Wearing number 13 because no other kid would take the jersey, he occasionally eluded tacklers with bursts of speed, but more often got hammered by neighborhood pals trying to win starting positions on Father John Dempsey's makeshift team representing Saint Paul's School.
Kids provided their own helmets and pads. Father provided purple jerseys. His eager12 to 14 year-olds showed up faithfully for practice on a rough vacant lot near the church. When neighbors came out to watch, Father loudly praised his stumbling novices. With a broad grin, he told one amused onlooker his "Cardinals" averaged 110 pounds.
If a player broke his nose or collarbone, Father commiserated and took him home to make sure he received prompt medical treatment. No one ever heard of a parent suing the parish because their kid got hurt. Players learned teamwork and football fundamentals from the burly priest; to be gracious in defeat, even after taking a pounding, and modest in victory.
On a rainy afternoon in October, 1938, Father arranged a scrub game with kids from Nichols Academy, a private school near Buffalo's Delaware Park, which boasted an actual gridiron with goal posts and benches for players, a first for the rag-tag team from Saint Paul's in suburban Kenmore.
Near half-time, losing by two touchdowns, number 13 took a pitch out, slipping and sliding forward in the muck. He never knew if the linebacker couldn't stop or chose not to as he pushed him out of bounds and tackled him hard against a bench. Both knees puffed up even before he tried to stand.
A freshly-minted physician from the University of Buffalo Medical School was summoned. Aaron
Wagner had recently married the injured player's older cousin. In the Depression years, physicians and dentists were expected to provide gratis service to extended family. Wagner had joined the practice of a semi-retired black physician, Dr. Johnson, in an office over a grocery store at Lutheran Alley and William Street in Buffalo's Little Harlem, which had diathermy equipment to treat number 13's damaged knees.
One could see the towering Rand Building on Buffalo's Lafayette Square from the window, but the only residents of Lutheran Alley employed there were shoeshine boys, janitors and dishwashers. Number 13 was a curiosity in a black neighborhood, hobbling his way from the bus stop, passing rundown flats and an old church whre kids fired snow balls at his head, On his third visit, one of those snow balls had a stone in it, cutting his hand as he protected his face. That's when he met Willie Brown and his little brother, Bennie, who were playing in the church yard and escorted him to the doctors' office. Their parents managed the grocery store downstairs, and their cousin, Nancy, assisted the doctors and scheduled patients.
A large single room divided into screened cubicles served as the office, and even whispered consultations could easily be overheard. Diathermy machines could be rolled into any vacant cubicle. Number 13 would sit quietly, playing gin rummy with Willie, or reading a magazine, knees wrapped in thick towels, heating pads connected to the diathermy machine. Dr. Johnson, always dressed in a sharply pressed dark suit with starched white collar, would look in to offer encouragment. Number 13 thought him the most dignified person he had ever met, his deep melodious voice exuding confidence. The doctors' mutual admiration for each other was evident. As months passed, the boy's affection for his "Uncle Arnie" deepened into a lifelong friendship.
Whether his knees healed on their own, or the diathermy actually helped, number 13 was never sure. When towels got too hot, Nancy turned off the machine and unwrapped his beet-red knees. Yet, he looked forward to three afternoon visits and an extended Saturday morning treatment that extended into the Spring of 1939.
Once he and Willie became friends, no kid on the block ever again threw rocks or bothered him in any way. Willie's parents took great pride in their sons, and it was clear to number 13 that Willie and Bennie loved each other and their mother and father just as dearly as he loved his own parents and three brothers.
Only much later did he fully comprehend the powerful lesson he had learned on Lutheran Alley: when he served in a racially segregated Army during World War II; later, in the 1960s, trying to persuade editors, hospital administrators and school officials to support desegregation. Only then did he appreciate the extraordinary friendship between Drs. Wagner and Johnson in an era of strict segregation and blatant bigotry; or the color-blind trust of Willie's parents, and cruel penalties for being born black that stifled and humiliated the human spirit, and put black soldiers under the command of white officers. The only time number 13 saw white and black soldiers together during World War II was in a hospital ward where injury and illness temporarilty leveled the playing field.
Decades have passed. There has been great progress in race relations. Yet, the color of one's skin still makes too much difference in America. And there is a tendency to gloss over ugly history. That's why it's deeply gratifying that a statue of Talbot County, Maryland's famous son, Frederick Bailey Douglass, born a slave who became a famed abolitionist and counselor to Abraham Lincoln, will at long last be erected on the Courthouse Green in June.
I still favor the number 13, and thank the kid who tackled me against the bench that rainy afternoon for one of the most unexpected and cherished learning experiences of my life.
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Carlton E. Spitzer
Always loved this story. Thanks for posting it. My kids will be reading it tomorrow.
ReplyDeleteLove you so!