Over the Coca Cola Sign

This is a story about how the best ballplayer not in the Baseball Hall of Fame playing in one of the most racially charged cities in America during the racially explosive summer of 1964 dared to be the first great Black player for possibly the most racially loathsome franchises in all of sports, the Philadelphia Phillies. 

During that pivotal summer, race riots in Elizabeth, Paterson, Jersey City, Harlem and Brooklyn had infected the Philadelphia with a bad case of the racial heebie-jeebies. On Labor Day Weekend, we finally had a race riot we could call our own, the Columbia Avenue Riots in North Philadelphia, or the Negro Riots as one local paper called it, where scores of stores owned by white businessman and as well as colored were burned and looted.

         People were jumping out of their skins across the city, and none were jumping higher than in the neighborhood where I grew up, in a brick row house on a side street where everybody knew everything about everybody.

When Baseball was King

This was the era of Mantle, Mays, Koufax, Aaron, Clemente and Gibson ruling the sports pages. There were no divisions, no wildcards, and no playoffs. Two eight team leagues, with a pennant winner from each squaring off in the World Series.

         Great sports towns lived and died with their Boys of Summer. And no town suffered more ugly deaths than Philly. The Fightin’ Phils were the pathetic possessors of the worst win-loss percentage in recorded sports history. Any sport. Anywhere. For the Phillies, the cry of “wait until next year” became a death sentence not a ray of hope.

         The ’64 Phillies were a veteran squad led by Jim Bunning, Johnny Callison, Chris Short, Wes Covington and a much-anticipated rookie, Richie Allen. The Fightins’ took over first place on Opening Day and never looked back, leading by as many as ten games into August.

         Managed by Gene Mauch, a journeyman infielder raised by the Brooklyn Dodgers, he had the proverbial ‘cup of coffee’ in the majors.

A belligerent man by nature, the Little General inspired more hatred than admiration, even from his own players. “He always had to make that one extra move,” is how one Phillie put it. Whatever moves Mauch made were working. Baseball’s all-time chumps were running away with the National League pennant, sending the City of Brotherly Losers into the Twilight Zone.

Richard Anthony Allen

         My favorite ballplayer to this day is Dick Allen. Maybe it was because I was thirteen, the golden age for picking idols. Maybe it was because the ball exploded off his bat like a howitzer, sounding like summer thunder. Maybe it was because nobody was rooting for him, and being a natural contrarian, I was loud and proud to get behind #15 with every obnoxious tendency I had at my disposal.

         The Wampum Walloper wielded a 42-ounce warclub to launch missiles to all parts of the field. Being righted handed, a favorite target became the Coca Cola sign high atop the grandstand roof in left center 420 feet away at Connie Mack stadium, returning to earth on Lehigh Avenue. #15 performed this feat with awesome ferocity and regularity.

         In 1964, Richie Allen not yet become Dick Allen, the poster child for rebellious superstars. In ‘64, he was a sensitive kid from Wampum, Pennsylvania who was electrifying a city that wasn’t sure it liked the idea of being led to the Promised Land by a colored man.

Nick the Prick

If there was ever a was game perfectly designed to fit a space, particularly cramped urban settings comprised of bricks and windows it’s halfball. You take a baseball-sized air ball, slice it in half to reduce impact with said glass windows, use a broomstick for a bat, and swing at the twirling halfball pitched under-handed from maybe 20 feet away.

         Halfball can be played mano-mano, or with a couple of guys on a team. There is no baserunning. Hits are determined by how high up on the house you hit it. If you catch the ball off the wall, it’s an out. Blast one over the two-story roof and it’s a homer.

         “Batting third and third base, #15, Richie Allen.”

         I step up to the sidewalk plate, adjust my imaginary glasses, tug on my sleeves, stand straight up in the box, flicking the broomstick at the pitcher just like #15.

         On summer nights after dinner, the neighbors sat on their steps,

looking for a cool breeze, and watching kids play. The men hung out on the corner, talking and teasing, maybe a pinochle game, and always listening to By Saam calling the Phillies game on radio.

         “Here comes the pitch, Craccccckkkkkk. A long drive, there it goes, over the Coke Cola sign, another prestigious blast by Richie Allen!”

         “That kid’s a royal pain in the ass with his Richie Allen shit. Every night, the same story, he don’t let up. Hey kid, why don’t you stop with that rubber-head and root for Johnny Callison, he’s the best player on the team.”

         It was Nick the Prick. A skinny guy with a toupee that looked like a two-day-old veal cutlet, he’s one of those people who’s always pissed off about something, about colored people, especially about Richie Allen. Nick didn’t have to work hard at being a prick, he came

by it naturally.

         I knew I got on the Prick’s nerves and l loved it. But his outburst still intimidated me. I mumbled, “Callison bats left, I’m a righty.”

         “I seen you hit, kid, you stink from both sides of the plate.”

         I was growing less intimidated. “Allen’s better.”

         The Prick pounced. “He leads the league in strike outs and errors.”

         “This is the first year he’s ever played third. Give ‘em a break.”

         The Prick smelled blood. “A break? Superstars don’t need no goddamn breaks. I’ll tell you what your boy is, your boy’s a super spook. Yeah, that’s what he is, a super spook.”

         Some of the men laughed, some put their heads down.

         “Super spook…you’re a real riot, Nick.” I have often shot off my mouth without thinking. This was one of those times. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to call people names or make fun of them?”

         Everybody stopped laughing. Everybody. 13-year-olds  didn’t question grown men on the child rearing practices of their mothers. The Prick turned red. He was trying to find the right words, and in a low threatening voice, “You got a fresh fucking mouth, kid. I’m going to talk to your father.”

