SHORT HOP: Interlude #6 Continued
The History of Pro Baseball
PART FIVE: Integration
“A Question of Comfort”
The Color Barrier, 1955-1956
In 1955, Mason Peterson, owner of the Lakes League St. Paul Apostles, went so far as to remark “I think it’s fine that Negroes have their own baseball. It may not be up to the standards of our own game, but that’s to be expected.”
This statement, while not unique, exemplified a common perception among white owners and fans that the Negro game was a young, inexperienced game, and could not match up to the “original” game. In short, the “white game” was the more established and therefore more civilized and developed. The “Negro game” was an upstart, challenging the comfortable status quo with new, brash ideas.
Patronizing tone aside, it also revealed a willful ignorance of the Negro game itself and reflected the growing concerns over the black civil rights movement which was just now beginning to garner national headlines. Certainly there were differences, but they were fewer than people thought, and not so great that the two leagues could not compliment each other.
Peterson’s comments prompted a challenge from Velman Tratt for a series of games between the Apostles and his own Racers to “determine which standards might be superior”. Peterson declined. When asked why, Peterson took the familiar benevolent stance.
“While I have no doubt of the quality of Tratt’s team, the fact is it would be counterproductive to have such a series,” Peterson said to an assembled press. “I am concerned – as are many of the colleagues I consulted in this matter – that such a series might upset a certain balance. Mixing races in a mill or factory is one thing. Why, all men have a right to earn a living. I’ve always said that. But we’ve seen how a friendly game of ball can turn ugly, even with the best of intentions. There was a time in our own league when things were pretty rough, as I’m sure you boys remember. I’m not sure we are ready to see these two races contest against each other, even for something as wholesome as victory in a baseball game. To me it remembers an ugly time -- not too far gone, mind you -- when such a thing divided this nation. So I have declined. Let them play their game. We will play ours and I believe we’ll all be happier for it.”
When asked for his opinion on rumors that a black player would be signed soon, Peterson replied, “It won’t happen, boys. It’s a fancy notion, drummed up by some editor with space to fill, I’ve no doubt – no offense to any of you. It’s not about talent. There are plenty of talented Negro ballplayers, at least in the game as they play it. It’s a question of comfort. To bring a Negro in to play our baseball would be uncomfortable for all of us. The game is so much different up here. Tougher. Heck, we’ve been doing it sixty years longer! I know I would find it sad and difficult to watch that boy fail. I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t think anyone does.”
Such was the stance of the established leagues: the idea of a black ballplayer in the ABF was ridiculous because even the best black player could not hope to succeed against the best white players in the game. Whites were more numerous, said many “traditionalists”, giving them a greater pool of talent from which to draw. Whites had been playing the game far longer, giving them an advantage. The games were different. Where the white game was pitching and defense, with occasional bursts of power, the black game was a frenetic circus of bunts, steals, showmanship and “questionable” tactics (double steals and double switches were common in the NBL).
Excuses aside, the real reason the white baseball world resisted black players was because they didn’t know what would happen. Would there be protests? Riots? Would people come to the game to see a black player? Would the union strike over it? There were so many dangerous variables owners were unwilling to consider them. There was also strong sentiment that the two games should remain apart. “The blacks have their game, and it’s a great game,” said white sportswriter Eddie Cockrell in 1955. “And we have ours, and it’s a great game. These two similar but distinct interpretations should remain apart because joining them would ruin them both.”
Unfortunately for Peterson and Cockrell, in less than two years these two “distinct interpretations” would merge and it would change the game forever.
“The Richmond Rifle”
Baseball is Integrated, 1957-1959
“The recent conflict with the players has opened my eyes to many things,” Nathaniel Freeders wrote in his journal in late 1950. “One of the things I cannot resolve is the irony that just as the players have won for themselves the right to compete in a Free Trade market, so have they earned for me the right to hire from that market, regardless of race or creed, the best baseball players I can find. Just as they are no longer limited in the scope of their employ, neither am I limited in the scope of my employees.”
Clayton Breckenfield was a long, lean, quiet young man long before he decided to put on baseball spikes. By the age of ten, Clayton was already over five feet tall, well on his way to his final height of 6’3”. By fifteen he had distinguished himself on the tracks and infields of Richmond, Virginia, by winning Governor’s Medals for the 220, 440, long jump, and heptathlon. In 1951, at the age of eighteen, he signed a professional contract with the BBA’s Raleigh All-Americans, dashing any hopes of Olympic gold in 1952. “We needed the money,” explained his mother. A year later, after hitting .348 in his rookie season, he was a star.
He ran with long, powerful, surefooted strides and swung a bat with a smooth, graceful arc that seemed too slow to hit a ball as hard as he did. Silent and intent on the field, Clayton was quiet, almost shy off it. “He never spoke much anyway,” his mother Clarie once said. “It was always painful for him to speak in front of others.”
In 1956 Clayton was 25 years old. Nathaniel Freeders was 47. The importance of the age difference in this improbable relationship cannot be overstated. When Clayton was eight his father left the family to pursue a job offer in Minneapolis. He never returned. The sorrow of this loss, his mother said, was what prompted Clayton to adopt an almost constant silence.
