Barnstorming: A Negro Baseball Story

Barnstorming

A Negro Baseball Story

Jonathan Carroll

Twin Flame Productions LLC Twin Flame Productions LLC

Barnstorming

A Negro Baseball Story

By Jonathan Carroll

Copyright © 2021 Jonathan Carroll

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information and retrieval systems without prior permission from the publisher in writing. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carroll, Jonathan, 1967-

Barnstorming: A Negro Baseball Story

/ Jonathan Carroll.

ISBN Paperback: 9781880765746

ISBN eBook: 9781880765739

Cover and Interior Layout: AHONU.com

Manuscript Editor: AingealRose.com

Manuscript Designer: AHONU.com

Published in the USA by Twin Flame Productions LLC, 2021 under the World of Empowerment imprint. World of Empowerment is an imprint of Twin Flame Productions LLC

Address all inquiries via eMail to

[email protected]

Or phone +1-224-588-8026

https://twinflameproduction.us

Warning—Limits of Liability and Disclaimer of Warranty

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author and publisher shall not be liable for your misuse of the material in this book. This book is strictly for informational, educational and entertainment purposes only. The author and/or publisher do not guarantee or warrant that anyone following the techniques, suggestions, tips, ideas, or strategies in this book will become successful at anything. The author and/or publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to anyone with respect to any loss or damage howsoever caused, or alleged to be caused, directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book. Always consult a licensed health practitioner for all health issues.

Barnstorming, A Negro Baseball Story

Although the Eatonville Catfish team exists only in this book of fiction, the dedication and sacrifices of those who pioneered in the Negro League are anything but fictitious. We appreciate their courage and efforts, blazing the trail for future generations.

Quote from the book

You have done great things in Texas. I know; I saw them ~ Isaac Maans

Preface

By Jonathan Carroll

Barnstorming is a novel, historic fiction. It is about race—blacks and whites growing up and living in the South during a time of cultural change. The story is also about love, honor, perseverance and understanding with a backdrop of an often violent and horrific era in United States history—a history that often ended in tragedy. This was a time of lynching, of unspeakable hatred. And yet, there were many who stood up to the wrongs and worked hard to make them right.

I hope Barnstorming lives up to the charge of showing the good and the bad, the complexities of bias, and the triumph of so many Americans. People of many colors and backgrounds have worked to make our country and the world a better place for all.

The sport (and the business of baseball) for people of color has had a relatively short history. The first professional black baseball team, the Cuban Giants, was formed in 1885. Professional leagues were formed soon after but failed due to poor attendance. Barnstorming, traveling around to small towns with weekend games, brought the leagues to the people. Talented young men had a chance to show their stuff, but finances were always a problem as games were not played in big forums where large audiences supported the teams’ expenses.

The First Negro Southern League ran from 1920 to 1936 and was the only league that was able to complete their scheduled full season. The Negro National League was formed in 1933; they played in larger cities and were able to attract the best players. The leagues experienced success and failure in the mid-1940s when the white baseball leagues started to recruit black players. But in 1950 the black leagues lost their major status as integration had begun.

Jackie Robinson was the first man of color to play in Major League Baseball. He walked onto Ebbetts Field as first baseman of the Brooklyn Dodgers on April 15, 1947. He had started his career in baseball two years earlier with the Kansas City Monarchs and a contract of $400 per month. His skills and values, on and off the field, are legendary. His commitment to nonviolence influenced the Civil Rights Movement’s approach during their fight for change. Robinson was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962.

There were still race-biased inequities in the 1960s. At his induction speech in 1966, Ted Williams spoke with passion for the Baseball Hall of Fame to include more Negro league stars in the Hall.

Acknowledgments

I need to say a very special thank you to my friend and legal consultant John O’Brien. When I told him that I was going to attempt to create this book, he was 100% full steam ahead. He supported me, not only with the legal matters, but also as a story consultant, editor, and all-around support system. Thank you so much, John.

A special thank you to Gail Honeystein who from the very beginning fully believed in my vision. She supported and encouraged me to push myself and was willing to take this long journey with me.

