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By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Staff Writer

Back in the 1920s, Frederick Douglass (Fritz) Pollard would have been shocked to know that in 1988 he still would be the only black head coach in NFL history. After all, Pollard didn’t consider himself especially noteworthy when he coached several NFL teams back then.

According to Pro Football Hall of Fame historian Joe Horrigan, Pollard was player-coach of the Akron (Ohio) Pros in 1921 and 1925-26, probably coached the Milwaukee Badgers in 1922 and was player-coach of the Hammond (Ind.) Pros in 1925.

“That made me the first black coach in the NFL, but it was no big thing,” Pollard said in a 1977 interview that appeared in an NFL publication. “I was just another coach and happened to be a colored man.”

But when Pollard died on May 11, 1986, he was 92 years old and no black coach had followed him. In recent weeks, several black assistant coaches have received nationwide attention as speculation increased that one might become the head coach of the Green Bay Packers or Los Angeles Raiders. It hasn’t happened yet, so Pollard still stands alone in history.

“He used to talk about it all the time.” said his 72-year-old son, Frederick Douglass Pollard Jr., who also is called Fritz. “He knew what the situation was and that they (NFL owners) weren’t ready to accept a black as a coach.”

John Pollard, Pollard’s “distant nephew,” said his uncle believed, “It’s a shame they don’t have black coaches when they have so many players come up through the ranks and people who … could have developed into a top coach. Also, these were people who loved the game.”

A Pioneer

Pollard was named after the famous slavery abolitionist Frederick Douglass, and, like his namesake, Pollard was a racial pioneer throughout his lifetime. He starred at Brown University and in 1916 became the first black All-American and the first black player to participate in the Rose Bowl.

He entered the pro ranks in 1919 with the Akron Pros, who became charter members of the American Professional Football Association the following year. (In 1922, it was renamed the National Football League.) Most teams were in small towns because the larger cities were dominated by college ball.

The Pros were 8-0-3 in 1920 and Pollard, a halfback, ranked among the league’s leading scorers. He also was one of pro football’s early stars, along with the legendary Jim Thorpe. The next year one of Pollard’s teammates was Paul Robenson, also black, who later gained fame as a singer, actor and civil rights activists.

Akron’s official coach was Elgie Tobin, but Horrigan said there is “no question” that Pollard took over as player-coach in 1921.

“Elgie Tobin was listed as the coach, but when I came, they were still using some old plays.” Pollard told the New York Times in 1978. “So I said why don’t we try some of the stuff we had been doing at Brown. The owner, Frank Neid, told everybody that if they didn’t want to listen to me, they could leave right then.”

A Coach on the Field

Another reason Pollard assumed the coaching duties is that the rules then stated that there could be no coaching from the sidelines during a game. Consequently, the team captain or quarterback called most of the plays. (That’s how the expression “he’s like a coach on the field” derived.)

“Tobin was a limited player by 1921,” Horrigan said. “Pollard was getting more playing time and Frank Neid was paying Pollard quite a bit of money, so he got the second role as coach.”

Pollard’s son said he believes his father’s players “all knew his ability and liked him,” but true to the racial customs of that era, many fans despised Pollard.

“Akron was a factory town and they had some prejudiced people there,” Pollard told the Times. ”I had to get dressed for the games in Frank Neid’s cigar factory, and they’d send a car over for me before the game. The fans booed me and called me all kinds of names because they had a lot of southerners up there working. I couldn’t eat in the restaurants or stay in the hotels. Hammond and Milwaukee were bad then, too, but never as bad as Akron was.”

Pollard coached Akron to an 8-3-1 record in 1921, then moved on to the Milwaukee Badgers in 1922. Horrigan has written correspondence from Pollard stating that he was the Badgers’ coach, although some football historians dispute it.

“It’s so long ago and no official records were kept, but the preponderance of evidence suggests he was,” Horrigan said.

Horrigan said records indicate that Pollard was 2-1-3 with Milwaukee, then was replaced in midseason by Jimmy Conzelman for unknown reasons. Conzelman lost the last three games of the season.

A Busy Year

Pollard had a busy year in 1925, because he was player-coach at Hammond, player-coach at Akron and ended the season as a player with Providence. He finished his NFL career in 1926 as Akron’s player-coach, replacing AI Nesser in midseason.

Pollard’s coaching totals in 1925 and ’26 are unknown because record-keeping was so fuzzy and he changed teams so often. Such job­ hopping wasn’t unusual among NFL players in that era.

“Players jumped from team to team to go to the highest bidder,” Horrigan said. Enticing players from another team would be illegal today, but Horrigan said that in the 1920s it was the only way small-town teams could obtain a drawing card like Pollard.

After his NFL career, Pollard was an ambitious entrepreneur for the rest of his life. In addition to coaching semi-pro, college and high school football teams, he owned coal companies in Chicago, published a weekly newspaper in Harlem, made feature movies and was a theatrical booking agent. At 84, he still worked part-time as an income­ tax consultant.

Pollard’s son, a retired State Department official who lives in Silver Spring, Md., also was a star athlete. In the 1936 Olympics that made Jesse Owens famous, he won a bronze medal in the high hurdles, then he was the star quarterback at the University of North Dakota from 1936-38.

An injury in his last college game ended young Pollard’s football career, but he couldn’t have played in the NFL anyway because a color barrier existed from 1934-46, a period in which there no black NFL players.

Enjoyable Days

Pollard said his college roommate was the only other black player on North Dakota’s team. “Hell, there were only 28 (black people) in the whole state,” he said. But his coach, C.A. (Jack) West, made his playing days enjoybale.

Early in his career at North Dakota, Pollard said his teammates didn’t mind if he carried the ball often as they drove downfieId, but they grumbled if he called his own play near the goal line because they didn’t want a black player to get the glory of scoring a touchdown.

“After that happened twice,” Pollard recalled, “the coach called a meeting and said, ‘Dammit, Pollard’s my quarterback. Pollard calls the plays. I don’t want to bear any of that (complaining).’ ”

But even after West’s lecture, Pollard said he sometimes called plays for other players just to “mesh in” with his teammates. “I had to call those plays so they would block for me,” he said.

Because of those types of experiences, Pollard will be rooting hard for the Washington Redskins’ black quarterback, Doug Williams, during the Super Bowl on Sunday.

“I have been a Doug Williams fan for a long time because I know what he’s going through,” Pollard said. “It takes a long time to gain respect.”

By Ron Thomas

They are the daredevils of the NBA – the skywalkers who soar, swoop, dip and slither in midair to score points and thrill crowds.

“Going above the rim and making a play,” says Jullus Erving, the unofficial captain of the skywalkers’ air corps, “blocking a shot, pinning a ball on the glass, dunking the ball, bringing the ball down then, taking it back up- that’s the stuff dreams are made of.”

Not to mention reputations.

Erving, Dominique Wilkins, Michael Jordan and James Worthy explore the atmosphere around and above the rim in a way few mortals can.

All are small forwards or big guards – the positions that seem to have the best combination if size, strength and flexibility – and they symbolize the playing-in-the-air artistry more prevalent now than ever in the NBA’s 40-year history.

But by “daring to be great” – one of Erving’s personal mottos -they also expose themselves to serious injury.

“The element or danger doesn’t really enter the priorities you think about when you’re on the ground,” Erving said. “It’s right up there one or two when you’re above the rim.

“Where am I going to land, and who’s going to be under me? Is it going to be some guy who will take my legs and put them where my head was, or will this be a safe flight and a safe landing?”

When Erving goes up, he says he’s always looking or feeling for “ground space.” Sometimes, opponents provide it. “If guys see you coming down wrong, they’ll catch you to keep you from hurting yourself,” Wilkins said.

Other skywalkers don’t acknowledge the danger. “I’m so used to it now, there’s no fear,” Jordon said.

Skywalking was a stranger to the NBA until the late 1960s, when Elgin Baylor and Johnny Greens joined the league. They both are black, and in the 1990s, eagle-like thrusts to the basket became more common as the number of black players increased.

Tom Sanders, a Boston defensive star in the ’60s, said black players learned to defy gravity because they concentrated as developing their skills more than white players.

