The Black Cyclone: A Hero The World Forgot

By John Kennedy Howard and Rene Maurer

About the Book

The life story of Marshall Major Taylor, the world's first acclaimed African American athlete. Major Taylor endured countless examples of social injustice during his reign at the top of cycling's pyramid of success. It was an era when bike racing was bigger than baseball and the fledgling sports of football and basketball combined. Cyclists were the highest-paid athletes in any sport and our country had more than a hundred high-banked velodromes historically reminiscent of what NASCAR represents today.

Major Taylor was the world's best-known African American in any endeavor. He was also the first openly Christian athlete whose strength of body, mind, and spirit inspired others, black and white, with his extraordinary athletic achievement. His moral impact and the lessons Major imparted 120 years ago are equally relevant today.

About the Author

John Kennedy Howard has held world records at both ends of the spectrum of madness; speed and endurance. He is a 3-time Olympian and coached many national and international champions from Olympic gold medal fame to the grueling Race Across America. A cycling journalist, Howard has five book titles and hundreds of articles spanning every facet of cycling.

A native San Diegan, Rene has lived in San Diego County for most of her life. She graduated from California State University San Marcos with a BS degree in Chemistry and worked as a research scientist for a manufacturing company. She developed a love for writing and the research needed to tell a factual and compelling story. Writing about Marshall Walter Taylor, the challenges he faced as an African American during a racially-challenged era, and the people he encountered during his life’s journey was an enjoyable and challenging experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781648045349

Book preview

The Black Cyclone

---

Joshua Owen, Chicago, June 22, 1944

I stood at a large window near the top of the Tribune Tower. The ornate, 40-story, neo-Gothic behemoth rose 462 feet above North Meridian Avenue. A flock of birds moved in magical synchronicity as they spiraled upward, the bright white of their wings outstretched against the deepening blue of Lake Michigan. As darkness approached, I felt a longing to take wing and fly with them, leaving my brooding thoughts behind.

Global war was raging, and reports crackled over the WGN airwaves in the newsroom. I moved away from the window, straightened my tie, and returned to my desk. Working on The Chicago Tribune news beat, my day was about over. I was a sportswriter, but baseball was taking a backseat to the war. I capped my final article, a Normandy D-Day account written from a well of jingoism deep enough to catch the attention of the wire service. Gossip monger Walter Winchell had tapped my words in his nightly strafing of the Nazis. I was enjoying some success with a series I had begun writing soon after the surprise Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

It was 12 years since his passing, and thoughts of Marshall invaded my consciousness relentlessly. They rekindled the grief I’d felt about the way he had been laid to rest, in anonymity instead of honor. Since his death, I had been obsessed with writing Marshall’s story. I had interviewed all of the people I could track down who had known him when he was still racing. He would not have approved.

Most of America lost track of Marshall Major Taylor after he hung up his bike for good about 1910. There were a few old men haunting seedy little bars in places like Moline, Newark, and down on the south side of Chicago. They talked about how he used to storm the tracks, but most of the men, like the tracks, were now gone.

A few of the former racers were still about; most were old and broken, but one or two were still wound with a youthful spring. Gentleman Joe Kopsky up in Union City, who still stood up straight and looked half his age, had raced with the Major in his prime. Pop Brennan, who had wrenched for him at the New York Six-Day race, was still looking fit. Alf Goulet was still humbling the boys on the track. I visited them in their bicycle shops where the last remnants of the old sport and its long-toothed participants could be found. I also found them in the saloons of Hoboken, where some of the retired wheelmen now refurbished tramp steamers in the shipyards. I sat in on their drunken reveries, each of the old boys a fancy spinner of yarns. Some limped and leaned heavily on canes. One fingered rosary beads. Another proudly displayed scars from combat on the tracks. He lifted his shirt and loosened his belt, revealing a low, roughly-stitched gut wound sagging at odd angles. Rolls of fat were darkened with smudges of black chain grease beneath the skin. Their tongues were loosened by liquor, and sometimes they got obnoxious, losing their trains of thought. Some cursed one another the way they did in younger days when they raced against one another. They filled the gaps in my memories of Marshall, and I pieced together the chapters of his life from stories that were exciting, poignant, awe-inspiring, and pitiable. The finished manuscript lay on the desk in my home office, and I wondered if I would have the courage to submit it for publication.