Susan Ferris / Bohemia Group, who without hesitation was willing to support and represent my interest regarding this book from very early on. Her support has touched me in ways that are very hard to express. Thank you for having my back, Susan.

Ebony magazine for allowing me to reproduce their pages on Eatonville, Florida and assisting me in bringing the Brown Town of 1946 back to life.

To my father, Alfred Carroll, Jr., and my sister, Alicia Carroll, for their continued support and encouragement to create the book that was in my heart.

And, of course, I thank my mother, Jacqueline Leola Carroll, for her inspiration, wisdom, love, life and guidance. But, most of all for instilling in me the belief that I only need to march to the beat of my own drum and stay true to myself despite all the negative outside influences that try to convince me otherwise. I am a very thankful and lucky man to have been given such precious gifts.

A big thank you also to Artisha Dottin, Brian & Patty Fitzpatrick, Cameron Kirkpatrick, Elizabeth (Bit) Engelman, Gerald Hamdani, Jacqueline Leola Carroll, Jennifer Bingham,

Jim Conlon, John Forcier, Keith David, Lowell Partridge, Lynn Martin Kerr, Richard Engelman, and Robert Goldman.

And to Barbara Shope, Cassandra Woody, Chrissy & Brian Rossini, ChristoTsiaras, Janis Peterson, John & Susanne Stadtler, Julie & Mark Robarts, Kim Roderiques, Nancy Viall Shoemaker, Peter Schlessel, Peter Stacey, Susan Yule, Yusaku Takase.

Special Thanks

Tom Martorelli not only worked on the historic context, but was invaluable in character development, editing and developing the story and characters, placing them in the historical context of the American South in the 1940s and ‘50s. He was an amazing storyline consultant and was a driving force in the creation of this book.

Dark Days

It was a typical muggy evening in Central Florida in the summer of 1929. The air was hot. The skies were clear—full of moonlight. But the night wasn’t quiet. Field hands were excited: the fruits of their labor were about to pay off. The strawberry crop was ready to be picked.

The interesting thing about strawberry harvests is that they're done at night. Harvesting strawberries during the cool of the night yields a better crop than in the heat of the sun. There’s less bruising of the fruit and the berries just seem to taste sweeter.

On this particular evening in Winter Park, all you could see when you looked out across the fields were lanterns, moving around like fireflies, glowing and dancing in the darkness. The workers were singing Negro spirituals as generations had before them. But these songs were not signals to runaway slaves on their journeys to freedom as in the past. Tonight, the spirituals were being sung by the pickers to keep each other company—to feel a connection with each other while working in the fields with their lanterns and the moonlight guiding them in the harvest.

Night harvests were good-paying money as far as coloreds were concerned. It was hard work—truly for the young and the very fit.

Harvesting in the dark made the work more difficult. Not many older folk were out there; it was mostly women doing the picking, young men doing the hauling, and some poor whites who were looked at as no better than the coloreds.

For no particularly good reason, the Klan decided it was time to show the local coloreds just who was in charge and the strawberry harvest was the perfect target. Without warning, out of the dark, men in masks and hoods came from all directions. Some were riding horses, some were driving pick-ups, and some were on foot. In seconds they filled the field and started beating coloreds with bats and chains and butts of handguns and shotguns.

When it was over, fields were on fire from broken lanterns. There were injured colored men all over—many close to death. There was no telling in the dark who was there and who got away. The fields looked like a war zone.

At the crack of dawn the next morning, Columbus Jones, who happened to be the Mayor of Eatonville, a neighboring town to Winter Park, saw a car barreling up the road. He and his wife Hoyt came out to the porch, curious as to why anyone would be visiting at this hour. Eatonville was a unique town, not just in the South, but anywhere in the United States. It was the first and only all-Negro run incorporated town in the country. Columbus and his wife were colored. This, plus the fact they owned and ran the best general store for miles, made Eatonville a very unusual place indeed.

