Читать книгу Summer of Shadows - Jonathan Knight - Страница 24

Of all the problems facing the youth of America in 1954, none was more dangerous than the colorfully illustrated booklets found at any newsstand or drugstore.

Comic books were warping young minds, psychiatrist Dr. Frederic Wertham was convinced, and that April he testified as such to a Senate subcommittee on juvenile delinquency led by Estes Kefauver. The underlying messages and visual elements had the potential to turn ordinary kids from respectable homes into violence-prone doppelgangers of their former selves. Wertham’s book, Seduction of the Innocent, outlined his argument in detail and became a bestseller. More importantly, it put parents on high alert. Wertham’s primary targets were the gangster and horror titles that, even by the standards of future generations, were rather violent and filled with sexual innuendo.

Never one to turn down an opportunity to spread fresh paranoia to the masses, Louis Seltzer hitched the Cleveland Press to Wertham’s bandwagon. Coinciding with Wertham’s congressional testimony, the Press reported that Cleveland youngsters could choose from 107 horror and crime comics (though “comics” was coyly framed in quotation marks), seventy-seven of which contained themes of sex and violence. And, the Press pointed out, most of these titles were on sale within immediate proximity to schoolyards. In June, Cleveland police would seize thousands of comics that were for sale second-hand and turned them over to the county prosecutor, then would be ordered to arrest merchants who persisted in selling “pornographic” or suggestive comics. While some sellers agreed that many comics should be removed, others resisted, seeing the meddling do-gooders as “nothing but church people.” In retrospect, the Press was merely clearing its throat for the hyperbole it would launch later that summer against Dr. Sam Sheppard, sparking an even more frenzied hysteria among its readers.

Though Kefauver’s committee concluded that comic books were not directly related to crime, it suggested that some of the elements be toned down. Thus, publishers formed the Comics Code Authority to regulate the content of comic books and keep the lucrative industry from imploding before their eyes. The code guaranteed, among other things, that criminals would not be construed as glamorous or sympathetic, no comic book could be published that included the presence of a vampire, werewolf, or zombie, and that females would be drawn realistically, without exaggeration of physical qualities.

But Wertham also warned of the subtle dangers of superheroes, another cash crop of the comics industry. Batman and Robin were almost certainly homosexual partners (and the Boy Wonder a minor, to boot). Born in a culture not accustomed to seeing strong, independent females, Wertham also concluded that Wonder Woman was a lesbian.

Even the centerpiece of the industry wasn’t exempt. Wertham labeled Superman as a fascist, teaching children that the only solution to their problems is through physical force. (The irony of this conclusion is that when Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels was introduced to Superman during World War II, he screamed, “Superman is Jewish!”) “If I were asked to express in a single sentence what has happened mentally to many American children,” Wertham stated, “I would say that they were conquered by Superman.” Now sixteen years old, Superman had evolved from a guest character in a fledging title to his own publication while starring in a daily radio show. And with the dawn of television, the Man of Steel anchored the first national television sensation for young viewers as millions of boys (and girls) would cease all activity and race indoors for another episode of The Adventures of Superman, which premiered in the fall of 1952. Though Superman was part of American culture, it would not have surprised most of his Cleveland fans that he was actually one of their own. Superman was created by two Jewish teenagers—Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster—who’d attended Glenville High School, located on Cleveland’s east side. They spent six years seeking a publisher before National Allied Publications launched both their impenetrable new hero and a new series called Action Comics in the summer of 1938. And though “Metropolis” would eventually become the home of Clark Kent, Lois Lane, and company, in an early issue, one panel depicted Clark Kent telegraphing a story back to his newspaper—the fictional Evening News—in Cleveland, Ohio.

With the second season of The Adventures of Superman completed in March, and the third season more than a year away, Cleveland’s youngsters turned their attentions to other pastimes. One of those was following another set of heroes dressed in red and blue: the Indians. But, like Superman trapped in a room filled with Kryptonite, the Indians continued to appear weak and listless as the first month of the season progressed.