Requiem for a Wheelman told the story conspicuously absent in Marshall’s autobiography. What would his daughter Sydney think when she saw personal details of his life in print? Would she forgive me? Would I tell the story of a great champion, or would it be a requiem to a forgotten wheelman? I ran my fingers through hair now more gray than blond, and removed my glasses to rub the bridge of my nose. The space to which I had tethered myself for much of my life was cluttered with the detritus of a long career in journalism. Files were stacked on top of cabinets already stuffed to the gills with folders, and books were piled along the wall. A tired-looking corkboard was crowded with notes, reminders, and phone numbers. On one side of my desk stood a Victorian timepiece I’d inherited from my father. Conspicuously absent were pictures of a spouse and children, as my relationships with women had been fleeting. I had neither married nor had any offspring, none that were brought to my attention anyway. It was a testimonial to the self absorption of one who had spent a good deal of his life avoiding commitment and responsibility. A sad commentary some might say, but convenience had always been my touchstone. While my lifestyle was well-suited to my chosen career, at times I felt a profound sense of grief, especially during the holidays when friends and colleagues disappeared to be with their families. I sometimes regretted that I had not found a way to manage marriage and a family. Still, I had relished a profession that had me see more days on the road than at home.

Early in my career, much of my time had been spent with a man who was my oldest and dearest friend. He rode in the first bicycle race I covered professionally. The memories were as vivid as if it were yesterday, instead of nearly 50 years ago.

Madison Square Garden, December 1896

They were all so angry: the officials with their bow ties and silver watches, the racers in their tight woolen togs, and the missile-throwing fans that screamed for speed. Standing at the railing, I could hear the riders’ labored breathing above the ceaseless clatter of the boards as they lapped the tight track. The sweet smell of liniment and a faint spray of sweat followed the pack as they flew past just a few feet away. Human odors mixed with the scent of hot bratwurst and cold beer drifted from the stands.

The challenge to compete against the bitter, hostile and sometimes violent wheelmen was formidable, but Marshall Walter Taylor thrived on adversity. When he lined up against the toughest competitors in American racing, he faced odds that many thought were insurmountable, an opinion shared by many of my fellow journalists. On the track, he appeared poised and unperturbed, yet every racial insult and attempt to crush him fed a fury that simmered in Marshall’s belly.

His opponents used a tactical maneuver called a combine. As many as half of the field that had qualified for the final heat of the series rode not to win, but to make sure that Taylor didn’t. The more gifted racers clustered protectively around the fastest qualifier. The slower men closed ranks on Taylor, trying to bump his hips with their handlebars. If they failed to trap him, one or more might try to hook his front wheel with a pedal, each attempting to rip out his spokes and throw him head first over the handlebars to the track below. Officials commonly turned a blind eye to these illegal tactics, and collusion ran rampant in the rank and file of the League of American Wheelmen (LAW), popularly known as the Old Boys’ Club. Eddie The Cannon Bald was the favored son that night in the Garden. With only a few laps to go, Bald launched himself from the top of the steep-banked turn. He followed the wheel of Tom Cooper, who led him into a 35-mile-per-hour surge that immediately put them both in the front. Cooper’s job was to pace Bald as long as possible, then send him to the finish line for the victory. With four laps remaining, he had an insurmountable lead of ten lengths. The two streaked away from the pack, and the others slowed, catching the Major in their midst. Taylor’s expression remained cool and focused. Suddenly, his resolve erupted in an intense, unbridled explosion, unleashing his sharpest competitive instincts as he drew the measure of their ranks. From the crush of the pack, he propelled himself with raw power, leveraging his bike from side-to-side like a weapon. One rider took an elbow as sharp as a spear in the ribs. With a front-to-rear wheel slap to the rider flanking him on the low side of the bank, he made his move and was gone. Like a bottle rocket, Taylor streaked after the Cooper/Bald express with a perfectly timed jump off the top of the corner banking. With three laps to go, the distance was eight lengths. The crowd, cheering wildly, rose to their feet as one. With no team members to help, Taylor shot from his saddle and rocked his nickel-plated Iver Johnson bicycle from side-to-side with every ounce of power left in his body. With two laps remaining, the margin shrank to four lengths. The crowd screamed, and the wooden stands shook.