In addition, basketball is king in predominantly black urban areas, whether there is a scarcity of playing space and money required for other sports (such as golf and tennis).

“It comes down to the number or blacks who take the game seriously,” Sanders said, adding a personal concern that too many young players place basketball above academics.

Sanden said that when he played, every team bad at least one player with extraordinary leaping ability – Connie Hawkins, Joe Caldwell – but there was much less dunking because of a popular defensive philosophy.

Today, dunking and playing in the air are accepted fundamentals of pro basketball

“If you make me look bad, I may hurt you a little bit.”

Today, dunking and playing in the air are accepted fundamentals or pro basketball, says Lakers coach Pat Riley, executed best by “disciplined leapers” who have tremendous body control.

“It’s the evolution of the athletes,” Riley said. “The training methods and their physical makeup have changed the game. It’s being played much higher and taller than in the past.”

In skywalking, there is no prepared flight plan. Says WiIkins: “I just do whatever comes to mind”

So does Worthy, who credit skywalking to “God-given talent” and spontaneity.

“You run into obstacles you, don’t expect when you first take off,” he said. “Once you run into them, creativity is just automatic.”

A few years ago, Worthy pulled off one of the most sensational moves ever seen in the Coliseum Arena when he went up for a baseline shot, spun 360 degrees around the Warriors’ Larry Smith, then banked in a jumper.

Credit it to planned spontaneity.

Earlier in the game, Smith had blocked two of Worthy’s shots after Worthy bad eluded his main de­ fender. The next time, Worthy shook Purvis Short, waited for Smith to leap, then jumped and spun around him.

“I didn’t know it was going to be a turn.” Worthy said. “That playground instinct just came out. I never practiced that before.” And he has not been able to duplicate the move since.

Jordan, who has missed most of this season with a broken foot, appears to change direction in midair effortlessly, but he says it’s easier to play earthbound.

“On the ground, you control your steps,” he said. In the air, you can’t. You can’t go around a person.”

But Jordan does, doesn’t he? “It looks like it,” he said. “A lot of times when you change direction, it’s because you got bumped.”

Worthy never rehearses his moves, but Erving takes a studious approach that defies the concept of the “natural athlete.” He sometimes will sit at courtside and think about different ways to expand the court’s dimensions.

For a memorable basket in the 1980 playoff finals, Erving drove down the right side of the foul lane, floated under the backboard with the ball extended out of bounds, then curried under the left corner of the backboard for a reverse layup over Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

“They don’t know what to do when I’m holding the ball out of bounds,” Ervin& said at the time. “Do they go for it? Do they …. or me to bring it back? It has a tendency to freeze defenders. That’s from studying the game – that’s not natural, either.”

Even Erving’s subconscious reaches skyward. He has dreams in which he is flying, which inspires his on-court imagination.

Perhaps Erving is mere studious because he is a skywalker by necessity, rather than by nature.

As a younger growing up in Roosevelt, Long Island, he most admired Jumpin’ Johnny Green, the 6 foot 3 Knicks forward who often would grab a teammate’s off-target shot in midair and guide it into the basket.

“I always got a kick out of that part of his game.” Erving said.

Erving flights of fancy began for more practical reasons. He wasn’t a good outside shooter, so be needed a way to get closer to the basket.

“I started saying, “This is wonderful. I can create as avenue for myself and get to the basket, (where) I can jump up and just drop it in. It was almost a no-brainer.

“And out on the break, there was the challenge of taking the little guys for a ride.”

Erving’s flights can get dangerously bumpy.

“There’s an electricity that goes through you if you think you should be on the ground and suddenly you’re not.” Erving said. “Suddenly you’re riding on somebody’s shoulder or you get turned around. It’s like a shocking experience and it’s very, very scary.”

After one of those flights, Erving likes to stay on the runway for a while.

How do defenders stop skywalkers? Denver shall forward Alex English has the unenviable task of guarding many of them. He doesn’t let his ego get in the way of reality.

“It’s difficult in that they may go over your head, but you use your fundamentals like blocking out and staying on the floor when they shoot.” English said. “Some plays you just have to accept that you can’t so anything.”

Of all the players who specialize in playing in the air, English is most awed by the former NBA star who officially carried the nickname “Skywalker.”

“When I played with David Thompson.” English said, “he did things that just blew my mind.”

Laker Star Copies from The Best

By Ron Thomas

Chronicle Correspondent

Boston

Magic Johnson proudly admits that he is a thief – one who has stolen parts of his offensive weaponry from some of the best basketball players who ever lived.

If he were not such a student of the game, he probably would not have made Tuesday’s 12-foot hook shot that gave Los Angeles a 3-1 lead in the championship series. Tonight, the Lakers go for win No.4 and the NBA title at Boston Garden.

Tuesday’s game-winning shot was not a Magic original. Instead, he modeled it after teammate Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s famous “sky hook”, just as Magic previously had emulated Bob Cousy’s passing, Oscar Robertson’s back-in jumper and George Gervin’s deceptive drives.

“I’ve always believed that if

you look at other people’s games and see something that can help our game, you should steal it.” Magic said. “Why not? That’s a smart player to me.

“You just steal a little to make your game better, and the guys I took things from were the best in the game. Now I take all those guys and add it to my game, and this is Magic Johnson’s game.

“Here I am.”

The newest addition is his hook, which he shoots with the right or left hand.

Before this season, Magic had used the hook since college, but only in pickup or H-O-R-S-E games. Then, last summer in training camp. Coach Pat Riley changed Johnson’s role from playmaker to scorer-passer, and Magic decided to add variety to his repertoire of shots.

At 6-foot-9, he usually has a height advantage over defenders, so the hook shot seemed ideal for him.

“Plus, even if a man is taller than you, that’s one of the only shots you can still get off,” he said. “It’s just a hard shot to block.”

The hook no Ionger was a toy to fool around with. Because it was to become an important part of his arsenal, Magic wanted to learn the proper technique for releasing it. So he consulted Abdul-Jabbar, the hook shot guru.

“I gave him permission to shoot it,” Abdul-Jabbar joked. “It’s hard to get the rhythm of it, so I worked on it with him, and I guess he’s worked on his own.”

Magic practiced and practiced the hook during training camp, and sometimes he polished it on his indoor basketball court in his mansion basketball court in his mansion in Bel Air. It became one of his favorite shots, and in March, he beat the Warriors with it in Oakland.

When the final seconds of Tuesday’s game arrived, Magic’s “real junior, junior sky hook” had been perfected before he lifted it over the fingertips of Boston’s 6-11 Hevin Mellale and seven-foot Robert Parish.

“At that time, that was my best shot,” Magic said. “I’ve been hitting it all season. I just let it go.”

Profiting from older players’ excellence has been a life­ long habit for Magic, beginning when his father, Earvin Sr., taught him how to think on the court.

While growing up in Lansing, Mich., Magic spent many hours watching Cincinnati’s Oscar Robertson star in televised games. Since they both are unusually tall guards, Magic said he watched Robertson closely, and now they talk basketball every summer.

Gervin and the late Terry Furlow also lived in Michigan, so Magic played one-on-one games against them when he was in high school. He didn’t get a chance to do that against Cousy, who was 31 when Magic was born, so Johnson has studied films of probably the greatest passer ever.

As a result of Magic’s history lessons, he has become an incredibly versatile superstar.

“l looked at bow Oscar backed in and just shot over people,” Magic said. “On the passing, everybody can pass, but how you pass to set somebody up for a shot is the key. Cousy used to do that the best. He used to drive in and drop it off for a shot.

“Gervin had all the moves, so once he drove in, he could get his shot over everybody. You very rarely saw George Gervin get his shot blocked because he had a technique to slip and slide in to make you, as a big man, unable to jump.”

Now Magic, the ex-pupil, has become a tutor to many high school and college players. Two of his prize students are Celtic guard Sam Vincent, another Michigan native, and University of Iowa …… Marble, and Magic often plays one-on-one against youngsters at basketball camps.

It’s his way of paying back Gervin and Furlow, an NBA player who died in a 1980 auto accident.