But his ability spoke volumes. Soon everyone was calling him the Richmond Rifle for his strong, accurate arm. They swarmed his hotel when he was on the road and camped outside his mother’s house for autographs during homestands. People seemed to gravitate to this slim, quiet, respectful young man. For Clayton, the attention was confusing and uncomfortable.
He shunned reporters and politicians. He stayed in at night, preferring to listen to radio programs over going out on the town like so many of his teammates. Interviews were never granted. “I mean no offense,” Clayton said once when cornered by a reporter after a game. “I’m just not much for talking.”
He knew how to sign his name, however, and in 1956 he was approached by Freeders to sign a development contract with Detroit’s white A league Lansing Lancers. At first he declined. He had no desire to play for anyone but the All-Americans, he said. He was happy, he said. But after a series of meetings with Velmon Tratt he changed his mind. What took place in those meetings we may never know; neither Breckenfield nor Tratt has ever commented on them. But one thing is for sure: something remarkable happened to Clayton Breckenfield – he found his voice.
So it happened that the gifted young man called the Richmond Rifle became the first black man to sign with a white team. It was still an outside chance, even by Tratt’s admission, but it was the chance Breckenfield had been waiting for. An electrified press room was shocked by the depth and grace of Breckenfield’s language when, mere hours after the signing, he addressed the anxious reporters gathered there.
In a prepared statement, Breckenfield said, “Today I signed a baseball contract with the Lansing Lancers in the Detroit organization. It is my hope to one day play for the Monarchs, one of the great teams in their league. Many things led to this decision, most of all my determination to provide for my mother and the rest of my family. I am profoundly grateful for the time I played for Raleigh, and for all the boys on that team. They helped me more than I could ever tell them. And I am thankful for the opportunity I have been given by Mr. Freeders. Throughout our talks he always treated me fair and honest. I believe he is as good a man as Mr. Tratt, and that is saying something.
“We are all faced with many difficult decisions. There will be many difficult decisions to come for me, for Mr. Freeders, for the owners in the American Baseball Federation. All I can say to them is that all I ever wanted to do was play baseball, and I believe playing in the ABF will make the most of the life God has given me.”
His first year in baseball – white baseball – has been chronicled many, many times. The injustices he suffered, the prejudices and intimidation – not to mention death threats and more covert forms of racism – have been long known. But what many fail to remember is that during those first twelve months, while he was moving up in the organization, setting records not seen since the B&B Boys of the late 20s and early 30s, Clayton Breckenfield spoke almost daily with Nathaniel Freeders. The relationship that began as businessman and player gradually evolved, as they came to know each other, into mentor and student. Eventually they became friends. Then they became something far greater; colleagues. In the rare and wonderful air of enlightenment and respect, Freeders and Breckenfield eventually looked upon each other as equals.
So when, in June of 1957, Freeders made the announcement that the Richmond Rifle would join the Monarchs on their next homestand, it was not as the owner of a baseball club who knew what such an announcement would do for ticket sales (though Freeders most certainly did know), it was as the proud friend of a very talented, quiet, respectful superstar-to-be.
The league was less than courteous. Some felt it was a direct threat to the game. Others silently wished for Breckenfield’s failure and a return to the “good ol’ game”. Players voiced their concern over the precedent. The player’s union said it would fight any attempt by the league to “unemploy available, healthy white players”. Hate mail poured in to the Monarchs' front office.
But there was rejoicing in the BBA. Finally and unintentionally, the talent in their league was being recognized by whites on a national level. And with the overwhelming pride in Breckenfield’s accomplishment came the fear that he might not after all be good enough to survive in the white league. How could anyone know? Clayton was the first. The most hotly debated sports question of the last five years was about to be answered, and that answer would decide the fates of hundreds of players and the course of the league for decades to come.
When June 19th came, two members of the visiting New York Redcaps, Royce Vickers and Hardy Wilson, boycotted the game. New York’s starting pitcher, Euchert Schnelling, said before the game he wouldn’t be surprised if Breckenfield got hit by pitches four times that day, “the way that boy crowds the plate like he does.”
The stands were full of people and anticipation. When Breckenfield jogged out for warm up, the crowd cheered loudly. Some booed. And when announcer Harry Singer said the now immortal words, “Batting seventh and playing right field, number twenty-two, the Richmond Rifle, Clayton Breckenfield”, there was such an ovation that the announcement for number eight hitter Billy Hunter was never heard.
And when he took the field, history was made.
He was never struck by a pitch. The legend goes that when the starting pitchers brought the lineup cards to home plate before the game, Detroit starter and future Hall of Famer John “Moosehead” Davis leaned over to Schnelling and told him if he hit Breckenfield he’d never leave the city of Detroit alive.
Whatever the truth of that story, the truth of the game speaks volumes. Clayton Breckenfield had three hits that day as the Monarchs beat the Admirals 6-4. He made four putouts, one on a sliding catch near the right field stands that tore his pants, one on a line drive that threatened to tie the game. He never smiled, even at game’s end. He knew what was at stake, and one game was only the beginning. But he did offer the smallest, quickest, quietest wave ever seen to Nathaniel Freeders as he left the field. And Freeders smiled enough for both of them.
For next time: Chapter 51 of Short Hop