At the final-lap bell, the gap had closed to three lengths. With 50 yards to cover, the difference was two lengths. Taylor drew even with Cooper and passed him, moving several miles per hour faster. Six feet from the finish line and with a rapid pelvic thrust, just as Tillie had taught him back in Indy, Taylor’s machine lurched forward, and he nosed ahead of Bald by three inches. He raised his eyes to the heavens, savoring for a brief moment the sweet scent of victory.

Joshua Owens, Chicago 1944

My father’s old clock chimed the lateness of the hour. The presses would be rolling soon with the morning edition of the Tribune. I headed home and directly upstairs to my office. Seated in a worn leather chair permanently indented with the shape of my backside, I poured a couple fingers of Scotch from the bottle on my desk. My thoughts wandered back to a time before Marshall was the Major, back to my childhood years in Indianapolis.

1_young.jpg

Mona Mills painting is of the young prodigy in a white man’s sport. Taylor had gained his first big sponsor, Iver Johnson, Arms and Cycles, and promised his mother on her death bed he would forever honor the sacrament by resting on Sundays, a moral decision that would cost him a fortune.

Chapter One

---

America was in chaos, an era rife with labor disputes and strikes. One hundred thousand workers were out of jobs, and the police were shooting at people in the streets. Unregulated industry was growing, and factories were sprouting up. They employed the swelling number of immigrants and their children who turned 14- to 16-hour shifts into early graves. Iron and steel production gained momentum. The demand for gold, silver, and lumber from the West spawned a boom in railroad expansion to transport these resources to the East. Industrial growth created enormous wealth for businessmen such as oilman John D. Rockefeller and Cornelius Vanderbilt, earning them the title of robber barons, who both also rode bicycles.

When I was born, Indianapolis was experiencing its industrial boom. Before the Civil War, Indy had less than 1,200 residents. Once the Madison and Indianapolis Railroad arrived, the town grew quickly. Eventually, seven major rail lines provided Indianapolis with access to the Ohio River. By the eve of the Civil War, the population had grown to nearly 19,000. The wealthy citizenry built large Victorian mansions on enormous lots along North Meridian Street. My parents owned one of them, an 18-room, neo-Jacobean, battle-of-styles affair. Its high, spooky cupolas, guarded by a quad of gargoyles, had terrified me as a child. Our home was surrounded by 90 acres of rolling pasture land, bordered by huge oaks that provided a natural oasis surrounded by the industrial sprawl.

My father was a successful broker of sweet, long-fiber cotton. He knew all about King Cotton and its beginnings in Alexandria, the irrigation of the Sudan and in Shanghai, and the native cultures of South and Central America. He told me how cotton was a source of turmoil and slavery and how it had played a large part in a deadly Civil War. Brendan Owen could have been called the Eli Whitney of middlemanship, his impressive achievements in business due mainly to tenacity and shrewd maneuvering. His meteoric rise from a hungry Welsh immigrant to a highly successful Midwestern cotton baron was a tale right out of Horatio Alger’s Ragged Dick novels.

My mother Katherine was tall, slender, and wore her blond hair in an elaborate twist. An intelligent, matter-of-fact sort of woman, she had vivid blue eyes that snapped when she was angry. She met my father at a reception and was captivated by his dark good looks, tall, sinewy frame, and obvious wealth. Brendan was attracted to her vivacious, straightforward manner and slim figure. They were wed within six months.