“When I was young, Furlow used to beat me 15-0,” Magic said. “I was in high school at that time. I would get so frustrated that I would quit. He said, ‘You’re not going to quit. If I beat you everyday 15-0, pretty soon you’re going to get one game.’

“He beat me every day for a while 15-0, then finally 15-1, 15-2, and you start scoring on him. The same way with Gervin. He would kill me, but by learning, after they beat me I would beat everybody my age and a little older than me. They were so proud of me when I made it to the press.”

Today, Magic Johnson is the star every young player should copy – there’s something in his game for everyone.

By Ron Thomas

Independent Journal reporter    

No baseball skill eluded Jackie Robinson. He had a .311 lifetime batting average, eached double figures in home runs in nine of this 10 seasons, scored more than 100 runs six times, fielded competently and played at least 50 games at four different positions, mostly second base.

Yet, it was Robinson’s daredevil base running that endures in the minds of Marin residents who wrote or called the IJ about his exploits. How they loved to see Robinson give opponents a nervous breakdown as he darted long the basepaths.

He stole 197 bases during his career, which isn’t an astounding number. But it was how he swiped them – and the fact that he stole home 19 times – that made Robinson so unique.

Jules Becker’s devotion to the Chicago Cubs, runs deep, which is understandable since he remembers seeing Hall of Famer Grover Cleveland Alexander pitch for Chicago in 1929. When Robinson broke into the majors, Becker was a Chicago sportswriter who detested the Dodgers’ star because he drove Chicago pitches crazy.

Particularly Bob Rush, a 6 foot-4, 205 pound right-hander whose slow delivery made him an easy target for Robinson’s fleet feet. “He was all arms and legs, and Jackie Robinson used to steal his jockstrap,” said Becker, who lives in Ross.

Once Robinson reached first base, he was always threatening to steal second.

“He would dance back and forth so they would keep throwing over to first, and he would take a little longer lead,” Becker said. ‘Robinson would taunt you to try and pick him off, and you knew he was going to go.”

Eventually, the anxious second baseman would start edging toward second, which would open a hole in the infield that the batter could punch a hit through.

“The next thing you know they’ve got men on first and third and there’s nobody out,” Becker said. “Now Jackie’s jockeying back and forth, and you’re wondering if he’s going to steal home on you. Meanwhile, you forget all about the guy at first, and the pitcher’s not even thinking about the batter. Robinson would disrupt the entire defense.”

Here’s how Theodore Belsky, a reader from San Geronimo, described the chaos that followed.

Because Robinson was pigeon-toed, he wasn’t a classic-looking, smooth-striding sprinter. “With the loose-fitting uniforms of the time and his body motions, he seemed to be moving in different directions at the same time. But it was a deception,” wrote Belsky, who then was a high school student in nearby New Jersey.

“He would take a longer lead off third base than anyone else. The pitcher would begin his windup. At the precise moment, Jackie would accelerate at full speed down the road to home plate. Most of the time he would make a dead stop at the halfway point.

“Of course, the pitcher wouldn’t know if he was going all the way, and would frequently throw the pitch off mark. Sometimes he would throw it wild and Jackie would walk home, scoring a run that he alone had forced to happen.”

Occasionally, Robinson would start his sprint and never stop.

“Thirty thousand people in the stands would hold their breath,” Belsky continued. “The pitcher would tense. The catcher would tense. Everyone but Jackie Robinson would tense. It was like you were watching the event in slow motion and normal speed at the same time.

“Finally, when he reached home plate, sliding away from the waiting catcher, everyone would watch for the umpire’s call. If he was safe, the stands would explode in screaming and yelling and applause! It all took place 50 years ago, but one cannot forget such excellence of performance in 100 years!”

Unlike today, when fame and riches separate fans from their heroes, players of Robinson’s era lived in working-class neighborhoods and even rode the subway to games. Yet meeting or just getting close to Jackie Robinson could be a mind-blowing experience.

Tim Devault, a retired post office station manager who now lives in Mill Valley, was 12-year-old living in the San Joaquin Valley when Robinson was a rookie. Devault’s family soon moved to Los Angeles, and Devault was in high school when Robinson played in a offseason game in Southern California.

Devault worked in the concessions stands so he could watch the big leaguers play at the stadium of the minor-league Los Angeles Angels.

”This white kid was a clubhouse boy for the Los Angeles Angels,” recalled Devault, who later had a tryout with the then-Milwaukee Braves. “He asked me ‘Do you want to see Jackie Robinson? You can see him up close if you carry these bats.’

“Jackie was sitting in a chair soaking his feet and I wanted to shake his hand, but I said no, just leave him alone. I figured he must have been bombarded by millions of people. Don’t go over and bother him. Just watch him. I didn’t want to invade his space, and I think he probably would have shaken my hand. But I saw him – and I was just awestruck.”

TIED TO THE GAME: Jules Becker was a sportswriter in Chicago when Jackie Robinson integrated baseball. He displays his favorite baseball tie at his San Rafael office.

By Ron Thomas

Independent Journal reporter

On April15, 1947, Robinson shattered a barrier that excluded baseball players of color from the major leagues for more than half a century.

NOW 50 YEARS after Jackie Robinson became the first black player in the modern era of major league baseball, it’s impossible to imagine how powerful a figure he was in America until he died in 1972.

With little exaggeration, one could call the Brooklyn Dodgers great the father of all black ballplayers who came after him.

That does not mean that home run king Henry Aaron or one of today’s brightest stars, Seattle’s Ken Griffey Jr., would have been any less talented if Robinson had not appeared. But if was Robinson who literally risked his life and tolerated unfathomable abuse to integrate America’s most revered sport in 1947. It was a time when racial segregation not only was customary, but often was the law.

That, alone, would constitute enough accomplishments to satisfy almost any human being. Then add that Robinson was perhaps the greatest all-around athlete this country has ever produced, and in half a century no baseball player has rivaled his ability to stir a crowd to the brink of a collective heart attack.

All that falls far short of describing Robinson’s legacy. For through his uncommon intelligence and his willingness to step into a tornado of racial conflict, he virtually lifted millions of black people onto his back and carried them out of the realm of invisibility.

No longer could African Americans’ talents be ignored, like a piece of brown-colored lint that could be brushed aside. For whether Jackie Robinson was stealing home plate on the baseball field, verbally sticking a burr under America’s saddle because of its continued racial discrimination, or announcing which presidential candidate he would endorse; he was a black person who commanded national attention for a quarter century.

“Up until the time Martin Luther King becomes a dominant national figure, which is in the 1960s, within the public perception Jackie was arguably the most well­ known and most important African American in the nation,” said Jules Tygiel, a San Francisco State history

Marin Independent Journal

Robinson

From page B1

professor who wrote the acclaimed book “Baseball’s Great Experiment: Jackie Robinson and his Legacy.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Ron Walters, a professor of Afro- American Studies at the University of Maryland, “where does the sensibility of black people come after World War II to start the civil rights movement? Someone told me Jackie Robinson gave black people a sense of confidence.”

For all those reasons, Robinson, who officially broke baseball’s color barrier on April 15, 1947, is being honored throughout majors this season, which begins Tuesday.

All-around athlete

When Brooklyn Dodgers owner Branch Rickey dared to sign him to a minor-league contract on October 23, 1945, Robinson already had established himself as one of America’s most remarkable athletes. After entering UCLA in 1939, the Pasadena native became the only Bruin in history to letter in four sports: football, basketball, track and baseball – and the latter was his worst sport.

After completing military service during World War II, Robinson was playing for the Negro Leagues’ Kansas City Monarchs when Rickey decided he was the ideal black candidate to eventually integrate the majors. Not only was Robinson’s athletic ability attractive, but he displayed the smarts, worldliness and self-control to handle the racial abuse that was sure to come.

After starring in 1946 for Montreal, Brooklyn’s Triple-A affiliate, Robinson was promoted to the National League’s Dodgers in 1947. Suddenly there was a black presence in major league baseball, then the pinnacle of the sports world, for the first time since blacks were banned in 1887. Later in ’47, Cleveland’s Larry Doby integrated the American League.

