I had never heard of James 'Cool Papa' Bell nor the street that bore his name until my mother informed my brother Sonny and I that we were moving onto the North St. Louis street named after the Negro Baseball League great. Honestly, back then, my brother and I thought it was the silliest name a street could ever be named.
"What kinda name is that for a street any damn way," Sonny asked. Thirteen at the time, Sonny was very defiant towards our mother and he made it a point to let her know he didn't want to move from the City's Southside into the Jeff Vander Lou housing projects.
"Boy, watch yo' mouth," Moms shot back, raising her hand with an open palm to warn Sonny he was on the verge of another classic beat down, "before I wash it out with soap and hot water."
"I'm just saying, Moms," Sonny countered, "I'on wanna move to no Northside. Especially no JVL. Them cats be illin'. Let me stay with Granny."
I was a bit of a momma's boy, a titty licker, if you will. Wherever Moms was going, I was going, so I was cool with the move. Besides, everybody on Park Avenue already knew our dad, Pops Winston, played minor league baseball within the St. Louis Cardinals' organization, so a move north could only spread the news.
"My momma ain't trying to raise yo' hard-headed butt, boy," Moms said to Sonny. "She done raised her kids. So grab some boxes, go upstairs and start sorting yo' things. We outta here in three days."
Three days wasn't a lot of time for Sonny to do all the necessary things he had to do; besides packing, he had about three different girlfriends on the Southside he had to break the news to. One, Pam, was fifteen, so she was cool about it. Another, Monique was happy we were moving and the other, Niko, was heartbroken.
"Why, Sonny," Niko wondered, "why ya'll moving so soon?"
"Moms wanna be in the new spot by the first so we'll have a month before school starts," Sonny explained. "That way, we'll be all settled in by the time Pops get back to town."
Pops, a defensive specialist with speed to burn and an decent throwing arm, was expected to be a September call up by the baseball Cardinals. At 30 years of age, he figured he had put up decent enough numbers at Triple-A Louisville to be at least a expanded roster addition. By all accounts, the Cardinals planned on doing just that.
"Does that mean I'll never see you again, Sonny?" Niko continued. "Does that mean we gon' break up?"
"Baby, calm down," Sonny consoled, "you know my Grandmother still lives on Park Ave, so I'll be seeing you again. So, let me get off this phone so I can start packing my suff."
"Sonny, wait, don't go," Niko pleaded. "I wanna tell you something."
"Niko, I gotta go, Moms 'bout to come in her tripping," Sonny said. "I'll call you later."
Moms was a tall, regal woman, albeit a little on the skinny side. She lived fast, played hard and didn't take kindly to disrespectfulness toward her, her kids, family or friends. Her and Pops had gotten married when she became pregnant with Sonny. Moms was just eighteen at the time, Pops seventeen and on his way being drafted by the Cardinals in the 20th round of the 1972 amateur draft.
Despondent over his draft selection and subsequent signing bonus offer, Pops elected to go to the Community College in the hopes of improving his draft prospects. Two years later, the Cardinals drafted him again, this time in the 12th round and he signed.
The young couple struggled financially. By the time I was born in '74, Moms had moved back in with Granny on Park Ave, while Pops toiled in minor league cities in Texas, Arkansas and Kentucky. We lived with Granny off and on up until that August day in 1985 when we moved to the JVL.
********************************************************************************************
That last day on Park Ave was an interesting one. Some of the neighborhood crew decided to have an impromptu baseball game between the Park Avenue Pirates and the McGinnis family in Terry Park, a neighborhood gathering place for kids and adults alike.
The McGinnis' were a family in the neighborhood that outnumbered everybody else's family three to one. They could fill out a baseball team by themselves and not just a nine man team. More like a 25 man roster. The Pirates were made up of everybody else in the neighborhood who weren't related to the McGinnis'.