I was born in January in the winter of 1878 and was cared for by a sweet young woman named Rebecca, who slept on a bed in the nursery. Becca saw that my clothes were clean and pressed and that I was appropriately attired. She read story after story about exotic places and people while rocking me in her lap. By the time I was four, Becca had taught me to read and opened the door to an exciting new world. We had an enormous library in which I indulged a growing passion for books. If Becca lost sight of me, she went to the library, knowing my curly, blond head would be buried in a tome. When I wasn’t reading or otherwise occupied, Becca took me to our nearest neighbors to play with their son.

For as long as I could remember, Dan Southard and his family had lived in the big house up the street. Dan’s father was superintendent of the expanding Indianapolis, Peru, and Chicago Railroad, and he and his wife Laura owned the largest property on our street. Dan was a good-looking kid with dark hair and eyes to match. Outgoing and fun-loving, he had an enthusiasm for life that was contagious. Since we were the only children in our respective families, and our parents were friendly and active in the community, we had known each other since birth.

Late in the spring of 1887, Marshall came into our lives. I loved springtime in Indianapolis, especially in May as summer drew closer. Beeches, tulip trees, slippery elms, and white dogwood blossoms filled the woods above a carpet of grasses and wild ginger. We raced to the muddy banks of the White River to soar on our high-flying rope swings and escape the stifling heat. The hot, sultry days seemed endless until the sky would darken with towering cumulonimbus clouds, unleashing the sudden black fury of a powerful Midwestern thunderstorm.

Marshall’s father was at a local horse auction and caught Albert Southard’s attention. A stack of dry hay had burst into flames, and a team of horses stamped and whinnied nervously as the hot blaze grew. Gilbert Taylor quickly grabbed the reins and calmed the animals by speaking to them in a gentle voice while the flames were extinguished. Albert, impressed by his natural skill with the beasts, hired him on the spot.

Gilbert Taylor had a freeborn pride and an independent spirit unlike the obsequious, southern-born Negroes usually hired to care for the stables and grounds. Gilbert had married Saphronia Kelter, a plump, pleasant-faced woman 10 years his senior. Like her husband, she was a first-generation freeborn Negro. The couple had moved from Kentucky with their three children and invested their small stake in a 50-acre farm in Haughville on the lowland side of the White River. Gilbert tilled the soil with a single horse-drawn plow and planted the fields with corn by hand.

The Taylor family grew until the number of young mouths to feed reached eight. The couple struggled to feed and clothe their family. The eldest boy, William, helped in the fields. Gilbert took odd jobs to supplement the meager income the farm produced. It was a hard life, but Saphronia was spiritually driven and brought up their children with strong religious values. Gilbert gave them a solid work ethic.

Gilbert knew he was very fortunate to find a position as the Southard’s coachman. In addition to providing transportation for the family as needed, Gilbert cared for all the horses and exercised them. Dan and I often wandered into the stables to watch him groom the animals, brushing their glossy coats and carefully rubbing down their legs after working them. He would give us carrots or apples to feed them as they nuzzled our hands and we stroked their heads. We knew better than to stay too long, or he would have us mucking out stalls. As soon as his work was completed, Gilbert headed back to his farm to work until night fell.

Gilbert frequently mentioned his son Marshall, who was Dan’s and my age. Albert Southard thought it would be fun for the three of us boys to meet. Albert had his haberdasher fit Marshall with a tailored sailor suit, identical to one that Dan already had, complete with stars and nautical trim. Our families were visiting in the Southard’s great room one afternoon. Dan wore his sailor suit, and I stood next to him awaiting Marshall’s arrival. There was a firm knock at the door, and Marshall and his father were ushered into the room a moment later. Marshall stared in surprise, the whites of his eyes contrasting with his ebony skin, when he saw that he and Dan were dressed alike. Gilbert stood behind him with a hand on his son’s shoulder. He and the assembled company, who were all in on the joke, watched in amusement as introductions were made.

