Chapter Four: Fraternizing

March 17

Charlie has a facility for banter with black ballplayers that I lack with most white players. It’s as though they’re members of a secret club, with a secret language. Actually, Charlie speaks two languages. When he meets my white, middle-class parents, he sounds like Eddie Haskell greeting Beaver’s parents. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Boga. How are you? That’s a lovely dress . . .”

But when he runs into Floyd Rayford or Tommy Smith or Kenny Landreaux, it’s “Hey, home boy! What’s happenin’? Slip me five, blood.”

Baseball frowns on umpires fraternizing with players, and Charlie doesn’t hang with them anymore. But he did two years ago, our first spring training. One evening I came back to the El Noh to find Charlie entertaining in our room. His visitor was Angels’ outfielder Mel Washington, a huge man with a physique that could make you feel inferior.

The window was open and I lingered outside a moment to listen to Charlie and Mel talk, a conversation punctuated by the sound of dominoes slapped on Formica.

“You ‘member Sweet Sill from the neighborhood?” Mel asked. “He be in the joint.”

“No shit? What fo’?”

“Five to ten. Nigger held up ‘nother liquor store. Used a weapon.”

After a pause, Charlie said, “Nigger like those liquor stores.”

“Po’ boy Sill. That’s one crazy nigger. But shee-it, he happier than a punk in a peter factory being in the joint. He’s what they call an insti-tut-ion-ized dude. Nigger’d rather be in the joint than out.”

Charlie: “Not me, man. I don’t never want to go back to prison.”

Mel: “Ah, joint’s not so bad. Lotta friends in the joint . . .”

I heard no more, distracted by a vision of Charlie in prison. What for? I wondered not for the last time.

When Rosie discovered that Charlie had been hanging with ballplayers, he scolded him. “Charlie, you can’t be having rats in your room. It looks bad. You can lose your job. You don’t want to jeopardize your career by fraternizing—“

“Rats?”

“Rats! Ballplayers are rats, Charlie. You can trust them. Listen to me, I know what I’m talking about. Do as I say, not as I do. Don’t screw up your career like me. You finished first in the school, you’re black, and you can umpire—you got it made. Just don’t hang out with rats.”

Charlie, like every minor-league umpire, is in this racket to make the Show, the Major Leagues. He believed Rosie and never again fraternized with ballplayers that I knew about.

March 19

Willie Mays Aikens is in camp. The first baseman for AAA Salt Lake has the body of a gator wrestler, arms and legs contoured like oak limbs. At 6’2” and 230 pounds, he is, in the words of Charlie, “one ugly brother—with the emphasis on the ‘ugh.’”

Aikens rarely speaks, at least to us, occasionally mumbling a query about pitch location but nothing more. Further complicating communication, he speaks with a severe Carolina drawl and constantly chews tobacco. Brown crud flecks his teeth like a partially painted picket fence.

“I wonder if he chews on dates,” I say to Charlie.

“That ugly brother,” he says. “Only dates that boy gets grow on trees.”

March 20

Ballplayers come and go during spring training. It’s not a profession to pursue if you want job security. A slick-fielding shortstop who “picks ‘em” in practice on Wednesday may be selling insurance on Thursday. The four-year veteran who had a decent season in AAA last season becomes expendable, pushed out by younger, hungrier talent moving up.

Tiny, the 400-pound clubhouse man, is ladling soup from a Beetle Bailey-size pot when I come in, bathed in post-game sweat. “What kind of soup today, Tiny?”

“Chicken noodle—same as every day.”

“Give me a double, and put a little vodka in it.”

My stab at humor does not graze Tiny’s funny bone; he doesn’t even crack a smile. I grab all the freebies—soup, crackers, oranges—and sit on the bench in front of my locker. After removing my shinguards and chest protector, I linger in my underwear and sip my soup. I’m done early—as measured by the copious noodles in the soup and the absence of anyone else in the locker room.

That is, until Hank Sauer, Jr. enters. He flops onto the other end of the bench, then drops his head into his hands. Hank is the son of Hank, Sr., the former Giant great. Junior and I were together last season in the California League and, though not close, we are cordial.

“Hi, Hank, what’s happening? You look—“

“I just got released!”

“Oh, shit. Jeeze, I’m sorry.”

Hank stands up, comes over, and shakes my hand. “I’ll see ya, huh. Ya been good. I hope ya make it.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Searching for the right words, I mutter, “It’ll work out, man. Maybe you can pick up with another team—”

“Nah, it’s over.” And he was gone.

Unlike players, who may move up, down, or out at any time, umpires are rarely demoted. It’s up or out for us, and moves are seldom made during a season. If a AAA umpire gets sick or injured, they may promote one of us from AA midseason. But generally if an umpire starts the season in the Texas League, he’s going to finish the season in the Texas League. Unless he quits.