The storm clouds that had derailed the home opener remained through the weekend as the Indians dropped a pair of lopsided decisions to the White Sox. An Easter Sunday doubleheader was preempted by rain after the first game was called after six innings with Chicago winning 6–2. Losers of three straight, the Indians would try to turn things around in a city they’d never played in before.

Baltimore, now home to the transplanted St. Louis Browns, was ablaze with enthusiasm for their new Orioles and better than 43,000 fans watched with delight as twenty-four-year-old pitcher Bob Turley put on a show against the Indians on a chilly Wednesday night, collecting strikeouts like a toddler picking dandelions. After Turley retired the side in the eighth, he received a standing ovation and tipped his hat to the crowd, which realized its young hero was now just three outs away from the first no-hitter in the week-old history of the Baltimore Orioles.

Clinging to a 1–0 lead, Turley started the ninth with a three-pitch strikeout, his fourteenth of the night. It brought up Al Rosen, and Turley quickly collected two strikes against the Cleveland slugger. Then, with the count even at two, Rosen laced a hard single to left, spoiling the no-hitter, and, as Franklin Lewis wrote in the Press, leaving a “block-wide crack in the heart of young Turley.” Rosen was booed magnificently—a treatment he was used to—as Larry Doby stepped into the batter’s box. Historical infamy may have been avoided, but the prospect of a fourth straight defeat loomed before the Indians. Doby, who had already struck out twice, was committed to not fall victim again. Accordingly, two pitches later, on the same kind of pitch he whiffed on in the seventh, Doby crushed the baseball deep into the cold April evening, and it landed three rows into the bleachers. Turley, who moments before was destined for history, kicked the dirt on the mound in frustration. He’d gone from a man on the brink of a no-hitter to, after Bob Lemon closed out the Orioles in the bottom of the inning, a losing pitcher.

While Rosen would get the credit for interrupting Turley’s date with destiny, Doby was the game’s hero. It seemed only fitting that the center fielder would halt the team’s first skid of the season, since the Indians’ fortunes seemed to follow Doby’s ebbs and flows. And over his seven years in Cleveland, there had been many.

When Bill Veeck acquired the Indians in 1946, he correctly deduced which way the cultural wind was blowing and sent scouts to scour the Negro Leagues. He instructed them to look for not necessarily the best player, but the one with the most long-term potential. And while open-minded, he only wanted one black player at first. If the experiment failed, it needed to be brought to an end quickly and simply.

The one name that kept coming up was Larry Doby, second baseman for the Newark Eagles. Though he fit the basic mold Branch Rickey had sought when he found Jackie Robinson—free of vices, educated, and articulate—Larry Doby was not Jackie Robinson. Unlike Robinson, Doby didn’t have the background of a born pioneer, nor did prejudice fuel a white-hot flame within him. A descendent of West African slaves captured and brought to South Carolina in the eighteenth century, Doby grew up in Paterson, New Jersey, far from the plantations of the South. In high school in the early 1940s, his skin color was a rarity but not necessarily unique. Doby was one of roughly twenty-five blacks in a student body of 1,200, and through athletics he made many white friends. Yet even these relationships were shadowed by the cultural climate. When Doby would hit a home run or score a touchdown, his teammates would celebrate, but were careful not to pat him on the back or show any other visible signs of appreciation for fear of how it would look to the bystanders. Not surprisingly, the sensitive, introspective Doby accepted the tone of his surroundings and went along quietly. He made few close friends, and while some considered him a loner, he saw himself as independent. When he’d fail on the field, he’d retreat within himself, further fueling his reputation as moody and distant. Considering the only alternative was to release his feelings and carry the label of emotional and uppity, traits that likely would have ended his athletic career, Doby’s inner struggle was his only option.