         My friends told me to shut up. It was too late. “Go ahead, he’ll tell you it not right to call people names because of what color they are.”

         “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

A few days later

I avoided the Prick, playing halfball, wallball, stepball, and football

at the other end of the block. After a few days, I had pretty much forgotten about the incident. The Phillies were rolling along atop the National League, Richie Allen was clearly on his way to being the  Rookie of the Year, life was good.

         My father was a truck driver. He would leave the house around sunrise. It was odd that he woke me and asked that I sit on the front step while he laced up his work boots.

          “It’s going to be hot today, what are you going to do?”

         “I dunno. Play softball in the schoolyard, something.”

         “That good. How do you like the way your Phillies are playing?”

         My father followed sports with a gamblers eye which he had once been. He didn’t invest much emotion in any team. The baseball gene was entirely mine. “They’re playing great.”

         “Are they in town this weekend?”

         “Yeah, the Dodgers are in.”

         “I can get two tickets for Sunday’s game

         “Third base side, please.”

         “You got it. How’s Richie Allen doing?”

         “.318, 22 homers, 73 ribbies. He’s tearing it up, Dad.”

         “He’s a going to be a good player.”

         “Going to be? He’s already a good player. He’s almost great.”

         “Do the other kids like him?”

         “If you know baseball you can’t help but like him.”

         “You talk baseball with the men on the corner don’t you?

         “Yeah, we get into it.”

         “And you hold your own?”

         “I do my best.”

         “How do they feel about Richie Allen?”

         “Most of like him like him.”

         “Most of them?”

         “Some don’t like him because he’s colored, they call him names.”

         “So, if someone calls him a name, you stand up for him?”

         “Yeah, because it’s wrong. You and mom said it’s wrong to hate colored people just because they’re colored.”

         “It is wrong. But not everybody feels the same way. All this civil rights stuff has people nervous. Look, it’s more important how we do things then what other people do. ”

         “But somebody has to tell them it’s not right.”

         “That’s a big job. And it’s not ours.”

         “But how’s it going to change?”

         “It’ll change. It can’t be stopped. It’s going to take a while for white people to get comfortable with colored people doing good. And it’s not going to happen anytime soon, not here on Carlisle Street. As for Allen, the better he plays the more some people will hate him.”

         “That’s sick. He plays great and the Phillies win the Pennant.”

         “It’s got nothing to do with baseball. They don’t want a colored guy leading the parade. You can root for Allen all you want just don’t get in people’s face with it. I’m asking you to back off. Got it.”

         “But I don’t get it.”

         “I think you’re pissing somebody off.”

         He then directed my attention to the red brick wall we shared with the Riggio family next door, on it scrawled in white chalk were the words NIGER LOVER.

         “Nick the Prick, he can’t even spell the word right.”

         “You don’t know that. It could be anybody. You’re capable of pissing off more than one person trust me on that. I don’t want you starting anything with Nick or anybody. Don’t even talk about it. Understand. I want this to end here. I don’t want to get involved.

These people aren’t bad, they just grew up different than you.”

         “But not you and you’re not against coloreds.”

         “Skin is personal. How people feel about it is their business. We’ve got to live here. Let the colored people fight their own battles. Now just drop it. Get that off the wall before your mother wakes up.” I scrubbed the wall clean of hatred. My mother never found out , and neither my father nor I ever mentioned it again.

         Richie Allen was named the 1964 National League Rookie of the Year. He was notified by a telegram. There was no press conference. No congratulations from the Phillies. No salary increase. Allen played five

more volatile seasons in red pinstripes. He was traded to the St. Louis Cardinals for Curt Flood. Mr. Flood refused to report to the Phillies, took the matter to the courts and free agency was born.

No fairytale ending

Upon leaving Philadelphia, Richie Allen asked to be called Dick, the name his mother addressed him by. Dick Allen would play for five teams, winning the 1972 AL MVP with the Chicago White Sox. He returned to the Phillies for 1976, putting up decent numbers, but his best slugging days were behind him. The Phillies were swept by The Big Red Machine in the NL Playoffs. #15 did not  have a good series. It was over. There are no fairytale endings in Philadelphia

         I was boarding a flight to Cincy from Philly to manage a public relations event at Johnny Bench’s Homeplate Restaurant to pay off a bet between city council people over the Phils-Reds’ series. It was news

that Dick Allen did not fly home with the Phillies from Cincinnati.

         There he was. I recognized him immediately. He recognized immediately that I recognized him, and he looked immediately uncomfortable with the coming encounter. He was picking up his pace in hopes of zooming by me. I positioned myself on a collision course with my hero. He was closely followed by his wife, a concerned looking woman who was bracing for the storm.

         “Mr. Allen, you’re the greatest hitter I’ve ever seen. Thank you for the years.” That was it! 22 years of worship and 13 words is all I got.

         He slowed down, kind of smiled, “Thank you,” and kept walking.

         His wife thanked me, adding three of her own, “He needed that.”

The more things change…

Some people will never vote Dick Allen into Cooperstown, just like some people never liked him on Carlisle Street. He came along during one of the most divisive periods in American history. He didn’t always help himself, he defiantly marched to his own beat, he was baseball’s first Black superstar who didn’t aim to please. And man, could he play the game.

         A seven-time All Star, Dick Allen the 1972 AL MVP; he led the AL in home runs and slugging percentage twice; he led the NL in SLG once; His 165 OPS+ from 1965 to 1973 leads all players; his career .534 SLG in a pitcher dominated ere is among the highest. In 15 seasons he in 1,149 games, slammed 351 home runs, drove in 1,119 runs, banged out 1,841 hits, with a lifetime Batting Average of.292.

Epilogue

This is the third iteration of this true story written over the past 25 years. