The champions of football have been decided, the shoulder pads and helmets have been put away, and cleats have been traded for spikes. Teams have gathered in the warm climates to undergo spring training for Major League Baseball.
This is the time of year when memories of my pop are strongest. When I think about it, baseball was the chosen sport in my family. My grandfather was a dyed-in-the-wool Senators fan. Although he loved the Senators, it all changed when he was standing at curbside cheering the parade of ballplayers and one of the Senators players spat upon him. He remained a baseball fan, but his love for the Senators turned lukewarm.
Fortunately, we had the Homestead Grays and Pa had the hook up. His son—my pop, Sam Lacy—would get him tickets to games right behind home plate. He would take me, and I was allowed a dime to spend on anything I wanted. This was during WWII and a dime went a long way.
Long before Sam was inducted into the sportswriters wing of the Baseball Hall of Fame, he cut his teeth in the sandlots and the alleys of D.C. Baseball was the sport du jour. His crew would play behind the 12th St. YMCA, and to keep the ball out of backyards, the guys learned to bat left-handed. When summer weekends rolled around, he worked Griffith Stadium as a vendor. Being a popular kid, he befriended some of the players who sent him on errands—another way to pick up a little change.
As a teen he was a pitcher of note, and was recruited to play with some of the semi-pro teams. His mother wasn’t fond of the travel and made him promise to write every day. One day, while circling under a fly ball that was caught in the wind, he felt the sting of the ball breaking his finger. This caused Sam to learn to write left-handed to handle the chore of the daily letter to mom.
After trying his luck as a chauffeur, elevator operator, golf caddy and any legal hustle to pick up a few bucks, Sam decided to put in time working on his education at Howard University. This pointed him to the Washington Informer newspaper and the sports desk. From there he launched his crusade to desegregate Major League Baseball, a mission he continued from his desk at the AFRO American Newspaper. His efforts fell on deaf ears in Washington, and eventually he went to Chicago to work with the Defender. Along with Dr. Rochard, he met with the MLB’s first commissioner, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, and Branch Rickey of the Dodgers. It was a few years before these efforts saw fruition, and Branch Rickey brought Jackie Robinson into the Dodgers organization.
Sam was assigned to shadow Jackie, and I was allowed to go to Spring Training for two weeks with Sam and the team. My spring training experiences have to be covered in a whole other column. In addition, I was allowed to attend camp with the Cleveland Indians and had Larry Doby and Minnie Minosa as housemates. Aside from getting busted on the train for hanging out with Mickey Vernon and some of the guys in the Club Car on the ride down, I survived getting busted for going into Mexico with some of my new friends. I made a girlfriend—her name was June, it was February and she warmed my heart. I was 10 years old.
I can’t tell the life story of Sam in this space, but his induction into the Hall of Fame was the high point of his career for me. There were many accomplishments along the way, but none compared to baseball.