Through it all, he excelled in every sport he played, earning eleven varsity letters in football, baseball, basketball, and track. His true strength was on the diamond, and shortly after graduation, he was offered $300 to play for the Newark Eagles of the Negro National League for the remainder of the summer until he left to attend Long Island University in the fall. Thus, Larry Doby played his first professional game at Yankee Stadium against the New York Cubans on May 31, 1942, under the name of “Larry Walker” to maintain his amateur status.

The following year, with World War II raging, Doby was drafted into the Army. While playing in pickup and intramural games over the next three years, he impressed many of his comrades—one of whom was Mickey Vernon, another young athlete who’d just begun to make an impression with the Washington Senators when the war intervened. Vernon was impressed with Doby’s baseball skills, even mentioning him in letters to Senators owner Clark Griffith.

In January 1946, with the war over and Doby stationed at a small island in the Pacific, a startling development from the States crackled over the Armed Forces Network. The Brooklyn Dodgers had signed Jackie Robinson to a minor-league contract, and he would play the following season for the Dodgers’ top farm team in Montreal. If Robinson was going to play for a major-league team—and there was little doubt this would eventually happen—then there was no reason Doby couldn’t do the same. His success in the Negro National League, combined with praise from astute judges like Mickey Vernon, proved to him he had the necessary skills. The only thing that would have prevented him from playing Major League Baseball was the invisible color line around each team’s clubhouse. But now, with the Dodgers on the brink of opening the door, Doby saw his life taking a new course. Prior to hearing this story on the radio, he had planned to finish college and become a teacher and a coach. Now he concentrated on baseball and waited for his chance.

He returned home in time to play for the Newark Eagles in ’46, helping guide them to a seven-game victory over the Kansas City Monarchs in the Negro World Series. The Cleveland scout sent by Bill Veeck was impressed with Doby’s talents—and with his reputation for clean living. He recommended to Veeck that Doby was his man. In 1947, the Indians offered Newark $10,000 for Doby, plus another $5,000 if he stuck with the team. Hoping Cleveland would want to tap further into what it now saw as a nearly bottomless resource, Newark’s owner also offered the team’s starting shortstop for the bargain basement price of $1,000. But keeping in mind Veeck’s original intent, and fearing the twenty-eight-year-old shortstop was too old, the Indians passed. Thus, Monte Irvin, after switching to the outfield, would go on to enjoy an eight-year, Hall of Fame career with the New York Giants rather than the Indians.

Three months after Jackie Robinson debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers, the Indians officially acquired Doby. Two days later, he joined the Indians in Chicago. “If Doby is a good player,” Branch Rickey commented, “and I understand that he is, then the Cleveland club is showing signs that it wants to win.”

Not everyone in the organization, however, shared Veeck’s progressive view. Most notably, a handful of players made known their opposition to Doby joining the team, threatening to quit rather than play with a black man. Veeck caught wind of the potential mutiny and called a meeting in the clubhouse. “I understand that some of you players said that ‘if a nigger joins the club,’ you’re leaving,” he said. “Well, you can leave right now because this guy is going to be a bigger star than any guy in this room.” Manager Lou Boudreau followed suit, telling his players that they “should be honored by having the first black ballplayer joining us.” The flames of revolution may have been extinguished, but the embers of racism still smoldered.

Though his integration process came after Robinson’s, Doby actually was far less prepared for the hatred and bigotry he would encounter. Branch Rickey had brought Robinson along slowly, allowing him to spend a year playing among only white players in the minors, and then carefully guiding him through a spring training filled with potential land mines. Doby simply appeared in the Cleveland locker room. As Boudreau walked him around the clubhouse introducing him to his new teammates, each player shook Doby’s hand. Not all looked up as he did so.