Until Robinson arrived, African Americans largely existed on the margins of society. Whites and blacks routinely lived in a world of segregated employment, places of worship, education and neighborhoods – and that separation often was viciously enforced by police and the law.

POLITICKING: Jackie Robinson visited Marin City in 1960 to encourage residents to vote for Richard Nixon for president.

by pitches at a record-breaking rate and was the frequent target of beanballs before batting helmets were used. He had promised Rickey that he wouldn’t retaliate, yet he hit .297 with 29 stolen bases and 125 runs scored as a rookie.

Role model for blacks

Black people everywhere could relate to his struggle. Walters remembers assemblies in his all­ black elementary school in which Robinson was extolled as a role model.

“They would say about his character that he couldn’t yield to his temper that he had to make it because he carried the hopes and aspirations of black America on his shoulders.”

Robinson drew huge crowds of white and black fans wherever he played, and in his first eight seasons he hit between .296 and .342. while usually playing second base. He was fiercely competitive, the perfect catalyst to drop into the annual, intra-New York passion play between the New York Yankees and the Dodgers.

Tygiel was born in Brooklyn in 1949 and lived in a predominately Jewish neighborhood. By 1956, when Tygiel saw his first game in Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field, he was a Robinson worshiper.

“He was so much of the folklore I grew up with,” Tygiel said. “People talked about Jackie Robinson all the time.

Easily overlooked

“Blacks were invisible in the same way that people that clean office buildings are invisible to people who work there,” said historian Howard Zinn, a former professor at Boston University and Spelman College. “It’s partly a class phenomenon and partly a race phenomenon. They’re not part of your existence.”

Even when black people worked in whites’ homes as maids, laborers or child-care providers, they were easily forgotten. “They came, they worked and they left,” Zinn said.

The Negro Leagues provided a fertile setting for talented black baseball players such as Satchel Paige. But major league owners were so opposed to integration that during talent-starved World War II, one-armed, white outfielder Pete Gray and 15-year-old pitcher Joe Nuxhall reached the majors. Meanwhile, black stars remained unwanted and black fans chafed.

“Most whites had vaguely heard of Satchel Paige,” Zinn said. “I don’t think it entered their minds that he’s not in the major leagues.”

“There was never any feeling that you’ve got to keep them out. You didn’t think about it,” said Jules Becker, a San Rafael public relations counselor who was a Chicago sportswriter in the ’40s.

Rookie of the year

Robinson changed all of that. Not only was he an instant success as a first baseman, winning the first National League Rookie of the Year award, but his presence also sparked reactions from bigots that no one could ignore.

For instance, Philadelphia Phillies manager Sam Chapman tongue-lashed Robinson with crude, racist taunts, receiving hate mail and death threats from the public were a constant in Robinson’s life.

They all tried to intimidate him. Instead, they made him a national hero.

Professor Walters was a 10-year­ old growing up in Wichita, Kan., when Robinson broke the color barrier. Television broadcasts were almost nonexistent at the time, but he vividly recalled how black people were mesmerized by radio broadcasts of Dodgers games.

Excitement at bat

“Every time he got up to bat there was a catch in people’s throats, and everything stopped: ‘Let’s see if he can get a hit,'” Walters said. “Everybody was tuned in to the radio and there was this hush when Jackie stepped up to bat.

“I imagined, ‘Are black people all over the country doing this?’ And yes, they were.

“It was a shared reality, and that’s how powerful his position was. When he got a hit, oh my God the jubilation. And when he didn’t, the whole race was troubled.”

It helped that Robinson was such a dynamic and stubborn player. Tygiel said that when Robinson first entered the majors he was hit

America’s hero

“In Brooklyn, Jackie was a hero. I think throughout America, Jackie came to symbolize all that was good about America and optimism about solving racial problems. In the neighborhood I grew up in, Jackie was close to a saint.

“I think the vast majority of whites really came to respect him in the field. He made an undeniable case for integration. How could you deny that talent?”

Especially for black people, his stature also stemmed from Robinson’s public stance against inequality in baseball and general society. During and after his career, Robinson seldom held his tongue.

“He fit right in with new aspirations of a new stage of black life,” Walters said.

Impact beyond baseball

Labor leader A. Philip Randolph had pressured the federal government to integrate the labor force during World War II. Black soldiers who had been stationed in Europe had tasted freedom, and upon their return, they wanted a full meal of it at home. And in 1954, the Supreme Court’s Brown vs. Board of Education decision had mandated school integration.

Robinson set foot in the trenches of that battle for equality.

In 1952, he accused the Yankees of prejudice because they had no black players. He bitterly complained about the bigotry black players faced in Florida during spring training. On the national front, by Robinson’s third season he was decrying racism at a Congressional hearing.

After he retired from baseball in 1956, Robinson remained controversial. Politically, he was a Republican, yet he maintained his independence. Every presidential election, Republican and Democratic candidates sought his endorsement.

Fighting to the end

When Robinson was honored in Cincinnati during the 1972 World Series, he was almost blind and extremely ill from diabetes and heart disease. Yet, just nine days before his death, Robinson used the occasion to chide baseball for having no black managers.

His stances often riled white people. “In the South and (other areas), he was the uppity black, he was too pushy,” Tygiel said. Their thinking was, “He had gotten this wonderful opportunity. Why can’t he be satisfied with what he has instead of asking for more?”

That same refusal to settle for less endeared him to black people, and others committed to social change.

“If Roy Campanella (a much more compliant Brooklyn star) had broken the color line, we would not celebrate it in the same way we celebrate Jackie Robinson,” Tygiel said. “What really elevated this beyond the story of integration was his intelligence, the fieriness of his personality. He was just a unique individual by any measure.”

FAST PACE: Brooklyn Dodgers’ Jackie Robinson steals home during a game in 1948 against the Boston Braves.

“Sometimes when we’re playing a fastbreaking game, I dare to be great. I take a lot more chance on the court than I do in life.” – Julius Erving

By Ron Thomas

Philadelphia

Pro basketball’s most celebrated acrobat, the Philadelphia 76ers’ Julius Erving, appears to be a paradox. On the court, even he compares himself to a crap shooter who just rolls out the dice, then leaves the result in the hands of fate. In his off-the-court activities, he says, “I’m a poker player who lays back and baits.”

But those contrasting styles are not a reflection of his approach to life. For, whether shaking and baking into tonight’s sixth game of the NBA finals at the Philadelphia Spectrum, or considering possible business ventures, Erving is a calculated risk taker who seldom loses.

In Game 5 of the series Wednesday night, 30-year old Julius Erving was the virtuous of the left baseline, scoring most of his 14 fourth-quarter points from there as Philadelphia made up a 12-point deficit before losing, 108-103, and falling behind in the series three games to two.

The Lakers double-teamed, triple-teamed and fouled Erving, but he always made the decisive breath-taking move in a 36-point performance.

It was an occasion on which Erving dated to be great.

“Taking chances is the only thing that’s made me the player I am,” he said. “The first time I grabbed the ball with one hand in junior high school (in Roosevelt Long Island), I was taking a chance because if it slipped out of my hand the coach would say, ‘What are you doing?’

“In college (at the University of Massachusetts), I passed to a guy cutting through the lane and he missed it, and the coach told me to ‘Take that move back to Roosevelt!’

BY RON THOMAS, DIRECTOR, JOURNALISM & SPORTS PROGRAM

When a high-profile black athlete gets arrested, raising our racial antenna is black sports journalists’ natural reaction. But not when it came to Atlanta Falcons icon Michael Vick, who proved to be an uncommon criminal.

When Spike Lee hosted Morehouse’s “Forum on the Black Athlete” in May, at least half of the program was spent analyzing why black male professional athletes are getting arrested at an alarming rate.

Some panelists chastised athletes for making incredibly irresponsible decisions. Other panelists smacked down the white sporting press, stating that they take delight in further besmirching the image of black males. Several black sports journalists, including me, came across as staunch protectors of black men wearing cleats, spikes and sneakers.

