toledo Blue Stockings joined the Association, as it was called (in contrast to the NL, which was usually referred to as "The League") in 1884.  Prior to that, it had played five years in a minor league.  On its roster was a fellow named Moses Fleetwood Walker.  

He was a slick-fielding, light-hitting catcher who joined the Blue Stockings in 1883 and remained with them when they made the move to the Association the following year.  During that time, "Cap" Anson, player-manager of the Chicago White Stockings (one of the powerhouse teams of that time), refused to let his squad play a rival with a black man on its roster.  Of course, Anson didn't refer to Walker--who was usually known as "Fleetwood"--as a black man.  Rather, he used a word that rhymes with "bigger".

Injuries limited Walker to one season on the 'Stockings.  He extended his playing career in the minor leagues by another five seasons.  By that time, his injuries (In those days, catchers didn't have mitts, or any of the other protective equipment they have now!) and the racism he endured took their toll on him.  During his teams' road trips, he sometimes slept on park benches because no hotel or rooming house would accommodate him, and he endured everything from insults to death threats to having projectiles hurled his way.

Jackie Robinson signing autographs on the steps of his Brooklyn home.  His wife, Rachel, is at his side.  Today, at age 94, she is strong and beautiful.

Robinson endured all of those things, too, throughout his career.  Add that to the fact that he made his debut at age 28--five to eight years later than players typically begin their major league careers (Prior to his Dodger debut, Robinson played in the Negro American League and served in World War II.)--and you realize that it's a miracle he lasted ten seasons in the major leagues.  He retired when the Dodgers traded him, saying he didn't want to play as a shadow of what he had been.  But it's hard not to think that, as tough as he was, he'd simply had enough.


So, when I bring up Walker, I mean absolutely no disrespect to Robinson, who remains one of the athletes I admire most.  After Walker retired, Anson--who had a lot of influence among baseball administrators and team owners of the time--got the major leagues to make a "gentleman's agreement" not to hire black players.

And major league baseball teams followed it, until Dodger General Manager Branch Rickey brought Robinson aboard.  At least, they believed they did.  I can't help but to think that other black men played "stealth" on major league rosters before Robinson.

Long before Spike Lee made his claim, rumors abounded that Babe Ruth was black.  Part of the reason for that is that he had some Negroid features. Also, he was born in a section of Baltimore where many African-Americans lived and ended up in an orphanage there.  Beyond that, few details about his childhood exist.  Throughout his life, Ruth had many black friends, was a denizen of Harlem during the "Roaring Twenties", played in--and sometimes organized--exhibition games between white major leaguers and Negro Major League players (something the owners of major league teams as well as the major league baseball commissioner frowned upon), and voiced his wish to see the major leagues integrated.  For all of that, he was taunted and threatened, by fans as well as players like Ty Cobb, who once refused to go on an off-season hunting trip because he didn't want to share a cabin with "no N----".

Whether or not Ruth was in fact black, I can't help but to wonder whether other light-skinned black players donned major league uniforms.  After all, more than a few such people--including the father of a friend of mine--essentially changed their racial status by moving from the South to the North or the West Coast.  My friend's father was born and raised in Virginia which, like other Southern states, had the "one drop" rule. He came to New York, which had no such law and where no one questioned his race.  He married a white woman whose parents, from what my friend tells me, never realized that their daughter married a "black" man!

Now, if he and others changed their race by changing their abode, who is to say that some baseball player or another didn't do it--and make it to the major leagues?  I'm not saying that such a thing indeed happened--I have no evidence for that--I am only raising the possibility that it could have happened.  

Whether or not it did, and whether or not Babe Ruth was black, or whether or not any blacks wore major league uniforms during the six decades between Walker's retirement and Robinson's debut, Jackie Robinson should be honored as a hero.  He was ineffably and openly black at a time when even the Armed Forces (in which he served during World War II) were segregated.  And, even though Major League audiences didn't get to see him during what might have been a couple (or even a few) of his best years, he retired as one of the best second basemen in the history of the game. (Some say he was the best.)  He was a first-ballot Hall of Famer and, in perhaps his greatest baseball honor, in 1997 his number (42) became the only one that, to this day, is "universally" retired by all major league teams.