They were on the porch when they saw County Sheriff Jonny Turner pull up. Jonny had known the Jones family his entire life from coming to their general store; he had a sincere liking for them. He thought well of them because they were hard-working, kept to themselves, and were raising a fine hard-working family. He knew their place well. Columbus and Hoyt were always friendly with Jonny and his family when Jonny was a kid. Jonny’s family came to the Jones’s general store because it was just the best in the area.

Jonny had heard plenty of criticism from whites that he went there, but he knew that was just because they were bothered by the fact that colored people ran an establishment better than their own kind did.

Mr. Mayor, Sheriff Turner began. He always called Columbus ‘Mr. Mayor’ as a sign of respect. Do you mind if I come in to talk to y’all?

Come on in, Mr. Jonny, Columbus answered, stepping aside for the sheriff to enter. I hope my boys ain’t in no kind of trouble. You know how teenagers can be sometimes. They’re good, hard-working boys, Mr. Jonny, you know that. In fact, they’ve been out working in the fields all night.

I surely do know how hard it can be Mr. Mayor, the sheriff said, with a forced smile avoiding Columbus’s eyes.

Somethin’ the matter, Sheriff? Columbus asked. You look a little, well, more than a little, concerned. Have the boys gotten themselves into some kind of trouble? I was only joshin’, those boys know better than to…

It ain’t what they done. The sheriff stopped Columbus from finishing his sentence. The boys, they didn’t do a thing wrong, Mr. Mayor, he continued, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence.

Hoyt spoke up. Mr. Jonny, what in the world is going on here? Now, you’re startin’ to give me a scare. Just come out with it, already, please.

There’s no easy way for me to say this. There was a lynchin’ in Winter Park. That damn Klan decided to raid the strawberry fields last night. A couple of locals have already been caught. The sheriff continued, his voice wavering, They told me that your boys were too uppity because your family has a few dollars— because y’all have more than a lot of whites in these parts.

Hoyt let out a strangled cry and fell to her knees, holding on to Columbus’s leg. He held her tight.

They said they believed they needed to teach ya’ll a lesson, Mr. Mayor. His voice still wavering, trying to keep his composure, I am so sorry. I don’t even know what else to say. The sheriff looked to the ground so as not to catch Columbus’s eyes and break down himself.

Columbus grabbed for a chair and fell into it. They were just boys, just boys, just boys. he kept repeating in a low tearful voice.

They hadn’t even lived their lives yet. They hadn’t seen anything of the world and its possibilities. They…

Feels like nothing’s changed sometimes, the sheriff said when Columbus’s words fell away. They say everybody has a voice in now’a days, but that ain’t true, it just ain’t, the sheriff said with an angry tone. There’s still whites hunting Negroes like animals, stringin’ them up when they think they’ve stepped out of line. It’s a damned shame.

It’s an outrage. Columbus said, his voice deep and full of fire. My boys are gone, Mr. Jonny, tears rolling down his face. My two boys are gone, forever, ‘cause they had the guts to want to be more than just brown skin in the South. My boys are good boys—smart boys with a future. How do I tell their sister that her brothers have been murdered for no good reason except for being the wrong color in central Florida? Huh?!

Hoyt, who was still on her knees at Columbus’s feet, was crying unconsolably, yet trying to console her husband. Their boys were everything to them.

I wish there was something I could do or say, Mr. Mayor, Jonny said, shaking his head.

With his words barely audible, Columbus said, You know what I wish? I wish we didn’t need words to tell people their babies were dead. I wish that words like ‘Klan’ and ‘lynch’ and ‘nigger’ didn’t exist. I wish that people toting Bibles around under their arms believed the words written in it. I wish a lot of things right now, Mr. Jonny, but what I don’t wish is that we can find the right words to say when a mother’s children have been killed, when a father’s offspring have been stolen from him, ‘cause there ain’t no right words.

Hoyt sat softly crying. Columbus stared out in the backyard where the boys had been building a chicken coop. The sheriff stared at a family photo that hung on the living room wall with Columbus, Hoyt and the three children—taken in better times. He felt his ribs squeezing tight around all his insides and his lungs draw up. He had a son of his own who was just five.

He wondered if there would still be white men lynching Negroes when his son turned sixteen. It made him hurt.