It sounded noble, yet it felt uncomfortable. I left the Leadership Center hoping that aspiring journalists in the audience understood that black journalists’ roles are to find the truth, add perspective and seek fairness regarding everyone we write about. Do that, I tell Morehouse’s first year of journalism students, and undoubtedly racism and negative stereotyping will be uncovered along the way.

So when the federal indictment against Vick came down for financing and participating in dog fighting activities, some black sports journalists preached caution for good reason. If nothing else, history has taught us that “justice” for black men is a concept, not a fact. It’s often wise to withhold opinions until guilt or innocence has been proven.

But Vick’s offense – for six years funding an illegal business that trained dogs to kill and killed dogs that couldn’t – rightly stripped many black sports journalists of their protective instinct.

He hadn’t gotten into a spur-of-the-moment fight in a nightclub, been caught driving with a suspended license, or succumbed again to an addiction that had captured his soul. In the world of sports, that’s common criminality, and often perspective has its place. Ten years ago NBA star Latrell Sprewell choked his white coach, yet I wrote that P.J. Carlesimo wasn’t the blameless victim because he’d been cursing out and humiliating his black players for more than a year. I wouldn’t change a word.

Vick’s case was different. Backed by the riches from a 10- year, $130-million contract, he looked at all the investment opportunities within his grasp and chose extreme, perverse cruelty to animals. That’s uncommonly criminal.

Black journalists still should critique his press coverage, which is what my basic news writing class did the morning Vick filed his guilty plea. We questioned, for instance, why the Atlanta Journal-Constitution ran a split- image photo of Vick a few days before. The good Vick was pictured in his helmet and face mask; the bad Vick was wearing a do-rag and earring. Did that create a stereotypical equation – do-rag + earring = criminal – or was that merely an artistic way of unpeeling a side of Vick that had been concealed from view?

For many black columnists, such a question was a minor issue. What disturbed Bryan Burwell of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, ESPN.com’s Jemele Hill, the Kansas City Star’s Jason Whitlock, and others (myself included), is that Vick had escaped the ghetto- glorified “thug life” and then chose to dash back into its clenches in a uniquely vile way.

When black athletes get involved in criminal activity, how much should black sports journalists condemn and how much should we defend? That’s a mental tightrope, and I always fear falling too heavily on one side or the other.

In this situation, Vick’s choice of a reprehensible second career has made my decision much easier. For him, my protective shield is much, much thinner than usual.

My Word is open to faculty, staff and students who wish to express their views on topics of interest to the Morehouse Community. Articles must be between 550 to 600 words and may be edited for clarity or space. 

Ron Thomas

BIMBO COLES WAS in tears. Felton Spencer said, “I don’t think it’s fair.” Brian Shaw accused management of not coming to the aid of a troubled player. And the words “only two days” virtually became a mantra throughout the Golden State Warrior’s locker room.

Wednesday night, Latrell Sprewell’s teammates couldn’t believe that the Warrior’s management had gotten rid of their $32-million man just two days after he had literally gone for the throat of coach P.J. Carlesimo. But maybe that prepared them for the bigger blow yesterday, when NBA Commissioner David Stern banned Sprewell for the next year.

“I thought there would be more of an investigation,” Joe Smith, Sprewell’s best friend on the Warriors, said after the team suspended him.

Here’s my question to Smith: What was that to investigate?

The Warriors had to cut him loose once the basic facts of the incident had been confirmed – that an enraged Sprewell grabbed Carlesimo by the throat Monday, left the scene, then returned 15 minutes and threatened to kill his coach if Sprewell wasn’t traded.

In the game of real life, if you choke your boss, you’re out of the door. What Sprewell did took the phrase “Player-coach confirmation” to a new level, hopefully never to be seen again.

“I’ve heard it all, seen it all,” said Warriors guard Duane Ferrell, a to-year NBA vetran. “But I just haven’t seen anyone just grab a coach and attack him.

“I’ve seen players put their finger in a coach’s face, I’ve seen players chase a coach out of a locker room and threaten to kick a coach’s butt. I’ve seen players run at coaches and get close to them, but not actually physically touch them.”

Warriors’ management took the high road, saying dumping Sprewell was an ethical decision based on their refusal to give in to insubordination. But the fact is, they also admitted trying to trade him beforehand.

One can imagine what those conversations sounded like?

General manager Garry St. Jean: “What would you give us for Sprewell?”

Opposing GM: “How about a box of Cracker Jacks and a plastic toy to be mailed later?”

The Warriors had no bargaining power whatsoever, and they must have known that even if they worked out a trade, the NBA was going to squash it by suspending Sprewell for a long, long time. No way the NBA was going to let a player attack a coach, and then get his wish by getting traded. If Sprewell hadn’t been suspended, Stern would have been facing a coaches’ revolt.

So freeing up about $24 million on the salary cap by suspending Sprewell looked irresistibly attractive to the Warriors.

They might lose their upcoming battle with the NBA Players Association, which will file a grievance on Sprewell’s behalf. “To strip a player of his ability to pursue his livelihood for a full year based on one isolated incident is excessive and unreasonable punishment,” union head Billy Hunter said. “A $25 million forfeiture of salary and one-year expulsion is staggering.” Whatever happens, suspending Sprewell was the best option the Warriors had.

That removed one problem. Now the Warriors have to figure out what to do with another one – Carlesimo.

“(Sprewell) has a stigma that’s going to follow him for the rest of his life,” Warriors guard Muggsy Bogues said. “And so does P.J.”

Usually, Carlesimo is a chatterbox with a raspy voice, like Anthony Quinn’s portrayal of Mountain Rivera in “Requiem for a Heavyweight.” But Wednesday night, Carlesimo’s voice barely reached whisper level. He looked and sounded emotionally wrung out.

Three seasons ago, it was Don Nelson who left the Warriors for health reasons after getting stressed out over the Chris Webber ordeal: Carlesimo soon may be occupying Nelson’s old place in the coach’s rest and recuperation center.

It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if St. Jean, who sought several head-coaching jobs after being fired by the Sacramento Kings last season, switches jobs with Carlesimo before the season ends.

If Carlesimo remains as coach, he’s got to temper his in-your­face, confrontational style. It got him fired in Portland, even though he compiled a 137-109 record and made the playoffs three consecutive years. Even if the Warriors had a billion dollars to spend on free agents, a bunch of them won’t come here because of Carlesimo’s turbulent track record.

In less than four NBA seasons, he’s had bitter relationships with Rod Strickland; Isaiah Rider and Cliff Robinson in Portland, and now with Sprewell here. Granted, they’re not the Boy Scouts of the NBA, but coaches are paid to find a way to get along with difficult players. And they’re certainly not paid to alienate mild-mannered players, either.

Professional athletes get paid unfathomable amounts of money, but that doesn’t mean they leave their feelings at the locker room door. If a coach plays tough-guy too often, any success he achieves occurs despite him, not because of him.

Some players respond well to strident criticism, Ferrell said, but “Others go into a shell. Then other ones feel as though you’re attacking their manhood and they’re not going to stand for it. Like, ‘I’m a grown man. I’m not a kid. You don’t talk to me that way.’

“I think it’s all up to the individual.”

Now, it’s all up to P.J.

_____________________________

Ron Thomas is an IJ staff writer. Write to him care of Sports, Marin Independent Journal, P.O. Box 6150, Novato 94948-6150.

Air Jordan Lands on Oakland

Bulls’ Spunk and Dunk

By Ron Thomas

…………… Correspondent

If basketball superstars were …….. what would Michael Jordan’s look like? …….sparkle with a claster of …..? Would it be a …….. made of platinum?

……… who have played with the Chicago Bulls’ shining light ……………. ……….. Instead, they would ……… the nearest construction …………….. on a metal hard hat, and …………… on the head of the working ………… superstar.

Jordan, the NBA’s leading scorer at 37-3…….. per game, will make his only appearance in the Bay area this season in tonight’s 8 p.m. game against the Warriors. He already has achieved ………….. on which legends are …… of points in the season …… ……….. New York; an NBA record 10 straight points to close out another ………… against the Knicks; and ……………. A team of role players to a ……….