When They Tried To Bar Major Taylor

This month--February--is Black History Month here in the US.

Mention "black cyclists" and one of the first names that comes to mind is "Major Taylor".

He was the first African-American athlete to win the world championship of any sport.  (Canadian bantamweight boxer George Dixon was the first black athlete to accomplish that feat.)  Although he was one of the most famous and admired athletes in the world, the "Worcester Whirlwind" was not insulated from racism.

The Worcester Whirlwind, circa 1900. From wikipedia.

The city from which Taylor's nickname was derived--Worcester, Massachusetts--was one of the centers of the Abolitionist movement.  Even so, not everyone there welcomed him with open arms.  When he bought a house in the well-to-do Columbus Park enclave, alarmed white neighbors tried to buy it back from him.

Even if you're the best in the world, you can't stop fools from being foolish.

Even so, life was better for him in Worcester--and in the rest of the Northeast--than it was elsewhere in the US.  While he won pretty much every race and award that could be won in his home region, he could not advance his career unless he won in other parts of the country. Two things conspired against him:  One, owners and promoters of races and tracks in the South banned him--and all other black cyclists--outright. Second, in 1894, just as Taylor's career was in ascendancy, the League of American Wheelmen--then the governing body of bicycle racing--voted to ban blacks.  Some have speculated that the ban was specifically aimed at Taylor, who, even at the age of 17, was beating his white challengers, some of whom were far more experienced than he was.

(The LAW is now known as the League of American Bicyclists.)

That ban, of course, closed other doors for him.  There were, however, a number of races--mostly in the Northeast--that allowed him to compete.  And, of course, he went to Canada:  In 1899, he won the World Championship for the one-mile sprint in Montreal.  

(Interesting aside:  In 1946, Jackie Robinson played for the Montreal Royals, which was the top minor-league team of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Fans in Montreal embraced him, as they did Taylor half a century earlier.)  

But even in the relative tolerance of his home region, Taylor encountered hostility.  He was often denied lodgings and food on account of his color, and white racers turned into pure-and-simple thugs when riding against him: One opponent hauled him off his bike and choked him into unconsciousness.

In the racial atmosphere of that time, the only way Taylor could advance his career was by racing in Europe.  He, in fact, had a number of offers to participate in races and join teams, especially in France.  He was grateful for the opportunities but would not accept them at first:   In Europe, many races were held on Sunday, as they are now.  Taylor had become a devout Baptist after his mother's death and would not race on the Sabbath.

Some of the offers he received were lucrative, to say the least.  When pleas and urgings from prominent African-Americans as well as cycling fans had no effect on him, black newspaper editors of the time published what we would now call "fake news"--saying that his religious scruples had been conquered by Mammon--or editorials speculating that such a thing would happen.

Of course, it didn't.  Finally, in 1901, a French team offered him a contract that specified he wouldn't have to race on Sunday.  He accepted, and before he even mounted a bicycle on the other side of the Atlantic, he was treated to a hero's welcome. 

An American in Paris.

Europeans were as impressed with his dignity and grace as they were with his athletic prowess.  He did much to help improve the level of European racing, not only by his presence, but also by mentoring young racers.  Here is one account of such tutoring, from his autobiography:

  I recall that on my first trip to Europe in 1901 I saw a French youth, whose name was Poulain, ride in an amateur event at Nantes, France. He was very awkward as he rode about the track, but something about him caught my eye, and I became interested in him at once. At the close of the race I made several suggestions to him, adjusting his pedals, and handle bars, and giving him some advice on how to train. I stressed clean living upon him, and told him in conclusion that if he trained carefully and lived a clean life, I would predict that some day he would beat all the amateurs of Europe and the professionals as well.

  When I returned to France in 1908 this same Poulain, who in the meantime had won the amateur and professional championships of France, defeated me in a special match race. Imagine my surprise at the conclusion of this event when my conqueror told me who he was. The laugh certainly was on me. I did manage to bring him into camp, however, after I reached by best form.

"The laugh was certainly on me." How could they not love someone with such an attitude?  Unfortunately, not everyone in his home country felt the same way.

