Louisville Slugger

I got the call when I was at the office.  My wife Lachoncy told me about my grandfather Germaine Butler passing away at his nursing home while watching his shows.  At ninety four, he lived a long life with six children, thirty some grandchildren and a dozen great-grandchildren including Corey, my seven year old son.  

His daughter Allison was the only survivor of grandpa’s brood.  She called me later that evening.

“Keyton, you gotta be the executor of his estate.” She told me.

“Why me?” I asked, cradling my phone between my chin and shoulder as I scooped out my dinner from the pot on the stove. 

“On account y’all are the lawyer.” She huffed.  A retired school teacher, Aunt Allison was always huffed when one of us said something she considered stupid.  I was a lawyer.  First in my class and now a partner in a very successful law firm of Dutton, Huxley and Butler.  I was proud of being the only African American partner in the firm. 

This was part of being a lawyer that I did not care for since working pro bono for the family was not always the best use of my time.  But I loved Grandpa Germaine.  When I was a kid, he always made it a point to come to my little league games.  Even though I had blazing speed when I got on base, getting on base was challenging for me since I was not a very proficient hitter.  In high school, I tried football and basketball where being black was supposed to give me an advantage, but that’s now how it worked for me.  

As it turned out my grades got me a scholarship to law school and the rest was history.  I met Lachoncy Whitaker in my junior year and knew the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew she would be the mother of my children.  I know that sounds like hype, but deep in my heart, I knew she was the one.  

“So Keyton, how’s things?” Grandpa Germaine would be sitting in his favorite chair at the facility when I got there. I would visit him every Friday night.  I would stay for Bingo and help him with his card since his eyesight was fading.  

“I am fine, grandpa.” I would nod as I helped him out of his chair.  From there, he would take my arm to steady himself as we walked into the cafeteria where they had set up the Bingo apparatus.

After his funeral service, which was short and only a few folks attended, I drove over to his old house that we rented out to some tenants.  I did not know what to do with the place, but I knew there was the attic where he had stored a lot of boxes he and Grandma Bertha had put their stuff.  Old stuff.  Stuff from when they were parents of six young children.  Back then it was difficult for black folks to move into white neighborhoods, but Grandpa Germaine managed to do just that.  Whenever I asked my aunts and uncles when they were all still alive, how he managed to break the color barrier as it was known, none of them really knew.  Things just happened for Grandpa Germaine and no one really knew how. 

Mrs. Timmons greeted me on the closed porch in the front of the two story home.  She had lived there for twelve years with her six cats and her son who had some birth defect that restricted his thinking.  I never used the term mentally retarded, because it hurt her feelings.  She always felt she had something to do with it. 

“So sorry to hear about your grandfather.” She hugged me.

“It was his time.  The good Lord called him home.” I shrugged.

“Still, he was a decent, kind man.” She put her arms by her side.

“I am going to clean out the attic.” I told her as I opened the door.

“All those boxes.” She shook her head.

“I am bringing a U-haul later on.” I explained.

The house had been refurbished into two apartment units from the original open floor design.  The staircase served as the physical divider to the two apartment units.  I climbed the stairs and marched to the pull down ladder.

Once scaling the wobbly ladder, I stood in the attic which seemed to have ghosts leaking out of the shadows since light was not natural up here. Grandma had come up here just before she passed away from cancer to arrange her things in a neat row of boxes.  Picking up one of the boxes, I did not want to open it, because she had taken such care to put her things just so.  

The other side of the attic were Grandpa Germaine’s things.  There was no arrangement or attempt to organize his belongings. His things were scattered about in a disorganized heap.  I could almost hear him chuckle as I attempted to put things into neater piles, but found the task daunting.  

I moved a box on a makeshift shelf and something rolled off and fell to the floor with a clatter.  When I checked what had rolled off the shelf, I saw a baseball bat lying near my feet. 

I picked up the bat.  It felt good in my hands as I struck the pose of a batter stepping up to home plate.  Holding the bat felt like shaking hands with one of the old Yankees from Murder’s Row that included Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.  Weighing just forty ounces, the Louisville Slugger, made of maplewood, felt like a mighty weapon in the hands of a god. I took a swing.  So smooth, I wondered where this piece of fine art had been when I tried my hand at playing the game.

In history class, I learned that Branch Rickey had signed Jackie Robinson to a contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers.  He would become the African American to play in the major leagues, breaking the color bar.  His struggle to break such a long held tradition made him one of my true boyhood heroes.  

I took a few more healthy swings of the Louisville Slugger before putting it into the pile with the rest of the things. 

After dinner, I drove Corey to his little league game.  His coach Henry Wilcox told me that Corey had a lot of potential.  I made sure to practice with him at least twice a week, but the firm was taking up a lot of my time lately.