You go on, now, Mr. Jonny, Columbus said softly, still staring out the window. I thank you for coming out and telling us yourself. I need to wake Leola and tell her, but I think I will just let her dream in a world where her brothers are still here for just a bit. Please find all the people that did this to my boys, my Daniel and Zachary, not that it will make a difference.

The Dare of ‘46

On the seventh floor of the Boston Ritz-Carlton, a young man with family money and wanderlust lies sleeping, glad to be any place that’s not his hometown of Houston, Texas. He is Davis Sterling and his name is a perfect match to his physical appearance. Even as he snores through a deep sleep, Davis is a good-looking man. Beside him is an equally attractive young woman—her makeup almost perfect from the night before. The sun drenches the room with pale, yellow light, bouncing off the cool marble surfaces of the hotel room, highlighting the curves of her body as she sleeps on her side.

The room is quiet, except for the hum of the overhead fans, until a loud banging on the door disrupts the quiet and wakes the sleeping pair. Davis springs forward, like a lion startled from his mid-day nap. The woman rolls away from the sound. Davis pulls his trousers on and rubs his eyes as he makes for the door.

Who in the hell? Davis thinks as he takes unsure steps toward the noise. He walks like a sailor trying to get his land legs again, his feet pounding down hard on the tile beneath them.

Who is it? Davis rasps from behind the closed door. His vocal cords, strained from snoring, make his voice sound as if it were scraping past gravel to escape.

The bellhop, sir, a man’s voice calls back, quick and clear. I have a very important telegram for a Mr. Davis Sterling.

Davis opens the door a crack and takes the telegram, nodding thanks to the bellhop before he closes the door. But not before the bellhop gets a glance at the beautiful woman in bed. She is still asleep. Davis sees only the curve of her shoulder and the small of her back exposed by the satin sheet. He flashes a quick smile then returns to the envelope. It's from his father. His smile fades. Without reading another word, he throws the telegram on the entry table and hurries over to the bed.

Sylvia, it’s time to go, he says as he gathers the rest of his clothes from the floor and frantically dresses. She groans wearily. Come on, now, up and at ‘em, he adds.

It’s Katherine by the way, the woman corrects him with a frown. What’s going on? she asks as she turns to face him, blinking away the sunlight.

It’s an emergency. You have to get going and quick. Here’s your dress, he says, thrusting a small wad of crumpled black material at the groggy woman. You look great. No need to freshen up.

Is something wrong, Davis? she asks. Wha–what’s going on here?

Nothing wrong–just gotta go, he replies brusquely, rushing her along.

Before her dress is even zipped, Davis is handing her shoes to her and helping her up from the bed and to the door. The woman stumbles, trying to slip her shoes on as she goes. Her head is spinning from his strange behavior—and last night’s champagne. Will I see you again? she asks as Davis coaxes her along to the door.

We’ll see, Davis replies without looking at her. Your number? Can I get–

I’ll just see you around, okay? He cuts her off. I’ll meet you after work, maybe. He pushes her into the hall and shuts the door. Katherine stands in the hallway outside the door in a daze when Davis swings the door open again. She starts to smile and her lips part to say something until Davis hands her an apron and a silver name tag. Smiling quickly, he slams the door closed again. She stands stunned then turns to leave, still wearing her uniform from the night before. She reaches in her purse to find her lipstick and comes up with a coat check stub from last night’s work. She studies the ticket for a moment: D. Sterling, 752, then crumples it and jams it back into her purse.

What a charmer, she grumbles as she waits for the elevator.

Back in the hotel room, Davis cleans himself up, shaving and combing his hair as he finishes dressing. He straightens his silk vest and tie and adjusts his silver cuffiinks before returning to the telegram. As his eyes glide across the words, his brow begins to knit. His jaw juts out as he clenches his teeth through the last part of the message. Davis returns the telegram to the entry table and picks up the telephone.

This is Davis Sterling in Room 752. I’m going to need a taxi to the airport—right away.

Here we are, Mr. Sterling, the chauffeur announces as he pulls the Cadillac Series 75 Fleetwood limousine alongside the curb in front of a towering building on Erie Street in Houston.