Marshall had a small frame with sinewy muscles like Gilbert, but his father also had the broad shoulders, thick chest, and heavily-muscled arms borne of hard manual labor. Marshall’s face was strong and chiseled, graced with an engaging smile that framed a perfect row of gleaming white teeth. Dan and I grinned back, and Gilbert began bringing him to the house once or twice a week when he came to work.

During one visit, Dan and I introduced him to our buddies, Jack and Warren. We invited him to join us for a game of stickball, which he accepted eagerly. We were all impressed with his speed on the bases and his unfailing ability to make contact with the ball. He had a real interest in all our sports and played with us whenever Gilbert brought him to the Southard’s. Dan was a strong athlete with a very competitive nature. The rest of us were pretty good, but Marshall easily dominated us all. His eager, warm personality made him fun to play with, and none of us would get angry or dismayed when he bested us. We simply had a great time together.

Chapter Two

---

It was summertime in Indy, the thick air hot, sticky, and alive with the singing of cicadas. Biting flies plagued us during the day, and mosquitoes the size of dimes lurked in the shade, coming out when the sun went down. Marshall and I sat down to dinner at the Southards, and the conversation turned to sports and the lopsided score of the game. We congratulated one another on our victory. Marshall received much of the praise, and Gilbert beamed with pride. His son had been responsible for four of the six runs our team had scored, and we’d held our rivals to just two. Marshall was a good batter and very quick on his feet when the ball was in play. Albert finished the wine in his glass and poured another.

Marshall, my lad, you have the skills of an older and more experienced player, Albert began, taking another sip of wine. I think there could be a strong future for you in the game if the disparaging bastards would allow Negro players to compete!

Albert’s words seemed suspended in air, as if time had no power to dissipate them. Gilbert said nothing, his face bowed and expressionless. Marshall stared at his plate. In that brief instant, the full weight of the ‘Negro stigma’ hit Marshall for the first time. Could it be possible that this boy, who outplayed other boys five years his senior, knew nothing of the flawed world of prejudice that awaited him? Were his opportunities really different from those of his companions because his skin was dark and theirs was fair? The meal continued, but the room was quiet except for the clinking of silver and china. Dan’s father finished the bottle and retired to his study. Gilbert, Marshall, and I left for home.

The weeks passed, and the three of us played together whenever Marshall visited. Occasionally, Marshall would stay overnight at the Southards. One day, after returning from a long holiday at Virginia Beach with my parents, I learned that Marshall had moved into the Southard’s house, putting his meager belongings in the bedroom next to Dan’s on the second floor.

There were many advantages to the arrangement. Marshall’s parents had one less mouth to feed and one less child underfoot in a crowded little farm house. Dan had a live-in playmate. For the first time in his eight years, Marshall wasn’t sharing a room and wearing clothes that were cast-offs from his older brothers. His wardrobe was custom tailored to fit perfectly. In fact, from the time Marshall took up residence in the Southard home, he and Dan often dressed alike. Very liberal by Indianapolis standards, Albert and Laura Southard treated Marshall as if he were Dan’s sibling, not their colored coachman’s son. As such, Marshall enjoyed the same freedoms and benefits in the household as did Dan. My mother, while more liberal in her views than most, maintained a certain distance from her staff. Although she was fair and kind when dealing with them, she did not consider them to be family and had difficulty understanding the Southards’ decision.

Joshua, my mother asked, you spend a lot of your time studying and playing over there, more than you do here. Marshall’s a fine lad, but what on earth does Daniel need with a full-time playmate? That child is spoiled rotten!

Actually, I felt closer to Marshall than I ever had to Dan. Marshall was the brother I never had and the playmate I would never outgrow, or so it seemed back then.