There are accomplishments that ……….. many stars a reprieve ……….. ………. …………. Aspects of basket……. Jordan’s willingness to …… ……. Who his teammates ……………… most to the Bulls.

“There’s a beautiful spirit …….. ….. man,” said former Warriors …… John Bach, now a Bulls ……………. …… “That’s why ……. Air Jordan. ………….. airline to be abroad.”

…………… days ago, the Warrior’s ………………… ……….. was relaxing after pract…… relishing the rare day off ……. ….. receive on Thanksgiving Day. Then several reporters wandered over asking how he would …… Jordan tonight, and Mullin tried ….. best to change the subject.

………. The type of guy who could

ruin your day ,” Mullin said.

Yet, Mullin couldn’t resist telling a few nostalgic tales about Jordan, who was Mullin’s roommate when they both played on the 1984 Olympic team.

“We used to practice three times a day for about two months,” Mullin recalled. “After the first ……… guys were tired and sore, and we’d come to the night practice………. Be sitting down until the coach …….. there.”

Jordan would entertain himself on the court – whriling through the air for 360-degree dunks. Michael Jordan – tired of ………..? No way.

“I’m thinking I’ve got to guard this guy for two hours, and I can’t get out of my seat,” Mullin said. “This is not correct.”

Many players lose the enthusiasm for practice when they must survive the 82-game NBA grind and Jordan has the added mental prestige of performing to a star’s level every night and handling media demands.

His basketball fervor has never ……….

“It’s something rare when a star plays as hard at practice as at the game,” Bulls forward Earl Cureton said. “He works as hard as the last guy on the roster. He’s a guy who loves to play basketball.”

“I like to work hard in practice,” Jordan said before last night’s game against the Los Angeles Lakers. “There’s a saying: you always practice like you play.”

So when his teammate’s spirits are lagging, Jordan said he likes to churn up their competitive nature in practice.

In a scrimmage, he said he might declare that the red team’s going to get their butts kicked. Because of the natural instinct of a basketball player, he’s going to try to retaliate and work harder.

Wednesday in Denver, the Bulls suffered an emotionally draining two-point loss. The next day it was time for Jordan the motivator to take over.

“He’s like a basketball junkie,” coach Dough Collins said. “Yesterday, Earl Cureton was yelling ‘Get him his daily fix! Get him his daily fix!’ on fastbreak drills, the guy was just unbelievable.”

The Collins made darting jabs with his hands, like someone trying to describe the path of a overactive bumble bee.

“He knew we were coming off a downer,” Collins continued. “This team is an emotional team, and there was pain on their faces when they lost the other night. Michael realized it and said, I’, going to get these gyus jacked up in practice today.”

That night the Bulls had Thanksgiving dinner together at the team hotel. It’s not the best way to spend a holiday, but Jordan added a little family spirit by buying two $100 bottles o Dom Perignon champagne for his teammates.

It often is said that superstars are gifted with the rare ability to make their teammates better players and Jordan definitely has done that this seson.

In almost every …………………. …………. Cast, the Bulls were picked ……………………. Last in the Central Division. Though trades, injuries or free agent castoffs, Jordan was the only returning player among last yesr’s top six scorers. Gone were Orlando Woorlridge, Sindey Green, ………………. Delley and George Gervis, ……………… satile Gene banks broke his foot…………… in the exhibition season.

With those players, Chicago had won just 30 games and barely squeezed into the playoffs after Jordan returned from a 84-game absence caused by a broken foot.

The history of the new herd of Bulls could have been depressing. Except for Jordan, no other Bulls on the active roster has a career scoring average of more than 10 points per game, and starting center Granville Walters averaged 10 minutes and 2.7 points in three previous NBA seasons.

Yet, they have become a winning team, despite the fact that nine of their first 11 games were decided in the last 30 seconds. Credit Jordan’s impact and humility.

Guard John Paxon ranks sixth in the NBA in shooting accuracy, shooting 57.7 percent from the field. “Michael has a lot to do with it,” Paxons said. “Teams are double or triple-teaming him, and that leaves the rest of us wide open for baskets. Even though he goes up for a shot, he’s still able to find the open man.”

But Jordan, openly admits that his teammates have made him better, too, by setting picks for him, …….. almost all of the ball-handling ……. can’t be double-teamed and …………. the NBA’s third-best …………… team.

“They have relieved a lot of pressure off me, because they have stepped up and gotten some of the respect that they deserve,” he said. They haven’t sat back and said, “This is Michael Jordan. Let him do all.”

He probably could do it all if necessary, but tonight may be the first time Warrior fans see Jordan at his best. In his rookie year, they ………. Booed former coach Kevin ………… for playing Jordan only …….. minutes in Oakland. And during ….. October’s visit, he broke his left ………. early in the first half of the game.

“I remember it, but it’s in the ……. And I hate to think about it,” Jordan said. “It was just a freak accident, I went up for a long pass, I misjudged my landing and hurt my foot. I’m not even thinking about …….. going into Oakland.

“This is a whole new year. We’ve got a different team, and ………. On a roll.”

By RON THOMAS

San Francisco Chronicle

The moment was not a media event. In no way did it rival the hubbub surrounding the entry of Jackie Robinson into major league baseball 3 ½ years earlier.

Which made perfectly good sense. Robinson, after all, was breaking a longstanding color barrier when he broke in with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947. Becoming the first black to play modern big-league ball, Robinson was the object of intense scrutiny by sportswriters, fans and peers. His every step was watched and chronicled.

Earl Lloyd’s debut in the National Basketball Association created no such fuss. Sure, he was the first black to appear in an NBA game. But blacks had played­ even coached-in the professional National Basketball League, which arrived on the sporting scene in 1937-38 and weathered 12 seasons before merging with the forerunner of the NBA, the three­ season-old Basketball Association of America, in 1949-50. The BAA had been all-white and the amalgamated league, the NBA, had no blacks in ’49-50.

In some quarters, four seasons of all­white play hardly constituted an impenetrable barrier. Unless, perhaps, you happened to be black. And, considering the sociological tenor of the times and the domination that blacks eventually would attain in pro basketball, the breakthrough achieved by Lloyd-and others-obviously is more than a mere footnote to NBA history.

Pro basketball was making major strides as the NBA prepared for its 1950-51 season. With more franchises in major markets (like New York) and George Mikan and the Minneapolis Lakers providing some true marquee appeal, the pro game in general and the NBA in particular were clearly gaining popularity. While black players had toiled in relative obscurity in the NBL (whose outposts included such cities as Oshkosh, Wis.), they toiled not at all in the NBA. Until, that is, the night of October 31, 1950.

On that Halloween evening 40 years ago, Lloyd, a 22-year-old rookie forward, played for the Washington Capitols in the opening game of the NBA season at Rochester, N.Y. The newcomer appeared in only six more games in the 1950-51 season

On Halloween night, 1950, with the Washington Capitols, Llyod became the first black to play in the NBA.

The Sporting News 1990-91 Pro Basketball Yearbook

Earl Llyod                                Chuck Cooper                                         Nat (Sweetwater) Clifton

It’s easy to forget there was a time when the now 75 percent black league was 100 percent white

before being drafted into the Army. The Capitols themselves played only 34 more games before disbanding in January.

Lloyd pulled down a game-leading 10 rebounds against Rochester and had five assists, which tied for the game high. He finished with six points.

The next night, Chuck Cooper, the first black ever drafted by an NBA team, made his debut with the Boston Celtics. Three days later, Nat (Sweetwater) Clifton made his initial appearance with the New York Knicks, and in midseason Hank DeZonie played a handful of games for the Tri­ Cities Blackhawks.

Together, they integrated the NBA.

Three more black players entered the league in 1951-52: Don Barksdale and Davage (David) Minor with the Baltimore Bullets and Bob Wilson with the Milwaukee Hawks.

Today, with six black head coaches in the NBA, 75 percent of its players black and the league featuring such stars as Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson and Charles Barkley, it’s easy to forget that there was a time when the NBA was 100 percent white.

“It’s really funny,” said Lloyd, now an administrator for Detroit’s Board of Education. “I was walking through the airport one day and here come the Indiana Pacers, all these young black kids. I just spoke to them-‘How you doing?’-and they don’t have any idea (who Lloyd is.)

