Remembering the Birmingham Black Barons and Rickwood Field

Faye Davis remembers every time she left church early on Sundays. Sure, the youthful satisfaction that comes from being able to sneak away from a sermon is exciting enough, but it was more about where Davis was heading after church that elicits joy and rosy memories, bringing laughs and full smiles to her face while she sits in her home in the hills of Birmingham, Ala.

It’s because Davis — the daughter of Lorenzo “Piper” Davis, former player/manager for the Birmingham Black Barons from 1943-49 — her mother and her siblings were on their way to Rickwood Field to watch her dad handle business. She and the rest of the Black residents of Birmingham had a standing appointment there every Sunday that they would keep, no matter what.

“You had to leave church to get a seat in Rickwood when the Black Barons played,” Davis said. “On a Sunday doubleheader, it was jam-packed. … The preacher at our church knew that the Davises were going to get up and leave. And he made the mistake of saying something one Sunday, and [my mother] said, ‘Don’t you ever do that again. As long as my husband is out there playing, my children and I will be there supporting him.’

“Rickwood, oh God. The guys have come in, and they still got on the straw hats from the church and suits, and the ladies are still dressed. … We’d come straight down, everybody in the ballpark knew where we were going to sit.”

Davis is far from the only person to recall the halcyon days of Rickwood Field, with seats filled to the brim with a sea of Black folks, turning the grandstands into an oasis for a couple hours at a time. Ask any former player that you might be lucky enough to come into contact with: Black Barons games weren’t simply social events.

First organized at the beginning of the roaring ‘20s as the Birmingham Stars, the Black Barons were one of the first eight teams of the Negro Southern League. Their name change came quickly, a play on the all-white baseball team in the city (who also played their games at Rickwood Field), a stringent, constant reminder of the segregationist policies that forced players and fans to be separated across racial lines in the U.S. The separation was unavoidable even at Rickwood Field — while Black and white citizens attended both teams’ games, there were separate ticket lines, and the far section of seats in the right-field corner was roped off for the minority group of fans.

Becoming full members of the Negro National League in 1925, the Black Barons were a hotbed for talented ballplayers, becoming an early proving ground for legendary figures in the sport. Hall of Famers Satchel Paige and George “Mule” Suttles arrived, with blistering fastballs and earth-shattering power becoming the norm. But their golden era didn’t truly take off until the 1940s.

From 1943-48, the Black Barons racked up a .604 win percentage (298 wins in 493 games) and captured three Negro American League pennants (‘43, ‘44 and ‘48). Despite never winning the World Series, the run of excellence galvanized Black Birmingham, turning the club into a beaming beacon of brilliance that people wanted to support in droves.

“Oh man, this is all the people had here in Birmingham — baseball,” said Bill Greason, who pitched on the 1948 team. “And when they found out we had a good team, every Sunday that we were there to play, that ballpark was full. … Whenever we played in Rickwood, you had to get there early to get a seat. They roped off the outfield quite often because of the overflow of people coming to the game.”

For many, attending these games, surrounded by their neighbors and families, all focused on rooting their team to victory, felt like family reunions. And for people like Al Holt, who played for the Black Barons from 1962-63, and Davis, the games were true family affairs, cementing each time they watched the Negro Leaguers step on the field in their memory banks.

“My uncle [Tommy Sampson] was my idol,” said Holt. (Sampson played and managed for Birmingham from 1940-47). “I used to go with him. … I used to be like a secretary, carrying the money, bookkeeping, stuff like that. That was my first introduction to baseball, hanging with my uncle.”

“We had the same seats, the box seats,” Faye Davis said. “And Dad would come out the dugout, and do like this [give a little wave], to make sure we were sitting in the right seats.”

Even though there’s no World Series title next to the Black Barons’ name in the history books, there’s a mysticism surrounding the bevy of talent that played in Birmingham in the ‘40s. To put it mildly: These teams were stacked, rife with players whose statistical numbers and stories about their feats would make your jaws drop and eyes pop out of your head.

But it’s the 1948 iteration of the club that is still spoken about with reverence. With integration in the Majors signaling a weakening of the Negro Leagues, the ‘48 campaign was a poetic rendezvous of beginnings and endings. On their march to the World Series, Birmingham received contributions from a 17-year-old Willie Mays — who was recruited by Sampson and Davis — stellar outings from the likes of Alonzo Perry, Bill Powell, Jimmie Newberry and Greason, and was buoyed offensively by Davis, shortstop Artie Wilson and outfielder Ed Steele.

In the Negro American League Championship Series, they squared off with the Kansas City Monarchs, who were armed with a blossoming version of Hank Thompson and the legendary Buck O’Neil. Greason remembers the exact scene going into the deciding matchup with the series tied at three games apiece, and the preceding conversation with then player/manager Davis.