“Are you gonna get a hit?” Grandpa would call to me as he hung onto the fence before I walked to the plate.

“I will do my best, grandpa.” I winked at him, but watched three fastballs whiz by me before the umpire called, “Strike three.” 

“You’ll get them next time.” He smiled as I slunk back to the dugout feeling ashamed and disappointed with my futile attempt. 

“Dad, what was Grandpa Germaine like?” He asked.

“He served in the war.” I answered.

“What war?” 

“World War Two.” I held up two fingers as we waited at a stop light.

“He was a soldier?” 

“He was a hero according to Grandma Bertha.” I nodded.

“He was?” 

“According to her, yes.” I smiled.

“I’m gonna get a hit for him tonight.” Corey said with enthusiasm. 

“You do that.” I encouraged him. 

My Uncle Donald told me that Germaine was given a medal after the Battle of the Bulge.  Grandma Bertha had the medal put in a shadow box and hung it in the front room so everyone could see the medal they gave him for his bravery.  

As a boy, I remember how the whole Butler family got together for Sunday dinner after spending a very long hour at church.  Those were very happy times for me and I would listen to all the family gossip and who was doing what.

“They shot him in Nashville.” Aunt Allison was nearly in tears as she spoke.

“Who?” My mother asked as she poured the gravy over her mashed potatoes.

“Reverend King.” Auntie Allison sniffed.

“That man was such a good man. He done a lot of good for us Negroes.” Grandpa Germaine added. 

We were quiet during that dinner and I felt the weight push down on my head and shoulders.

“Such a shame.” Grandma Bertha shook her head. 

“Where on earth did you get this?” Roberto Sanchez asked when I laid the bat on the counter of his pawn shop.

“It belonged to my grandpa.” I answered, “Or at least I found it in his attic.” 

“This is a bat a professional player would use.” Roberto picked up the bat and swung it a few times, “Man, this is a classic.” 

“How much?” I asked as my eyes studied Roberto who was handling the Louisville Slugger, “Maple is the finest wood for hitting the ball.” 

“Really.” I whistled.

“The manufacturer only made a limited number of these bats, making sure that only the professionals got these beauties.” He put the bat on the glass counter near the cash register.

“How much?” I repeated.

“I do not have enough money in my drawer to buy this.  I won’t cheat you, man.” He shook his head, handing me the bat. “It’s a work of art.” 

Aunt Allison was sitting on her porch when I drove into her driveway.

“Hey there boy.” She stood up and waved as I approached. “Whacha got there?”

“A Louisville Slugger.” I answered as I stepped up to her porch. 

“Where dija git it?” She smiled as I handed her the bat.

“In Grandpa’s attic.” I watched her run her hands over the smooth surface of the dark wood.

Her smile disappeared. “Some things are better off where they is.” 

Her response surprised me a bit.

“He gave it up in 1950 when the Homestead Grays played their last game.  He was thirty five back then.  I was just an infant who hadn’t started walking then.” She shook her head and then lit a cigarette. “He never did tell me the whole story.” 

“Whole story?” I was perplexed.

“He never told many folks about them days.” She put her hand on my knee as I sat next to her in the chair. “I know’d what he must have felt back then.  My oldest brother Joshua told me some of it.”

“What did he say?” My interest had been piqued. 

“He said dad was a player for the Homestead Grays back when he got discharged from the Army.” She closed her eyes. “They was in the Negro Leagues on account no Negroes was supposed to play in the major leagues.” 

“Why not?” 

“On account them boys was afraid that a Negro would be a lot better than their best.” She laughed, “Ain’t no such thing.  I know a Negor, Henry Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s homerun record back in 1974.  It was destined to happen.” 

We both laughed.  

“But seriously, my pa was a star player with the Grays from Washington D.C.  In his short time with them, he hit two hundred homeruns.  He wouldda hit more, but after five years, the Negro League was no more.” She sat back and let the rays of the setting sun settle in the deep lines of her skin. “He tried out with the New York Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers, but them boys wanted nothing to do with an aging slugger.  He wouldda hit a bunch more if they let him, but it wasn’t to be.” 

I sat there stunned.  All of the stories we had told around the table on Sundays when he was alive, I had never heard one word about any of this.

“I can’t believe he never said a thing.” I shook my head.

“Wanna go for a drive?” Aunt Allison asked. “I wanna show ya something.” 

“What?” 

“You’ll see when you get there.” She put her hand on my cheek. 

“Alright.” I agreed and we walked to my car.

She directed me across the city to a place that looked abandoned.  She had me park in  what appeared to be a vacant warehouse.

“This is the place.” Aunt Allison said gleefully.

On a crudely hand-painted sign hanging over the door read a single word, “Museum.” 