A BIke Thief Who Changed The World? Or: How A Stolen Schwinn Gave Birth To "The Greatest".

Sixty dollars was a rather princely sum--especially for a 12-year old boy's bicycle--sixty-two years ago.

But even if not for its price tag, its disappearance would leave its owner devastated.  Especially given that the boy had just gotten the brand-new Schwinn as an early Christmas gift, and it was in his favorite color--red.

Said boy went, with his buddy, into Columbia Auditorium in Louisville, KY---according to some accounts, for the free popcorn inside.  When they returned, they had two more cartons of popcorn, but two fewer bikes, between them.

Enraged, the boy reported the crime to a policeman, one Sergeant Joe Martin.  In recounting his loss, the boy vowed to "whup" the perp.

Sergeant Martin's life experience and wisdom came into play.  He advised the boy bereft of bike to learn how to fight before confronting a bicycle thief.

Sergeant Martin was something of a Renaissance man.  While off-duty, he was, among other things, a boxing trainer.

By now, you may have figured out where this story is going.  The 12-year-old boy was known as Cassius Clay.

Yes, that Cassius Clay.  The one who would, a half-dozen years later, win the gold medal in the 1960 Rome Olympics.  And, three and a half years later, a heavily-favored named Sonny Liston--who looked like someone you wouldn't even want to meet in a seminary, let alone in a dark alley-- would not answer the bell after the seventh round. The handsome, brash Clay thus became the second- youngest heavyweight champion in history:  a distinction he would hold for more than two decades, until Mike Tyson defeated  Trevor Berbick.

Shortly after defeating Liston, Clay converted to Islam under the tutelage of Malcolm X.  He would follow his mentor in renouncing his "slave name" and become Cassius X,  and, not long after, adopt the name by which we mourn him today:  Muhammad Ali.

Malcolm X photographs Muhammad Ali from behind a soda fountain counter in Miami shortly after Ali (then Cassius Clay) defeated Sonny Liston for the World Heavyweight Title.

What I know about boxing can fill this sentence. All right, I take that back:  I grew up hearing a lot about it, and even watching fights--which, in those days, were on regular network TV, in prime time no less.  You see, my grandfather loved boxing.  And his brother-in-law--my great-uncle, on my father's side--was a prizefighter in his youth. I was told he was an early Gold Gloves champion as a bantamweight or welterweight (he was indeed diminutive), although I have not been able to verify this.

Both my grandfather and my great-uncle acknowledged Ali's greatness as a fighter, though both continued to refer to him as Cassius Clay.  My grandfather did so for the reasons you might expect of a white man of his place and time, but my great-uncle actually knew Clay, somewhat, before he became Ali.  He always said Clay/Ali was indeed "the greatest"--of this generation, he added--but nobody was, or would be a better heavyweight fighter than Joe Louis.   (And, he once said, nobody was a better man than Jackie Robinson.)

Whatever.  Ali was certainly the greatest fighter I ever saw, for what that's worth.  But more to the point, if I had children, I would tell them to look to him as one of their role models. (Kids should not have only one role model.)  He stood for what he believed in, even when it cost him--in his case, nearly four years in the prime of his career. Imagine what that career would have been like had he not been banned from fighting during those years because he refused to fight in the Vietnam War!

And, let's face it, the man had a personality that transcended everything he did, whether as an athlete or a human-rights activist.  He was often accused of "showboating".  I don't think that's fair or true.  Rather, I think he was born to be in the spotlight, and he couldn't have done anything to change it.  Some years ago, I recall a photographer or news producer--I forget which, and I forget whom--saying something to the effect that it was impossible to take a bad picture of Ali.  

It wasn't just his looks, though few young men were ever looked better. Even the word "charismatic" almost trivalizes the qualities he had.  Whatever word or words do him justice, he was born to be a beacon or a lightning rod.  And he was both.  If that's not a full life--one that ended just after midnight this morning--I don't now what is.

As for whoever stole 12-year-old Clay/Ali's bike all of those years ago:  He or she might well be the only bike thief (or one of the few bike thieves) who changed the world for the better.  

Wow!  I never thought I'd say anything like that.  

R.I.P. Muhammad Ali