The Southards were delighted with the addition to their family. They believed the bright, industrious boy was bound to have a positive influence on their strong-willed impulsive son. I was thrilled! Despite the differences in our personalities, or perhaps because of them, the three of us were inseparable. Jack and Warren often played with us, and when we weren’t playing sports we raced our bicycles up and down Washington Street or built forts and tree houses. It was a special treat when our families went to the track to watch the men race bicycles, a sport hugely popular in Indianapolis and throughout the country.

It was right after Marshall moved in with the Southards that he developed a passion for riding a bicycle. He rode my Griffin and Dan’s bike like he had been born to it. He resurrected Mr. Southard’s 54-inch Columbia ordinary from a rusty grave in the tool shed. He oiled the old relic, wiped down the big front and little rear wheels, leaped into the saddle, and rode it as easily as he had on the safeties. As his skill level progressed, he developed a sharp mechanical awareness of the bicycle. Noticing that Dan’s bike had a tight headrace, which caused it to steer erratically, Marshall removed the handlebars and gooseneck stem. He readjusted the head-set bearings before they were damaged. He tested the cranks and wheels, first by turning them in the shed, then by pedaling the bike backwards.

Every kid in Indianapolis imagined being a trick rider, a popular activity at the time. We all tried to do stunts on our bikes, but Marshall actually did them. After practicing for less than a week, he could make a figure eight in reverse. Riding circles with no hands was a snap for him, and soon he could pedal with one hand while lying prone on the saddle. Dan and I were impressed with his balance and coordination. Our own attempts were almost comical in comparison, so when we got tired of picking ourselves up off the ground, we were content to watch him when he practiced.

Dan’s father was so impressed by Marshall’s talent he took him to Hay & Willits Cyclery and bought him a stunt bike. Marshall’s eyes widened in astonishment when Albert purchased the bike to be his very own. He rode it every day, practicing increasingly complex tricks. Never was a bike so treasured or meticulously cared for.

Marshall, Dan, and I were riding home one afternoon from our favorite fishing hole, awkwardly laden with our tackle and the spoils of our successful outing. Billowing clouds were quickly forming a dark canopy overhead. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled as we pedaled furiously for home. We were about halfway there when the wind hit us and the skies opened up as the rutted lane began to dissolve. We rode our bicycles as fast as we dared down the treacherous road and were soon soaked to the skin and covered with mud. The rain lightened as the clouds began to separate, the peonies glowing a brilliant red against the verdant grasses and vine-covered trees in the filtered sunlight.

It was becoming steamier by the minute, as the cloud cover dissipated and the sun bore down on the wet earth. Marshall urged us along the trail, anxious to get home and clean the grime from his new bike. He glanced at Dan and me and suddenly began laughing so hard, he had to stop his bike and dismount.

"What?" I asked, feeling a bit annoyed. I could feel grit between my teeth from the mud his wheels had kicked up, and my wet clothes were beginning to chafe. Josh, he said with a big grin on his face, you and Dan got so much black mud on your faces, you look just like me!

I grinned and he laughed even harder at the contrast my teeth made. Dan was off his bike, rolling on the ground howling with laughter. We were all so filthy that Dan’s mother made us strip outside and dump pails of water on ourselves until we were mud-free. We left our catch in the kitchen, changed into dry clothing, and headed to the large shed behind the house.

Dan, exclaimed Marshall. I just love this place and all the specialty tools you have! We gotta completely clean and oil these bikes before they start to rust, Marshall’s attention was already focused on the task. We spent the rest of the afternoon taking the bikes apart, cleaning everything until it was spotless and putting it all back together again. Marshall calmly worked, trying my patience when he looked at the manual, as if unsure of the placement of a part, but his consultations were few. Finally, the bicycles were back together and shiny clean, with every tool carefully wiped and placed on its proper hook. We did this so often with Marshall, that Dan and I became fairly adept at bicycle maintenance.

