Terrier Town: Summer of ’49

FriendsI

Pitching ace Jeff Shelton 67 Friends I have forgotten more friends than I can remember, but I can still see their faces, and the haunts we used to frequent. A long time ago we gathered chestnuts, played Tibby, skated on the outdoor rink at Dickson Park, and followed the train tracks out toward Blair. Some friendships lasted a season, or two, and then faded; others were destined to last a lifetime. T WO OF THE GUYS I GOT TO KNOW BEST THAT SUMMER WERE Jeff Shelton, an import from Buffalo, and Johnny Clark. Both were war veterans and we had talked a few times about my brother Jimmy. I think they wanted to be friendly with me because my brother had not returned and they both had. Lots of war veterans were plagued by feelings of guilt for having survived when many others of their generation had not. I felt a bond with them because of the war. Shelton came up to me one day after practice that April. “Kid,” he said, “they tell me Jimmy was a natural.” “He was a good one,” I replied. “They say he played like my father.” Shelton hadn’t heard of my father, so I said I’d introduce them sometime. “Wes and I are going to Gus’s lunch counter for a soda. You and Connie want to join us before heading back to Buffalo?” “Yes,” said Shelton. “I could use a drink. We’ll have one in memory of Jimmy.” I was sure Shelton wasn’t accustomed to drinking Coke floats with high-schoolers, nor was Connie Waite, our first baseman and the fellow Shelton drove with from Buffalo. Waite was more hard edged than Shelton, less outwardly friendly, though that was just the way he was and I came to accept it. Wes and I cycled over to Murray’s small restaurant in the dark, the air fresh with the scent of spring. Shelton and Waite met us there minutes later. The place was almost empty at that hour, but two people I didn’t recognize stared as Shelton and Waite sat on vacant stools beside us at the counter. Shelton, you see, was black, and was probably the first black to ever walk through Murray’s front door. He was certainly the first black to ever play ball in Galt, and sitting there, Wes and I, with two veteran ballplayers, we felt pretty worldly. That was the night Shelton told me about the Negro Leagues. Just days earlier it appeared Wes would not make the team. It was the Saturday of our final cuts and Padden gathered all the players round on the infield at Dickson Park. We all knew he had made the final decisions on who would stay and who would go. Both Wes and I expected to make the team, though Wes was thinking he would be a regular player and I was thinking I would probably ride the bench much of the time. But we were young and full of ourselves. It didn’t seem possible that we would not make the cut. We got along well with the veteran players, including the imports, and we took this as a sign of acceptance of our abilities. We both, I think, figured they wouldn’t invest any time in us if they didn’t believe we were going to be around for the season. Like me, Wes was impressed with the way Padden conducted practices. “Tom had a lot of guys trying out from the area,” recalled Lillie years later. Padden represented the old guard, and Lillie looked up to him. “I’d heard about him before, as a kid, but that was the first time, at spring training, that I’d met him.” What impressed Lillie was Padden’s knowledge of the game. In two weeks he learned more about the game than he had in the previous ten. Lillie really wanted to make the team. He wanted to play for Tom Padden. “He got all thirty or forty of us who were left in camp, behind the mound,” recalled Lillie. “Then he called out names of players who had made the team.” We both heard ‘Charlie Hodge,’ and I winked and gave a thumbs-up sign to Lillie. In my mind I was thinking that I would be joining Wes for a summer of ball with the Terriers. But in my excitement I didn’t even think to listen for Wes’s name...