“The black players today are very removed from that, and you’ve got to know your roots. Any player playing in this league today ought to know who opened that door for them.”

Yet Lloyd didn’t grasp his own historical significance at the time.

“You’re so young and you’re so green, you’re concerned about playing,” he said. “As I look back on it now, I can appreciate it more than I could then.”

It should be pointed out that in 1950 blacks often endured separate-and inferior-public accommodations and education in the United States. In many cities­ especially in the South-blacks could not vote and often were victims of unprovoked violence.

When the first black players entered the NBA, the league was dipping into largely untapped territory. But financial, media and competitive pressures forced

Continued

Shortly after Llyod’s debut, Clifton, a former Harlem Globetrotter, made his initial appearance with the New York Knocks.

The Sporting News 1990-91 Pro Basketball Yearbook.

Don Barksdale was the first black U.S. Olympic basketball player as well as the first black to play in an NBA All-Star Game.

the league to begin drafting and signing black players at the outset of the 1950s.

Media pressure was being exerted in large part by sportswriters at black news­ papers, such as Sam Lacy of the Balti- more Afro-American.

“The fact that the baseball experiment (with Robinson) had proved successful … was the basis for some of my writings,” Lacy said. “I used that as sort of a lever­ that baseball had undertaken it, and it was time for basketball.”

Leonard Koppett, who covered the New York Knicks for the New York Times in the 1940s and ’50s, said Robinson’s success proved that black and white teammates could get along. The popularity of basketball’s Harlem Globetrotters showed that white sports fans would attend events that included-and even featured-black players. Not only would whites attend, but they also would exhibit reasonable deportment toward the participants. Considering that fans sat within an elbow’s reach of the players in the arenas of that era, the absence of any major fan-player flareups was no small achievement.

Concerns about acts of rowdyism sound ludicrous today, but 40 years ago, such worries were prevalent among team owners, players and society.

Beyond the evidence that pro-basket­ ball integration would work in terms of human compatibility, there also were financial reasons for the racial break­ through. The Celtics had posted a 22-46 record in 1949-50 and Owner Walter Brown already was heavily in debt. Boston desperately needed an infusion of talent before the 1950-51 season, which would be Red Auerbach’s first as the Celtics’ coach.

The Capitols’ franchise was struggling, too, and the front office viewed the addition of a black player as a means to boost attendance in Washington, which had a large black population.

With some owners, such as Brown and New York’s Ned Irish, social enlightenment also was a factor.

“Irish and Walter Brown both felt the time was right, and both had a fairly progressive attitude, relative to the times, toward integration,” said sports sociologist Richard Lapchick, whose father Joe coached the Knicks from the late ’40s to the early ’50s. “Also, the coaches were pushing hard-Auerbach and my father.”

Despite those pressures to integrate, Boston journalist George Sullivan wrote that many owners still were shocked on April 25, 1950, when Brown opened the second round of the NBA draft by announcing: “Boston takes Charles Cooper of Duquesne.”

At the closed-door meeting in Chicago, there was long silence. Then one owner said, “Walter, don’t you know he’s a colored boy?”

Brown shot back: “I don’t give a damn if he’s striped or plaid or polka dot. Boston takes Charles Cooper of Duquesne!”

In the ninth round, the Capitols chose Lloyd out of West Virginia State.

“They could have picked me on the 45th round,” Lloyd said. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. Nobody else was going to pick me.”

The Capitols were confident that they had invested wisely in Lloyd, a 6-foot-6 forward from Alexandria, Va., which is just outside Washington. Lloyd obviously had local appeal. Plus, the Caps had scouted Lloyd and Harold Hunter, a guard from North Carolina College, in a black colleges tournament, and both had played well in a pre-draft tryout held at Washington’s Uline Arena.

John McLendon, Hunter’s college coach, vividly recalls preparing the two players for that tryout.

“We went up to Howard University and got the gym,” McLendon said. “‘We ran a little two-man stuff just to get the ball in their hands for about a half-hour.

“We started driving down to Uline and on the way down the hill, Earl said, ‘Wait a minute. I don’t know how to switch.’ ”

McLendon knew that Lloyd’s college coach, Mark Cardwell, hadn’t let his players switch on defense because he wanted them to fight through picks.

“As soon as Earl said it, I started looking for a playground,” McLendon said. “I turned off Georgia Avenue and the first street happened to be a dead-end street.”

All three men got out of the car and a passer-by joined them as a fourth player. Then they worked out, two on two, for about 10 minutes so Lloyd could feel somewhat comfortable at the tryout.

The rest is history.

“I can’t recall all the details (of the try­ out),” said Lloyd, who went on to play eight full seasons in the NBA and later coached the Detroit Pistons, “because I was probably scared to death.”

Hank DeZonie’s five-game NBA career “was a miserable experience” due to the segregation of balck players.

Lloyd spent the bulk of his NBA career with the Syracuse Nationals, for whom he averaged a career-high 10.2 points in 1954-55. Overall, Lloyd scored 8.4 points per game in 560 pro contests.

Syracuse teammate Dolph Schayes called Lloyd a “cop on the beat” player.

“He (Lloyd) had the dirty work to do,” Schayes said. “They called him ‘The Cat.’ He was very quick, very agile.”

While Lloyd unquestionably was the first black to play in the NBA and Cooper undeniably was the first black to be chosen in an NBA draft, considerable confusion reigns over which black was the first to sign an NBA contract. Some say it was Clifton, who went from the Globetrotters to the New York Knicks before the 1950- 51 season; others contend it actually was Hunter, who signed with Washington but was cut in the preseason; and there are those who say it was Cooper, claiming he signed immediately after the draft.

No matter. The main thing was that the color barrier was tumbling down.

Later in the 1950-51 season, the Tri­ Cities Blackhawks signed DeZonie, who had been with the storied, all-black New York Rens team.

By season’s end, Cooper had indeed helped the Celtics turn things around. He averaged 9.3 points per game and was tough on the backboards. A couple other Celtic newcomers-Ed Macauley and Bob Cousy-played even bigger roles as Boston finished nine games over 500.

While Lloyd’s season was short-circuited by Uncle Sam, Clifton played creditably for the Knicks and went on to average 10 points a game over eight pro seasons.

The NBA’s great experiment had begun. And it proved a success both on and off the court.

Cooper, who wound up playing six NBA seasons and compiling only mediocre statistics, developed a lifelong friendship with Boston star Cousy. The Celtics’ ball-handling wizard shared Cooper’s love for jazz and sense of fairness.

“Cousy is about as free of the affliction of racism as any white person I’ve ever known,” Cooper once said.

Minor, who averaged 7.6 points as a fancy-passing point guard over two seasons with Baltimore and Milwaukee, and Wilson both became close friends with Mel Hutchins, who starred with the Milwaukee Hawks, and Wilson also remembers Cal Christensen, Don Otten and Kevin O’Shea with affection.

“These were pretty solid guys and I don’t think (race) was an issue with them,” Wilson said.

And as much as Clifton enjoyed his teammates-he called them “a great bunch of guys”-they probably had even greater fondness for him. His roommate, Dr. Ernie Vandeweghe (father of the Knicks’ Kiki Vandeweghe), called Clifton “a gentle giant …just a sweet person.”

Vince Boryla, another teammate, said he had wonderful memories of Clifton, a Chicago cab driver for the last 30 years.

“A terrible card player,” Boryla recalled with a chuckle. “Paid all his bills. A little late sometimes, but paid all his bills.”

While things may have gone smoothly within one team, there were occasional confrontations with opponents. Clifton’s old teammates still laugh about his one­ punch knockout of Boston’s Bob Harris. There are different versions of why the fight occurred, but Clifton and Vandeweghe agree that Harris called Sweet­ water a “nigger.” Then the action started. “It was like being in the ring during a Joe Louis fight,” Vandeweghe said.

Clifton faked a right, then socked Harris with a left cross “and knocked him on his ass,” Boryla said. “The whole Boston team ran out and came to a brake. Sweets was there with two fists at his side and there wasn’t one (Celtic) that touched Sweets. You never wanted to get Sweets riled up.”

