On that life changing date in American history, our varsity baseball team was playing the one school on our schedule that was a largely African-American.
Over the years, what happened on that day to me and my 16-18 year old teammates would make me wonder and my wonderment often results in words delivered from my mind to the page.
So, due to the personal request of Jacqui Harris, one of the great educational treasures keeping watch over my alma mata in South Huntington, New York, I am repeating a story which was first published in September 2003.
Having had the opportunity to visit New York last month and speak again with some of the principals, my 2008 editorial revisions can be noted parenthetically.
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FREE AT LAST!
Those were the words I and 600 classmates screamed when he exited the doors of our high school in June 1968, a watershed year in American history which would be written about forever more.
Another man was using that line as 1967 became 1968.
One of our baseball team's losses in April 1968 was a defeat which didn't come quite clear until many years later. I still can't wait to test my theory on some of my teammates (I did at our 40th Reunion in September, 2008, 40 years later)! Harry (ubiquitous sidekick and still best buddy to this day) swears by my logic, but Harry is my pal. He hardly ever disagrees with me.
It all had to do with our left-fielder, Steve Henry.
I can't quite figure Steve out. I have tried to reach him by regular mail. He is one of the few out there that still has no email (Steve has email today) and he is a teacher and former football coach at then rival Huntington High School.
Harry is the current baseball coach at Huntington (retired in 2005) and he finds Steve reclusive as well.
Steve wasn't always a recluse (I spent time with Steve at the reunion and what I see as reclusive is mostly shyness). He visited my home when we were both 7 or 8. Steve's birthday is in December, a week before mine. When my mom and dad entered my bedroom, they were somewhat surprised.
Steve Henry wasn't white like me.
As the only African-American on our 1968 baseball team, I can personally state unequivocally that there was never any racism at our school. That might come as a surprise, since our African-American student population in our class of 1968 was no more than 5% at most.
Steve was our Willie Mays.
He had a beautiful body (and is still in GREAT SHAPE today), blazing speed and an uppercut swing which often sent majestic, towering drives out of any yard we played in.
Along with Frank Clancy (I saw at the weekend after 40 years and the first thing he remembered out me was how he beaned me in Jr, High and thought he had killed me) and Marc Fellman (the only one of our eight seniors who couldn't make it last month), Steve was one of our most consistent power hitters.
This leads to the events which threatened to tear apart America on the afternoon of our seemingly casual baseball game with Amityville High, 6 years before Ron Defeo killed his entire family, unleashing the events which led to the "Amityville Horror" saga.
The date was April 4, 1968.
It would go down as one of the historical dates in American history.
Our world split open on that date. Not because of our late inning rally falling short at Amityville that early spring afternoon.
The real news was happening on a hotel balcony in Memphis, Tennessee.
It was our non-league opener and Amityville was a very athletic team. they were also mostly an African-American team. Not that we thought twice about that then. In fact, most of us never gave it another thought ever again.
I did.
Years later, with life experience and a bit of wisdom, it is hard to deny the sequence of events that happened that day.
I had a bases loaded hit against their baseball and basketball star, Jerry Crocker, but we still trailed by 3 runs as we moved into the last inning.
What followed in that last inning is one for the history books.
Steve Henry walked to the plate as our last chance. The score was in favor of Amityville, 8-5, but the bags were loaded!
One of Steve's uppercut drives and we could take the lead on a single pitch.
Our only African-American athlete competing against a team of African-American athletes.
The count went full.
Let me reset the scene.
Amityville leads 8-5. Two outs, last inning, bases loaded and a 3-2 count on one of our best hitters.
As the baseball saying went, there was no place to put Steve.
Either the next pitch was a ball and we drew a run closer or Steve put the ball in play or struck out.
The entire game, the past few hours of work (and play) was riding on the very next pitch.
As the Amityville hurler looked at the catcher for the sign on the payoff pitch, "time" was suddenly called on the field.
The umpires quickly conferred with the two head coaches (40 years later, our coach, still going strong at nearly 80, has no memory of the final seconds of this game).
Suddenly, the umps began waving their arms wildly over their heads.
What was going on?
The game was being called because of darkness.
What?! We screamed in protest.
Our power hitter was at bat with the bases loaded and a full count and you call the game at that point?
What the Hell (we have been known to use stronger language)!
Coach Ralph (Lewis, who still when I spoke to him 40 years later, had the same voice as he dis when he was 39 and coaching us in what was then his 6th season, which would encompass 14 years before he was through, including a Long Island Championship and an undefeated season in 1975) quieted us down and ushered us to quickly boars the bus back to Whitman High.
There would be no Joe Christopher stories this evening (stories I developed to ease the tension and entertain my teammates based on the fictitious travels of the former Mets outfielder).
We felt we were robbed in Amityville that afternoon.
Later that evening, when we returned to our homes, we learned what had happened earlier in our country that day.
Vietnam had been slicing our world apart. Now, news came down that our world was about to fall off its axis.
Dr. Martin Luther Ling, the best known African-American of his day, had been shot and killed in Memphis.
Riots had broken out throughout the nation.
That night, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., addressed a crowd in Indianapolis.
The brother of our slain former president, was now running himself for the American presidency of 1968. Good friends with Dr. King, he tried to find the words that would heal a hurt and divided nation.
"What we need in the United States is love. wisdom and compassion toward one another and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our own country whether they be white or they be black." (American Century, pg. 300)
Some of that wisdom RFK referred to was practiced at Amityville High that very afternoon of April 4. By rounding up our white butts with our solitary black teammate, officials did what they thought was prudent at the time.
That game was never called for darkness, unless we are talking about the fact that darkness settled that evening over an entire nation.
I was never convinced of that.
That game was called to prevent a riot.
That evening, America was torn apart by Riots in Memphis and 124 cities across America (take note that another African-American man will return to Tennessee tomorrow night to debate his opponent as the first African American to ever run for the American presidency).
Few listened to RFK"s calming words and in fact, 60 days later, RFK would be killed by another senseless bullet (and we were still weeks away from graduation).
We could only wonder what kind of a world we were graduating into.
Baseball kept us sane. At least until graduation.
Eventually, more than 68,000 soldiers were called out to curb the violence. At least 40 blacks and five whites were killed in the riots.
Over 45 million dollars in property was destroyed and more than 20,000 people were arrested. There were major outbreaks in Washington DC, Baltimore, Chicago, and Pittsburgh.
By that summer, riots would be the word most associated with the year 1968.
And in Amityville, we lost a baseball game by the final score of 8-5, suspended and never to be resumed.
Officially, the game went into the score books as called for darkness.
It might have been America's first game cancelled due to preventing a race riot.
I'm sure the Amityville Nine had as little interest in rioting as we had in stopping play. Yet, when an all white (except for our Willie Mays) baseball team on the day that the most celebrated African-American is shot by a white man, certain measures must be taken.
Game called on account of darkness.
I agree.
One of the darkest days in American history.
More were soon to follow.
This was 1968, the year me and my classmates graduated in the year that forever changed America.
(Final Note: Steve Henry was most gracious to me to discuss a period of history he didn't particularly feel as comfortable as I did pursuing. He did reiterate often that he never felt any racial tension on our team or anywhere growing up in Huntington. He also had no memory of the game. However, newspapers of the day document my recollection. I stand by my story and thank all of my teammates who helped me review the facts as they recalled them on that day, 40 years and six months ago).
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