Chapter One: Two for Texas

El Centro, California, March 1977

Spring is a dicey season in the Imperial Valley. As I drive south toward the Mexican border, desert winds torture the powdery landscape. A fast-flowing river of sand obscures the highway; a gritty gray haze hangs in the air, and I periodically dab my nose with a wet handkerchief. My VW van’s pop-top bangs and clatters—will it blow off?—and I grip the wheel to stay on what appears to be blacktop.

Finally, El Centro. I pull into the El Noh Motel parking lot, turn off the engine, and take several deep breaths. It is just as I remember it. Yes, I have been relegated to this baseball outpost in previous springs. This is home to the California Angels minor-league baseball team. The Angels are the only team to train outside of Florida or Arizona—and I have to wonder why. With its malevolent sun, flag-flapping winds, and gritty air, El Centro suggests a French Foreign Legion post.

Of course, the big boys train in Palm Springs, an hour north, a lifetime away for most aspiring big leaguers. We’re in the bushes here, the minor leagues, but don’t ask, “Are you going to join the pros?” For this is the pros—professional baseball at its grassroots, where everybody gets paid, more or less.

Charlie Williams is an umpire, too. He’s my partner, and he’s waiting for me in Room 6. We worked together two years earlier, as rookies in the California League, A-ball. Now, in our third season, we’ve both been promoted to AA, the Texas League. We’re advancing as fast as any umpires in Organized Baseball.

The key; the door; Charlie.

“Hey, Charrrr-leee!”

“Hi, Boga, what’s happenin’?”

I come to him and embrace him; he returns it tenuously. He thinks a handshake would do.

He is the Charlie I remember: strong, thick-set, medium height, handsome black face, looking younger than his forty-two years. He wears t-shirt and brown slacks, is barefoot.

“So how goes it, Charlie? Say a few syllables.”

“Oh, not too bad, Boga. Can’t complain.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, polishing his plate shoes and half-watching the elevated black-and-white TV.

“I hear it’s you and me again this season. Two for the Texas league, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Bland as Jello.

“I’m glad of it, Charlie. I was hoping.”

He is shy, I realize, unused to me. We must get to know each other again. I remember that he is uncomfortable with certain shades of passion and at those moments, silence is his refuge. I remember other things about him and proceed slowly.

“You go to Winter Ball in Florida, Charlie?” I know he did. Winter Ball is the showcase for umpiring talent, and Baseball has been hot for Charlie since we were in umpire school together.

“Yeah.

“How was it?”

“Not bad. Learned some things.”

“And they made you crew chief here, huh?”

“Hmmm.”

Charlie’s promotion to crew chief irks me, but only a little. On the surface our careers have run parallel courses, but clearly Baseball has had its eye on Charlie from the beginning. He is black and he can umpire, and although I’m careful not to mention the former, it crosses my mind. The shortage of black umpires in the Major Leagues cannot be ignored.

Charlie graduated first in our 1975 class (I was fourth), a ranking that carries more than symbolic importance. In each of his three years, Charlie has been invited to winter ball in Florida (I’ve never been invited). Our chief instructor, Bill Kinnamon, called Charlie a “can’t miss” prospect. He also confessed that, yes, being black helped Charlie, probably for the first time in his life. Not that Charlie can’t umpire—no insinuations there—but we are the best crew in OB and I am half that crew, a fact that Baseball doesn’t always appreciate.