Life on the road-particularly Southern exhibition swings but also jaunts to not-so­ progressive Northern cities-could be very difficult for black players in those days. Blacks often were banned from white-owned hotels and restaurants.

“It was degrading,” Lloyd said.

DeZonie, reflecting on an NBA career that consisted of only five games, said: “It was a miserable experience because all the fun was out of the game. The accommodations, the segregation-I wasn’t interested in it.”

The black players frequently stayed with black families or at black hotels. Sometimes that worked out: Wilson recalls staying with “very fine families” and meeting Jackie Robinson and Clifton at a

Continued

Davage Minor averaged 7.6 points over two seasons as a fancy-passing point guard for Baltimore and Milwaukee.

black Baltimore hotel.

Whatever good occasionally came out of such a separated society was far out­ weighed by the indignities that went along with it

Some of the black players’ housing was terrible. Lloyd once was stuck in a Paducah, Ky., rooming house in which the closet was a nail hammered into the door. Cooper, then with the St. Louis Hawks, once bad to sleep in a reform school in Shreveport, La.

One of the most humiliating incidents occurred in 1952 when Boston played a neutral-site game in Raleigh, N.C.

The Celtics refused to play there until Raleigh lifted a ban against black players. Getting the go-ahead to play was of little consolation to Cooper, who wasn’t allowed to stay at the team’s hotel. After the game, Cooper decided to take a train home. Cousy insisted on riding with him, and Auerbach and Macauley accompanied them to the train station.

“We all were hungry and thought we could grab a bite at the station’s snack counter,” Auerbach told Sullivan. “But they wouldn’t serve Chuck, so I ordered a mess of sandwiches, and we went out to the platform and desegregated an empty baggage truck.”

Cousy became highly embarrassed when he realized the station had separate bathrooms for blacks and whites.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he recalled. “I didn’t want to say anything trivial or light because I was sure Chuck was experiencing emotional trauma. I was just completely embarrassed by the whole thing because I (as a white person) was part of the establishment that did those things.”

Those incidents left Cooper with such bitter memories that some of his friends believe the mental anguish hastened his death at age 57 in 1984.

“People say I look pretty good for 50,” Cooper told Pittsburgh magazine in 1976. “But all the damage done to me is inside. That’s where it hurts.”

As Cooper and others tried to cope, they and their brethren had mixed feelings about the league’s coaches and team management

Barksdale had a terrible relationship with Baltimore management, which paid him $20,850 in 1951-52, one of the top salaries in the NBA. The team got off to a slow start and Barksdale, a forward playing out of position as a 6–6, 195-pound center, believes he was unfairly blamed. In addition, he says two of his teammates were jealous of his salary, so management was “looking for a way to mess with me.”

Club officials apparently found a way just two months into Barksdale’s NBA career when a front-office operative accused him of breaking a curfew that Barksdale says didn’t exist, then suspended him for two games. Eventually, the team fined Barksdale $5,000, which was almost 25 percent of his salary. Remember, this was long before the players had a union to protect them.

“I said, ‘OK, you’ve got it, but I’ll never play for you again,’ ” said Barksdale, who in 1948 had become the first black U.S. Olympic basketball player. He completed his Baltimore contract in 1952-53 and, in the process, became the first black to play in an NBA All-Star Game. Baltimore then granted his wish to be traded, dealing him to Boston.

Although the black players had a reasonably good relationship with most of their coaches, they voiced a common complaint: Management wanted them to be mainly defenders and rebounders-not scorers.

”I was always setting up (a play) or cutting off or picking,” said Wilson, who averaged 3.7 points as a Milwaukee reserve in 1951-52. “On occasion … they’d give you the ball, but that (passing and defending) was your role.”

Clifton recalls the same situations.

“I couldn’t do anything people would notice,” Clifton said. “So I had to play their type of game-straight, nothing fancy. No backhand passes. It kept me from doing things people might enjoy. My job was to play the toughest guy and get rebounds….”

Wilson took particular delight when those days passed for black players.

“The first black I ever saw shooting was Elgin Baylor,” Wilson said, “and I was so pleased.”

Baylor, who averaged 31.2 points in his 54-game career at Seattle University, joined the Minneapolis Lakers for the 1958-59 season and proceeded to score 24.9 points per game in his rookie campaign. It was the fourth-best average in the league.

Bob Wilson says management wanted blacks to be mainly defenders and rebounders – not scorers.

Baylor, without question, was part of the next era of black players, one in which conditions were somewhat improved but far from ideal.

Zelmo Beaty, an NBA and American Basketball Association center for 12 seasons, said that when he entered the NBA in 1962 some team officials were afraid that if they had too many black starters or black stars, attendance would plummet. To avoid that, he said some coaches would start more black players on the road than at home games.

Wayne Embry, general manager of the Cleveland Cavaliers, played with the Cincinnati Royals, Boston Celtics and Milwaukee Bucks in an 11-year NBA career that ended in 1968-69. He said officials of those teams didn’t discourage blacks from scoring (Embry fashioned a 19.8-point average one season). But he also said that black players, himself included, generally felt they were underpaid compared with equally skilled whites. They also believed that the number of black players was limited by an unwritten quota.

What was the maximum allowed per team? “Back then, we thought it was three,” Embry said.

Bill Russell thought the quota system could be spelled out in easy-to-understand language.

“The general rule,” the longtime Celtics great said, “is you’re allowed to play two blacks at home, three on the road and five when you’re behind.”

Russell is quick to point out that among the two rosters matched in the 1957 NBA Finals-his Celtics and the St. Louis Hawks-only Russell himself was black. The next spring, the St. Louis Hawks became the last all-white team to win the NBA championship.

The racial incidents in the South had lessened in some places by then-but not everywhere.

In 1959, when the Lakers played a neutral-site game in Charleston, W.Va., Baylor refused to play after being told he and two teammates couldn’t stay in the team hotel. Baylor said Lakers officials had promised they wouldn’t play in such segregated cities after a similar incident had occurred two weeks earlier.

Paducah still was a dreaded spot on the exhibition trail. Unlike the time Lloyd had to stay at a rundown black rooming house there in 1957, Beaty and the entire St. Louis Hawks team stayed at a white­ owned hotel in the early 1960s.

Still, black players knew they were unwelcome at many restaurants and business establishments in Paducah. In an effort to avoid incidents, “We didn’t go anywhere, not even to the laundry,” Beaty said.

By this time, the Boston Celtics were really going places-particularly in the standings. And the racial makeup of the Boston club was not lost on the league’s other front offices.

From 1958-59 through 1968-69, Boston won 10 of 11 NBA Finals. Russell, on hand since 1956-57, was joined in that run of success by such fellow black standouts as Sam Jones, K.C. Jones, Tom Sanders, Willie Naulls and Embry.

“What Red (Auerbach) did, basically, was get the best people for the job, period,” said Russell, alluding to the fact that the Celtics would play as many as four blacks at a time in those days. “He might have ended up with an all-white team, or an all-black team… Is the team any good? That’s what it’s all about for Red.”

Boston, never known as a city of great racial harmony, was colorblind as it took to its championship basketball team. Oh, the power of winning.

With other clubs taking note of the Celtics’ success and the civil-rights movement of the mid-to-late ’60s also having impact in terms of tearing down many racial barriers, integration of the NBA came steadily after its slow start. As early as 1960-61, the All-NBA team included three blacks­ Baylor, Wilt Chamberlain and Oscar Robertson. By 1967-68, four members of the all-league team were black. In each of the last two seasons, the All-NBA team was entirely black.

To be sure, things have changed drastically in the NBA and in society at large for minority groups. It’s not the ’50s any­ more. But the battle still goes on.

“We were high-profile people and felt if we were successful, it would be a great step toward bridging the (racial) gap,” said Embry, reflecting on his contributions and those of Earl Lloyd, Chuck Cooper, Sweetwater Clifton and others. “Perhaps it shouldn’t have been that way, but we were growing up in a country in which racism was prevalent-and we haven’t conquered it yet.”