The inevitable historical moment came on July 5 at Comiskey Park. With the Indians trailing in the seventh, Boudreau called back pitcher Bryan Stephens and sent Doby in as a pinch-hitter. As he strode back to the dugout, bat in hand, Stephens personified the nightmare of his teammates. Seeing the look on Stephens’s face and realizing the magnitude of what had just occurred, Tribe catcher Al Lopez—who in three years would replace Boudreau as Doby’s manager—shook his head and muttered, “I’m glad that he didn’t hit for me.” It was the beginning of a complicated, often troubled relationship between the two men. Doby struck out in that first at-bat, beginning a miserable transition to the big leagues. After the game, he was separated from his teammates and taken to a black hotel on the south side of Chicago.

While Robinson lit the National League ablaze in 1947 with his energetic style of play, Doby made little impact that first summer. He played in only twenty-nine games, mostly as a pinch-hitter, and collected only five hits. It did little to quell the opinion of bigots who felt baseball was a white man’s game despite Robinson being named Rookie of the Year. But over the course of the off-season, Doby was switched to center field. And in 1948, he proved his worth, hitting .301 (including a .396 clip over Cleveland’s critical final twenty games) with fourteen home runs and helping drive the Indians to the World Series. Doby’s success paved the way for the Indians’ signing of two more Negro League stars in a four-day period in July of 1948: the much-celebrated and ageless pitcher Satchel Paige, who added both experience and flavor to the Tribe’s pennant run, and a twenty-year-old outfielder named Al Smith, who would maneuver through Cleveland’s farm system over the next five seasons before bursting into the starting lineup in 1954.

Though he was the first black player in the American League, Doby was little more than a footnote to history. And though Robinson had played barely seventy games at the time of Doby’s debut, Doby would forever be remembered (or not, as it were) as the one who came after. He suffered through many of the same racial attacks as Robinson, encountered the same bigotry and ignorance, and was forced to endure the suffering by turning the other cheek. But unlike Robinson, he’d never faced widespread prejudice before. The slurs, the cheap shots, the high-and-tight pitches were all new to him. When an umpire would make an obviously bad call when Doby was at the plate, he’d step out of the batter’s box and casually point to the skin on the back of his hand. When the Indians and Giants made their spring-training barnstorming trip through the South, Doby was forced to stay in different hotels or even at the homes of black residents. The experience pulverized him, so much so that one year, when camp broke and the teams began their road trip, Doby asked if he could simply go back to Cleveland and wait for the team. He wasn’t embraced by a forward-thinking city and its media. No books were written, no movies made telling the heroic story of his journey to stardom.

Even after his dazzling 1948 performance that helped deliver a world championship, Doby was still nothing more than a second-class citizen when the team reported to spring training the following year. When he stepped into a cab with fellow youngster Al Rosen that spring, the driver informed Doby he’d have to get out and take another cab. Before Doby could respond, Rosen, no stranger to prejudice himself, burst out of the cab, yelling at the driver and threatening to kick his teeth in. While Rosen’s stance was welcome, it was rare. Few teammates stood up for Doby when bigotry arose.

Doby was even better in 1949, earning the first of seven straight All-Star selections. He led the league in home runs in 1952 and knocked in more than 100 RBI three times in four seasons going into 1954. But along the way, as he rose to stardom, he also acquired a reputation as a moody, unfriendly player. Reporters went from calling him a loner to labeling him friendless to eventually sticking him with the most unwelcome baseball label of all: head case. When he was benched twice by Lopez during the 1952 season, reporters were quick to explain it as Doby’s melancholy and surliness rising to the surface. Yet when a white player slumped, his mental state was rarely questioned. Bystanders only saw what was on the surface: Doby keeping to himself, not playing cards or drinking with his teammates, spending his free time with his wife or friends outside of baseball. He was often the subject of trade rumors, with the Cleveland front office subtly suggesting they’d be willing to sacrifice Doby’s wonderful statistics for a more likable player. While Jackie Robinson vocally fought the system and tried to change baseball—and the country along with it—Doby chose to fight his personal war quietly, with as much dignity as he could muster. Slowly, he began to earn the respect he deserved, becoming the highestpaid non-pitcher on the team.