“We played four out of seven, and a couple of pitchers said, ‘Skip, my arm hurts,” Greason said. “I said, ‘Give me the ball. Give me the ball.’ And then Piper gave it to me. I remember Buck O’Neil, Curt Roberts, Hank Thompson, Willard Brown, they were on that team. … But it was awful for them that night. That fastball would play off the curveball, I had this overhand curveball. When I got two strikes on you, I said, ‘Byeee.’

“Buck O’Neil nearly had a fit, boy. [Nobody could touch me], not that night. I pitched us into the World Series.”

Greason’s heroics in Game 7, which he started against the Monarchs and earned the win, propelled the Black Barons to the World Series, bringing more glory to Birmingham. They couldn’t for sure know that it would be the final full-fledged iteration of the Negro Leagues. But the pennant celebration created one of the most beautiful enduring images in the team’s history: The men clasping hands and smiling ear to ear in the clubhouse, knowing that they were just one step closer to the mountaintop, loving and relishing the chance to keep playing with their friends for the sake of the game.

However, the Black Barons successes on the field didn’t shield them from the realities of living in a racially oppressive society, one in which their humanity was disrespected daily. Traveling in segregated areas ensured that the Black Barons received second-rate lodgings and second-rate treatment. Greason remembers nights when the team would elect to sleep outside on the ground because “critters” ruled the inside of the hotel rooms. Yet a steadfast focus on baseball kept one foot going in front of the other.

“Man, when you’re playing baseball, and you want to be a part of something that’s great, you go along with whatever,” Greason said. “It didn’t bother us, or it didn’t bother me.”

A number of the 1948 team members continued their professional careers after the Negro Leagues lost prominence. Of course, there was Mays, who flourished into one of the greatest players in baseball history. But the likes of Davis and Greason — as well as many others — continued their journeys as well.

Davis signed with the Red Sox in 1950, becoming the first Black player to play for the organization in the franchise’s history, joining the club’s then Class A affiliate, the Scranton Miners. Davis hit .333 with three homers and 10 RBIs for Scranton but he only played 15 games, facing racist treatment on the diamond. Piper was released by Boston shortly after.

Faye Davis was only a young girl at the time of her father’s terse foray with MLB, but she knew that her father’s trademark dignity and intelligence in the face of discrimination remained. Among the memorabilia and honors that she keeps of Piper’s life and career is a clipping that includes a quote summing up his feelings on the initial wave of integration in baseball: “He said, ‘They didn’t want Blacks then, and they don’t want Blacks now,’” Faye remarked.

Greason continued to pitch for the Black Barons for a couple of years, trying his hand in Mexico while also playing ball during his stretch of active military duty with the Marines in the Korean War. His quixotic journey through baseball shifted in 1952, when he signed with the Double-A Oklahoma City Indians in the Texas League, becoming the first Black player in the state of Oklahoma. He was acquired by the Cardinals ahead of the 1954 season, continuing to break barriers as the second Black player to play for St. Louis, making three appearances.

The shine of integration in baseball wore off rather quickly for Greason, now a pastor in Birmingham, who found his days in St. Louis to be isolating, as segregation and racism were still the law of the land. He found little to no support from his teammates or manager Eddie Stankey, but he was able to draw from his own worth, finding solace in his accomplishments despite facing neglect and rejection.

“There was no communication with the other ballplayers: Segregation was at its highest at the time, and they didn’t want to be seen with a Black,” Greason said. “ … When you’re into something that you’re not wanted in, and you’re able to rise above it, it gives you kind of a self-esteem and you feel good about it.

“You didn’t have any fellowship with any of the players. … In fact, when I was with the Cardinals, I didn’t know one player that came up to me and said, ‘Hi, Bill, you doing OK?’”

Even with the ending of the Negro Leagues, the Black Barons remained an integral aspect of the African-American community in Birmingham. For many who grew up spitting distance away from Rickwood, putting on the cap with the “B” was a dream.

“My dad knew I loved baseball, so he took me and my other brother to see the [Indianapolis] Clowns and the Barons on many days when they came to town,” said Ferdinand “Chico” Rutledge, who played for the Black Barons from 1962-63. “[They] meant everything to the Black community. My people still call me and say, ‘We didn’t know you played for the Black Barons!’”

“The people that I was around, they loved their baseball,” Holt said. “ … For that moment, for that little two hours, three hours, that you were out there — you were just free.”

When the Giants and Cardinals descend upon Rickwood Field next week, much fanfare will be made to honor former Negro Leaguers in the essence of trying to make up for lost time. And while it might be impossible to fully repay what it owed to those who were barred from the Majors, a necessary step involves recognizing the passion the Black Barons had for the game of baseball. Witnessing the love and care that they had for one another on and off the field and the quality of play is every bit as “major” as anything that occurred on an MLB ballfield.

“It meant a whole lot,” Holt said. “It meant recognition. It meant dignity. When you played with the Barons, you either were a pimp or a hustler. … When you were out on the streets, people would recognize you.”