Although we had black Pittsburg Pirates baseball capswith the P on the bill and matching yellow t-shirts, the Pirates struggled to fill a team of nine consistently. Sometimes we played with seven or eight people. Once, when we had only five people show up, the McGinnis' loaned us four of their relatives. That game ended up in a fight between us and our temporary teammates.
After taking ground balls and warming up, both teams were ready to go. We had umpires, bases, aluminum bats and a real league ball, courtesy of Pops. I made sure everyone knew it was my ball, by labeling it: "This Ball Belongs To Cassius Clay Winston." Marcus McGinnis didn't take to kindly to that.
As I stepped into the box to lead off the contest, Marcus snapped.
"Why this lil' nigga got his name all over the damn ball for, man?" Marcus asked to no one in particular. "We know it's his ball. C'mon scrub, dig in."
Marcus McGinnis wasn't but a year or two older than me, but he was intimidating. He had a certain roughness to him that scarred the be-Jesus out of me and stepping into the batter box that afternoon was freighting.
"Strrrrike one," the home-plate umpire, Junior McGinnis, bellowed out as I watched Marcus' first pitch fastball buzz by. Junior was one of the older McGinnis' and he usually called the games from behind home plate. He had played ball with Pops at the Community College, so he thought he was the most qualified to call ball and strikes.
"C'mon, Cass, swing the bat, baby," my teammate and cousin Corleone said. "Swing the bat."
"Watch the fastball, Cass," my other cousin Lucky said, "he ain't got no curve."
"Ball", Junior screamed out as Marcus' attempt to shut Lucky up bounced about three feet in front of the plate.
"I told you," Lucky teased, "he ain't got no curve."
I could tell that Marcus was getting mad about being teased about his curveball, but I knew he wasn't going to stop trying to throw it either, so I decided to take one more pitch before I swung the bat. Pops had always told me to think two pitches ahead to counteract what a pitcher was trying to do. Marcus was trying to establish his curveball.
"Ball two!" Junior screamed as he dipped out of the way of Marcus' wild curveball. By then, his cousin and catcher, Meko, was frustrated.
"Hey, man I ain't finna be trying to catch all these wild 'lil curve balls," Meko informed, "so throw some heat."
By the time Marcus flung that 2 and 1 fastball down the middle of the plate, I was already in attack mode and stroke the pitch to left center where Donnell and Demond McGinnis gave chase all the way to the fence some 350ft away.
"Go Cass, go," a Pirate yelled.
"Run lil' brother, run," Sonny said.
"All the way home," Carleone conjoled. "All the way home."
As I rounded second base and headed into third, I could see the centerfielder, Demond, had gotten to the ball quickly, but I was determined for my first homerun of the summer.
"Slid, slide," the on deck batter, Main, said. Main was the only person our age from the neighborhood who actually played organized ball, so I figured I had better get dirty. Funny, as I slid headfirst into home Meko wasn't even trying to make an attempt to catch the ball and tag me out. A mouth full of dirt later, Main just looked down at me and said, "my bad Cassius, I thought they were coming home with it."
Sonny and Pops were closer than Pops and I, but everybody always said I could play ball just as good as Pops. The inside the park homer solidified that.
"That nigga ran them bases like his daddy," one spectator said. Another, Dope Fiend Dave, went one better. "Man, dat boy ran dem bases like E.T. McGee."
Marcus was mad enough to fight or at least throw a bean-ball at the next batter prompting a fight. The Pirates were happy and I was confused.
"Who is E.T. McGee?" I asked Dope Fiend Dave as I spat the Terry Park dirt out of my mouth.
"Who is E.T. McGee?" Dave shot back. "You know kid, dat nigga dat play for the Cardinals."
"His name is Willie McGee," I corrected Dave in my youthful naiveté.
"We'll dat nigga uglier dan a motherfuckin' extraterrestrial," Dave protested. "Look jus like dat ailien from the movie. E.T go home. E.T. go home."
The whole park just erupted in laughter. Just when I thought it was about to get ugly with Marcus and his quick temper, the whole park just erupted in laughter.
Chapter 1 continues...