Chapter Three

---

Much to Dan’s disappointment, life wasn’t all bike rides, ball games and fishing trips. Since we were five, Dan and I had shared tutors. Daily instruction was held in a large alcove in the Southards’ expansive library. Our most memorable tutor was Mr. Miles Myronoff, a lanky Lithuanian Jew with freckled white skin and coarse, curly red hair that stuck out at odd angles from his head. He was a Harvard graduate and a passionate teacher who sparked enthusiasm in his students. He taught us four hours each day, required us to study for another two hours on our own, and we had written homework assignments to complete. We were each given individual tutoring once a week in the areas where we demonstrated the strongest aptitude.

Master Marshall, began Myronoff after they were introduced, after you grasp the necessary mathematics, I’ll introduce you to basic mechanical engineering. Master Joshua is focused on literature and writing, and Master Daniel is still seeking an interest. Dan’s obsession with sports and his obvious lack of interest in academics were a continual source of frustration to his parents.

Myronoff lectured us on English, Latin, French, mathematics, science, American history and individually on topics of special interest to each of us. He pulled some detailed engineering manuals he’d brought for Marshall from a worn leather satchel. Colorful exploded views of an automobile and diagrams explained the internal combustion engine. Marshall devoured it eagerly. He was fascinated with the new invention in which Daimler and Maybach had designed and mounted a one-half horsepower, two-cylinder gasoline-powered engine with a four-speed transmission on a horse carriage. This automobile had a top speed of 10 miles per hour. With very few automobiles actually built during the remainder of the 19th century, it was a fascinating curiosity.

Myronoff possessed a thorough knowledge of American history and gave us a deep appreciation for the subject, emphasizing the importance of the past in shaping our future. Our lessons were not wrested from dry history texts. We experienced them in the field through theatrical vignettes. Myronoff’s enthusiasm for the subject was contagious, his long, bony fingers tracing the air in wild gesticulation as he lectured. He metaphorically associated elements of nature with historical events and wove our surroundings into our lessons.

We never forgot his History in the Field series. In the dead of winter, Myronoff had us grasp a cold steel pump handle, giving us the feeling a Continental army recruit may have had of his musket while crossing the icy Delaware River with General Washington. The human cost of war was dramatized in a nearby veterans’ cemetery. He sat on a plow and recited the biblical quote about turning swords into plowshares and discussed the agricultural history of the United States and Europe. In the garden, we read Emerson and the anti-war poetry of Walt Whitman. We studied Neoclassicism and romanticism on the big lawn adjacent to the garden. We ventured into every corner of the acreage surrounding the Southards’ house to hear Myronoff lecture us on the rise of the American states.

Shays’ Rebellion took place in the orchard; the framing and ratification of the Constitution took place in the library. We studied the War of 1812, and although the piano could not do justice to Tchaikovsky’s Overture, Mr. Southard’s adaptation of that stirring piece underscored the power of the human spirit to triumph over overwhelming odds. We could feel the fragmented Marseillaise and hear the footfalls of the folksy Russian regulars as they soundly routed Napoleon so long ago. The Expansion of the Union, slavery, and the War Between the States were of keen interest to us because it was such recent history. Marshall’s father had served in the Union Army and had been wounded during the bloody siege in the Carolinas during the summer of 1863.

Marshall’s appetite for knowledge was voracious, and he exhibited an interest and a talent for music. He began taking piano lessons twice a week and practiced in the evenings on the Southards’ Steinway. Marshall often visited the library at my house, as well as using the one at the Southards’. Miles Myronoff had opened the door to an exciting new world for Marshall, and he went through it eagerly and with great expectations. He obtained an excellent education, immeasurably better than he would have received in any of the few Negro public schools. He took full advantage of the privilege, but his diligence and enthusiasm did little to influence Dan; his friend continued to get by with as little study as possible.

