No Greater Grief...

By Tom Killeen

NO GREATER GRIEF. . . is a baseball story-but it is much more than that. It is a story of friendship, teamwork, camaraderie, and bonds that can never be broken. This story begins and ends on Opening Day of the 1970 Major League baseball season at Gotham Stadium, home to the New York Warriors, perennially last-place finishers. That is, until the previous season and the arrival of two new up-and-coming players-Billy Cantrell, a second baseman, and Jessie Davis, a shortstop. Weaving historical events of the 1960s throughout, No Greater Grief. . . takes the reader through the struggles and victories of these two very different players from their first meeting to the events that eventually lead to No Greater Grief. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640031319

Book preview

Chapter 1

Spring Training

St. Petersburg, Florida, February 25, 1969

As the jumbo jet banked and started its descent, I started thinking about the day I got drafted. Sitting by the phone, I had been waiting all day, anticipating the call that was going to give me my chance. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but it was hard not to. Quite a few scouts had spoken to me, and I was expecting a phone call from any one of them. The word came late that afternoon when Cooper Smith, chief scout for the New York Warriors, called and told me that the Warriors had drafted me with their second pick. Could he come over that evening with a contract for my father and me to sign? I told him, The sooner the better! I was really psyched. Not only was I going to get a chance to play pro ball but I was also going to get that chance with the Warriors, the team I had been rooting for ever since I could remember. This was a dream come true!

And that was it. Mr. Smith came over to our house that evening, my father and I signed the contract, and I was told to report to the Warriors’ training camp in Florida in late February. And here I was.

Getting off the plane, I gathered my bags and hailed a taxi to go to the Warriors’ training complex. The driver was full of questions. Who was I? What position did I play? Had I been drafted or was I a free agent? All of the usual questions I would soon get used to. When I got out of the cab and paid the driver, he yelled, Lots of luck, and headed back to the airport for his next fare. I smiled, knowing I was going to need all the luck I could get.

I turned and made my way toward the complex. There weren’t too many people around because the rookies were coming into camp a week earlier than the veterans. I didn’t feel too nervous yet because except for the pitchers and catchers, most of the players in camp were in the same boat as I was—rookies trying to make the team or aging veterans trying to keep their dreams alive. More importantly, I wanted to avoid embarrassing myself. Not that I doubted my ability, but I didn’t know what to expect. I had also heard that the manager of the Warriors, Freddie Rogers, was a pretty tough guy to please.

Arriving in camp late Sunday afternoon and not knowing anyone nor where to go, I headed for the largest building, figuring that there would have to be somebody there who would be able to give me directions. An elderly gentleman, who as I was soon to find out was Doc Swenson, greeted me. Doc Swenson. That name was very familiar to me. How many times had the television announcers spoken of his many accomplishments? Yes, Doc Swenson has been in baseball for the last half century. Not only is he one of the mainstays of the Warriors’ organization, but he is also one of baseball’s most respected men. A sure Hall of Famer.

Well here I was, face-to-face with a living legend, not knowing what to say when the most obvious thing should have been Hello. Instead, I just stood there and stared.

He made the first sound. Well, rook, where’re you headin’?

I guess he could tell by the dazed expression on my face that I was a rook.

I…uh…uh…just got into camp. I was hoping you could tell me where I have to go?

What’s the name? he asked rather brusquely, giving the impression that he didn’t want to be bothered by first-year players. I didn’t need this. I was having enough trouble trying to keep myself from shaking.

Billy Cantrell.

Mmm… Cantrell… Cantrell. Oh, here ya are. Over in Stengel, room 111. Your roommate is Jessie Davis. He hasn’t checked in yet, but he should be here pretty soon.

Thanks, I said, making a quick getaway to the door. As I was hastened away, the Doc called my name. Stopping short, I turned slowly. He then told me something that I will never forget.