Thank you, Simon, Davis says as he gets out of the car and makes for the giant glass doors at the front of the building. In the lobby he walks across an elaborate marble mosaic with the name The Houston Star. Davis nods his head and chirps hellos to various people as they pass. He moves from the lobby to the bullpen and then across the press floor to the elevator, where an older colored man in red coat and tan trousers stands waiting.

We were not expecting to see you here, young Mr. Sterling. How were your travels abroad? the elevator man asks, closing the elevator doors.

Same as always, Jeffrey, love 'em and leave ‘em and never leave a forwarding address, Davis replies with a grin. They share a chuckle about this, but young Davis has developed quite a reputation so Jeffrey knows he is not making a joke.

Well, you know that one day one of them is going to grab that heart of yours and she ain’t gonna let it go, Jeffrey says after their laugh.

Then, what you gonna do?

Well, if it was up to Mama, she would already have one of those blue bell weights around my neck and we all know that ain’t happening any time soon, Davis replies, nudging Jeffrey with an elbow and flashing a sly grin. Jeffrey winks in response and answers, Yessir, I do. Yessir.

The elevator stops at the top floor. As the doors open, Jeffrey warns the young man, Now you step lightly this time, young Mr. Davis, he seems to be a bit more ornery than usual today.

You're a good man, Jeffrey. I appreciate you. You know that, Davis says back to the older man as he hands him two dollars.

Thank you, sir, and yes, I do. We need more people like you in the world, young Mr. Davis, if you don't mind me saying so, more people like you, for sure.

Davis stops for a moment and his expression turns serious. Locking eyes with Jeffrey, I always wonder about that, Jeffrey, but I understand what you mean. Just don't let these folks get you down, you hear?

No, no, sir, I never do, replied Jeffrey, I never do. But you have yourself a good day and remember what I told you, hear?"

Davis walks up to the secretary’s desk where a woman in her late twenties with dark brunette locks sits. Her eyes dart from her typewriter to the hand-written memo on her left and back again. When she sees Davis out of the corner of her eye, she stops and greets him with a smitten smile. She tells him to go right in.

He has been waiting for you, she says as she cuts her eyes toward the office.

Underneath his breath Davis sighs, I know he has. Davis takes a big breath and firmly opens the office door. Behind the massive oak desk is a larger-than-life man dressed as smartly as Davis. He radiates authority. He doesn’t even look up when Davis enters. He is too busy yelling into the phone about missed deadlines. The older man’s face is ruddy with agitation; his forehead is a perpetual wrinkle and the corners of his mouth look as if weights are attached to each end.

Davis stands quietly in the doorway, feeling like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office. He waits for the agitated man to acknowledge him. The man finally waves him in. Davis walks carefully to a chair placed in front of the desk and takes a seat.

Your mama has not heard from you in a month, Davis! the man loudly growls as he slams down the receiver of the phone. Davis stays silent, his eyes trained on the placard that sits just a few feet from his face: Hunter Sterling, President/Owner. You know she has the whole place turned upside down over your sistah’s wedding and her worries add to my headaches and I don't like headaches! the man bellows, getting in Davis’s personal space.

Look, Daddy, I know I should call more, but, Davis starts to make an excuse, but his father interrupts him.

What are you thinking, son? What are you doing? Nothing. That is what you are doing. Nothing! Davis leans forward and begins to open his mouth to respond, but his father cuts him off.

All you do is spend money, traveling all over the place, no direction, no drive, no goals, no ambition! You know what I was doing at your age? I was writing my ass off, makin’ a name for myself so I could start my own newspaper someday. And do you know why you get to screw off all the time like you do, son? the father asks his son. Davis recognizes this is a rhetorical question and stays silent. Because your father didn’t waste his time globe- trottin’. Instead, he was heah, building the Houston Star from the ground up, son! And what in the hell are you doin’? Do tell!

I thought…

Did I say it was time for you to speak? Hunter barks. Well, this is all gonna change, I guarantee you that. Since you won't make any career decisions, I have made one for you. You are going to make something of yourself at this here paper, son, come hell or high water. Now, because I am a fair and just man, I will allow you to choose where you are goin’ to start using that fancy degree of yours. But, by God, you are goin’ to use it, if it kills me and you, too.