Chapter Four

---

In late spring, a long-anticipated day arrived. The YMCA in downtown Indianapolis had installed brand new basketball courts. Dan, Marshall, Warren, Jack, and I were going to be instructed by a certified basketball coach, thanks to an invitation from Mayor Caleb Stone Denny, a personal friend of Dan’s and my fathers. We were among the first to play on one of the shiny, new wooden courts. In honor of the special occasion, we were wearing new canvas shoes with Goodyear rubber soles, the latest thing in athletic shoes. The facility was located in the fashionable business district just off Michigan Street. Gilbert dropped us off in front of an ornate, two-level, red brick building. An inscription over the doorway was carved in green marble:

A Monument to Young Manhood

and the Pursuit of Athletic Achievement

We chattered excitedly as we walked up the steps through the main entrance and signed the roster. A young Negro attendant handed us towels and locker keys and stared at Marshall. We were headed to the locker room when the shrill scream of a whistle resonated off the cold plaster walls with angry authority.

Young lads! shouted a man, his shoes squeaking on the highly polished floor as he quickly approached us. He was smartly attired in white plus-fours and a matching wool pullover with red, white, and blue trim. A white badge displayed his title as YMCA director. The four of you are welcome within this establishment, but your attendant must wait in the gallery while you boys play. His shiny black hair was combed flat against his head and neatly parted in the middle. He wasn’t a tall man but held himself to his full height and had a stern expression on his face.

Sir, he is not our attendant! Dan said quickly. He’s our good friend and the best athlete among us. The mayor invited all of us here to play basketball with your coach!

Dan’s voice was laced with indignation, and I feared we would all be sent away. He pulled out the letter from Mayor Denny and thrust it into the director’s hand. The director gave the note a cursory look and returned it.

I’m sorry, son. I’m sure that Mayor Denny was unaware when he sent this invitation to your father that you would be in the company of a darky.

Dan stuffed the letter into his pocket and replied stubbornly, "We were all invited!"

Not to the Indianapolis YMCA, you weren’t! the director replied firmly. "Our national charter clearly states that those of his persuasion are not allowed to enter the changing room, gymnasium, bathing, or pool areas, and are never, I repeat, never considered for membership, which is a prerequisite for playing."

 Dan looked back at us, his lips pressed together. I looked at the others, seeing their heads bowed with embarrassment. Marshall spoke quickly and calmly.

It’s okay. You fellas go right on in and play basketball. The man’s got his rules. Go on! Get yourselves in there and play! I’ll just sit up in the gallery.

He quickly disappeared up the stairs before we could say a word, but we just stood there, uncertain what to do. All of us had anticipated playing here for weeks, and our childish eagerness overruled our hesitation. We continued into the locker room and onto the court. We were greeted by the coach, who quickly got us warming up with calisthenics. We ran up and down the court for more than an hour dribbling, passing, guarding, and shooting. We were tired, sweaty, and headed back to the locker room when I remembered Marshall. I looked up and saw him in the gallery looking down at us, and my stomach felt sick with guilt and shame. My sudden change in mood did not go unnoticed by the others, and their laughter came to an abrupt halt.

There was no excited chatter during the ride home from the YMCA, and Gilbert eyed us curiously as he drove the carriage through town. Gilbert was tending to the team, and Marshall had remained with him while we recounted to Dan’s parents what had happened. Dan’s mother looked sad and shook her head; Albert was livid. He and my father spoke with the mayor, but no changes in YMCA membership policies were forthcoming. It’s a real misfortune, the mayor commented, that such a talented young athlete was born a nigra.

Jack’s father, a professor at Butler University, wrote an editorial that brought the issue of Marshall’s brutal exclusion to the public’s attention. Mayor Denny could not be reached for comment. The publicity sparked a debate in the chambers of the City Council that failed to be resolved at the first meeting. The discussion was tabled until the council could reconvene. Weeks passed and other news caught the attention of the citizenry, much to the relief of those prominent in the city’s conservative government.

We sat on the banks of the White River more than a week after our excursion to the Y. The sunshine was hot on my bare legs and reflected like brilliant diamonds off the