Cantrell, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. You seem like a pretty good kid, so let me give you some advice. You can listen and take it for what it’s worth. I’ve been around baseball for a long time. I’ve seen a lot of young fellas like yourself come down here. They had all the tools, but they let the opportunity get away from them. Not many guys get two chances. In fact, not many of them get the chance you’re gettin’. Don’t let it slip away without givin’ it your best shot. With that, he turned and disappeared into a room.

I stood there for a moment, thinking about what Doc Swenson had just said. He was right. I was getting a chance—to jump from high school baseball right to the majors. It was a long shot, but it had been done before. And something else. The Warriors hadn’t had a winning record in quite a few years, so this was a real opportunity to stick with the big club. I had a shot, and something told me that I should listen to Doc Swenson.

I was going to give it my best!

Making my way across the huge training complex to the dormitory named after one of baseball’s greatest managers (and characters), I was in complete awe. The names of Ruth, Cobb, and Gehrig flashed through my mind. Hesitating, a question entered my mind: how could I ever hope to be as good as these players were? For the first time in my life, I began to doubt my ability. But only for a second. I knew what I could do, and I was going to give it everything I had.

Upon reaching the dormitory and passing through the front door, I found myself staring into the face of the Old Professor. The wall opposite the door was an enormous mural of Casey Stengel, a legend of baseball. Once again, that self-doubt appeared. Was I good enough to be here? Before I could reassure myself, someone came up behind me.

Well, another rookie.

Startled, I turned around and found myself face-to-face with one of the biggest people I had ever encountered.

How ya doin’? drawled the black behemoth, sticking out his huge hand. I’m Willie Jenkins, and this here is Tommy Kelleher.

Willie Jenkins was very familiar to anyone who followed baseball. A perennial All-Star. He was the Warriors’ catcher and a great favorite of the fans. Most people said that they had never seen Jenkins without a smile taking up most of his face. Now was no exception.

Tommy Kelleher was stockily built, a rugged-looking man. And very quiet. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a week, but as I was to find later, this was just his five o’clock shadow. I had to admit that it did not make him look any friendlier. The two men appeared to be enjoying my discomfort.

Mustering up enough courage to say Hello, I’m Billy Cantrell, I was pleasantly surprised by Jenkins’s reply.

Cantrell. Hmm… Second baseman, aren’t ya?

Yes, sir, inwardly proud that he had heard of me. Could you direct me to room 111?

Go down the hallway, and it’s the last room on the right, said Kelleher, whose gruff voice fit his appearance perfectly.

Thanks. See you at dinner. With that, I quickly walked away (more like ran), hoping to avoid any further conversation.

Locating my room without any further encounters, I walked in, put my suitcase down, and sat on the edge of the bed. My mind wandered back over the events of the day—leaving the cold, bitter winter of New Jersey only four hours ago, and now I was in the eighty-five-degree weather of St. Petersburg, Florida; meeting Doc Swenson, who had been in baseball thirty years before I was born; and now, meeting two of baseball’s respected players.

What could happen next?

Chapter 2

Jessie Davis was what happened next. As I was lying on the bed, just beginning to feel at ease in my new surroundings, the door flew open, and a young man about my age walked in and threw his suitcase on the other bed. He was a pleasant-looking young man who was wearing an ear-to-ear smile.

Hi. I’m Jessie Davis. So this was the player who was taken with the first pick in the draft. But this guy couldn’t be a rookie. He was too loose!

Well, say somethin’.

All I could manage was a How ya doin’?

It must have been obvious from the tone of my voice that I wasn’t the most confident person in the world at this point in time.

Hey, man, loosen up. We’re all in the same boat. Us rookies against the world. By this time, the smile on his face had gotten wider.

He waited a minute and said, You got a name?

Billy Cantrell. Glad to meet you, and I stuck out my hand.

So this was Jessie Davis. Talk about being loose! And that smile never left his face. You couldn’t help but like him. And then a strange thing happened. I did loosen up. His attitude was infectious. For the next hour or so, we just sat and talked, getting acquainted with one another.