“Hello Mr. Tyler.” Aunt Allison waved to a man in a dirty flannel shirt and stained overalls.

“Pleasure to see you, Ali.” He hustled over to us. “I was just about to close up.  Ain’t got many visitors today.” He put his finger on the sign in pad, “Looks like just one.” 

“This here is my nephew, Keyton.” She said as her head swiveled around the spacious warehouse.

“Pleasure to meecha.” He shook my hand.

“My grandpa just died.” I nodded.

“You don’t say.” Mr. Tyler sniffed.

“We laid my poor old father to rest, Germaine Butler.” She said, wiping a single tear from her eye. 

“Germaine is gone?” Tyler appeared hurt. 

“It’s true.” She wiped another tear with her handkerchief. 

“My deepest condolences.” He bowed his head and then took Aunt Allison’s hand.  Turning to me after seeing the Louisville Slugger in my hand, “And what do we have here?”

I handed it to him, “Found this in the attic.” 

“Holy Moses.  This was his bat.  The one he used for the Grays.” Jerome Tyler whistled. 

“It’s yours.  I have no use for it.” I said.

“Son, words cannot describe how grateful I am to you.” He appeared as if he might shed a few tears as he stood there holding the bat. “Follow me.  I have a special place for this.” 

I did as he said.  He led me to a small room.  The walls were lined with glass cases like the ones in a fancy museum.  There were tinny old pictures and names encased along with some baseball memorabilia.

“Here is my shrine.” He spread his arms, “Everything I have collected from the Homestead Grays of Washington in the Negro Leagues.  Most folks don’t pay it much mind, but there are those of us who treasure the memories they give to us.”

“Negro League?” 

“Sure enough.  Most of these players were good enough to play in the bigs, but the color of their skin kept them from suiting up.” He walked to a glass case.  I could not believe my eyes. Written on a placard, ‘Germaine 'Jackrabbit’ Butler (1945 to 1950)  League Batting Champion 1947.” 

“This was your grandpa.” He opened the case and gently, with the love of a true fan, placed the Louisville Slugger among the display so everyone could see it. “He tried out for some of the teams in 1951, but by then he was too old for most of them.”

“How old was he?” I asked, admiring the display and running my fingers along the cool glass.

“I reckon he was about forty years old.“ He scratched his stubbly chin

“Forty?” I was taken aback for a moment.  “That means he was over a hundred years old when he passed away last week.  I was told he was ninety.”

“He come out of Virginia where they don’t keep records on us Colored folks.  I reckon he was around a hundred years old.” Jerome smiled.

I looked at my aunt who shrugged, “No one really knew how old he was and to us, it really didn’t seem to matter.” 

Aunt Allison was right.  The memory of him I was left with didn’t have an age, he just was.

“I was told he was the fastest man on the team.” Jerome glanced at Aunt Allison and nodded. 

There was a picture of him in his Grays uniform, much younger than my memory of him.

How I wish I could have seen him in action.

“Keyton, I have to go gets a few things at the store up yonder.” She pointed, “Y’all can catch bus home if you’d like.” 

“I will do that.” I waved as she walked out.

“Whadda think?” Jerome said proudly

“I want to thank you.” I sighed.

“Weren’t me.” He shrugged.

I nodded and walked out of the warehouse.  I heard a loudspeaker about a block away and as I got closer I could hear what the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another game at Griffith Stadium where the Homestead Grays are taking on the Cleveland Buckeyes in the Negro League World Series.  Some of the newer members of the team have just returned from the army such as Germain ‘Jackrabbit’ Butler who will be hitting leadoff.”

I stood there awestruck.  Somehow I had stepped into 1945 without any idea how I had done it.

“Are you going to stand there like a statue or are you going to buy a ticket to the greatest game you will ever see?” The woman ticket agent asked.

“I’m gonna buy a ticket.” I pulled my wallet out.

“Six bucks.” She smiled.  I put the money in front of her and grabbed the ticket she held out to me. “Enjoy.” 

I walked into Griffith Park where the Grays were taking batting practice in their distinctive uniforms.  The seats were filling up. Everyone was chattering with excitement.

“Heard that Butler kid is as fast as grease lightning.” I heard one of the spectators reply.  

Everyone got quiet as the Cleveland pitcher finished his warm up pitches and Germaine Butler got settled into the batter’s box waving his Louisville Slugger above his head.  The sky was a pale blue as if it had been painted by John Constable.  There was a refreshing breeze blowing in from right field.  I could see the capitol dome in the distance. 

The dramatic moment had arrived as the pitcher went into his wind up and threw the ball toward home plate.  There was a crack as bat met ball.  I cheered with the crowd in this field of dreams I had found myself in.