Davis sits motionless, stunned by this outburst. His father has always allowed him to do whatever he wanted to do without question. In fact, it was his father’s idea to go see the world for what it had to offer. His father’s only stipulation was that, in the end, Davis had to make sure to always come home.

So, here I am once again, home in Houston, Texas, the land that time forgot, Davis thought to himself. And there is my father, just waiting for the day to tell me I have to stay put for good. Here of all places.

Davis is both shocked and infuriated at what his father has to say—and not just because it means his playboy good-times are ending. He always thought his father was different, more open minded than his stuffy, conservative buddies, who were training their sons to follow in their footsteps like all the other gun- toting, tobacco-chewing good ol’ boys who had more pride than common sense or intellect. Davis believed that his father had set aside that deep south mentality, remembering several talks with him about trying to raise Houston above just another backwater Southern town. As he listens to his father's rant, Davis wonders if he really knows Hunter Sterling at all. Once the shock of that thought wears off, Davis begins to dread that his father might be more like those other good ol’ boys than he thought. Hunter continues to blast out at Davis, spittle gathers at the corners of his deep frown.

Son, I am giving you two days to come back here with some answers—for a change. You can take that as an order or as a challenge. Hell, take it as a dare—but you are going to do something with your life. People are starting to talk, and I can't have that. You know we have too many important irons in the fire to have my directionless playboy son shoot them all to hell. Now, get outta here.

As Davis walks away and closes the office door, he hears his father’s bellowing voice behind him, warning him, Two days, Davis. And I mean it, boy!

A Breakthrough

Davis finds himself driving along Alabama Street toward the Montrose and his oft-abandoned Wilshire Village apartment. Once home, he swings the front door open and drops his suitcase onto the polished oak floor in the entry. His sleek furniture and dead house plant await him. Davis is still fuming over his father’s tongue-lashing.

Revisiting the conversation he just had with his father, Davis collapses on the couch and stares forward, squinting his icy blue eyes and biting into his bottom lip, a tell-tale sign that he is working through a conundrum. The expression of anxiety gives way to a look of realization as he springs off the couch. He grabs his telephone and dials the number of Elvinia Kincade.

Elvinia Kincade was Davis’s journalism professor at Washington and Lee University. The school boasted one of the best journalism programs in the country. As much as he hated to admit it, he went there because of his father. And, as hardheaded as he can be, he knows that his father has always been right about one thing: journalism is Davis’s God-given talent. Professor Kincade always saw the potential in her young student.

Initially taken by his good looks, she soon found that this Texas boy had something special. The young professor had then, and still has to this day, a deep respect for Davis’s ability to find a good story. She knew from the beginning that he had a lot more in him than the small-minded bigots she had met from the South. He saw things they didn’t. She liked this about Davis; he was one of her favorites.

From the first day of class, Davis was as enchanted with his professor as she was him. Elvinia is a British woman of Irish descent, a tell it like it is kind of woman who always lets the chips fall where they may. She came to the States in the late 1930s for an education and to keep out of harm's way during the burgeoning war. In her early forties, Professor Kincade was the youngest professor in the department when Davis showed up. Her youth gave her an edge—one that she still possesses.

Davis remarked once that her sharp wit matches her fiery red hair. Davis decides to call her. She’s one of the few people in the world who really understands him. Elvinia has seen a lot and been through even more. Beyond the student-professor bond that they share, Davis in many ways considers her his confidante. He knows she is transparent and blunt. Perhaps because she is a Brit, Elvinia has never wasted time glossing over the truth. Growing up in the South among oil tycoons, businessmen, Texas politicians, and debutantes, Davis is drawn to her candor and transparency. There is no politicking with Elvinia and he likes that.

After his graduation from Washington and Lee, Elvinia encouraged him to take up his father’s offer to bankroll his travels in the advancement of his writing skills. However, she wasn’t thinking of his travels the same way that Hunter Sterling was.