I was right about his age. We were both eighteen, both about eight months out of high school. Jessie, an African American, hailed from Flushing Meadows, while I lived in Northern New Jersey, just on the other side of the George Washington Bridge. Something else we had in common was a dream, the dream of playing in Gotham Stadium for the Warriors. I guess most guys growing up have their idols, their favorite teams, and the same dream that we had—playing in the big leagues. We were going to try to make this dream a reality.

I found out quite a bit about Jessie in that hour. Like I said before, Jessie came from Flushing Meadows, New York. He told me that you could see the World’s Fair from his front porch. He had four older brothers and a younger sister, but his father had died when he was very young. And then there was his mama. She was something special to Jessie. You could tell by the sparkle in his eye when he talked about her. She had raised Jessie and the others by herself.

It wasn’t easy for Mama, he said in a serious tone. But she saw to it that there was always food on the table, even if she had to work two jobs. I have to pay her back, Billy. With interest.

That was all Jessie said, but you could tell by the tone of his voice and the expression on his face that making the Warriors was not just a goal but an obsession.

After a while, I felt pretty comfortable being around Jessie. Getting up from the bed, Jessie slapped me on the back and said, C’mon, roomie. Let’s go get some chow.

Yeah, I liked Jessie Davis a lot.

Chapter 3

We made our way over to the dining hall, and once there, it was pretty easy to distinguish the rookies from the few veterans who had arrived in camp early. The rookies stayed to themselves, talking in low voices so as not to draw attention, while the vets were a little on the rowdy side, swapping stories with each other about the off-season, not having seen one another for four months.

The meal was pretty uneventful. Well, almost. Most of the rookies were sticking together, getting to know each other, and for the most part, just trying to make each other feel at ease. Jessie was the center of attention. His laugh was contagious, and pretty soon we were all laughing, finally feeling as if we belonged. Jessie got up from the table to get another dessert, and as he passed one table of veterans, a voice called out. Hey, boy, get me another juice! Jessie turned, looking for the owner of the voice.

Excuse me. I didn’t quite get that order. The expression on Jessie’s face had changed considerably. It was obvious he had heard the order. And I noticed his fists were clenched. He was still smiling, but it was a different smile.

I said, ‘Boy, get me another juice!’. The voice belonged to a guy named Porter Johnson, a middle-aged pitcher who was getting one last shot to stay in the major leagues. He had spent his entire career going back and forth between the big leagues and the minors, and the Warriors were his last hope. After all, if he couldn’t hook up with a last-place club that had finished thirty-eight games out of first place, then he was ready to pack it in.

Jessie just stood there and stared at the speaker. In fact, there was complete silence in the dining hall, as we all stared at the speaker.

Well, boy, are ya gonna get me that drink? drawled the voice, full of an Alabama twang and also filled with the tone of a man who had forgotten that Jackie Robinson had broken the color barrier in baseball twenty years earlier.

Yes, sir! came a reply, as Jessie turned and walked into the serving line. But it was not the same voice that had told me a life story an hour before.

Johnson turned to the other men at the table and snickered. He’d show these rookies who was boss. Especially the black one. When Jessie returned, he stopped at the table.

Your juice, sir, he said mockingly, while bowing at the same time—and pouring the juice into Johnson’s lap!

I don’t know what made Johnson angrier—Jessie’s dumping the juice or being shown up by a rookie, a black rookie at that, in front of his friends and being laughed at by everyone in the dining hall. Everyone, that is, but Jessie. Johnson’s face went beet red, and he started to rise to his feet, fists clenched.

You filthy ni— He stopped in midsentence. The reason he stopped was Willie Jenkins, who had slowly made his way over from another table and was now standing behind Jessie.

What’s the matter, Johnson, a little too hot for you in here?

The words came from a face masked with a smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. Johnson looked first at Jessie, then at Jenkins, and realized it was not to his advantage to start anything here.

Yeah, I guess so, he said grudgingly.

Well, why don’t you go outside and cool off a little bit, suggested Jenkins menacingly. Johnson looked at the men at his table, then back at Jenkins, and hesitated.

Now! said Jenkins in a voice that wasn’t a request, a voice that was less than friendly. The smile had disappeared from Willie’s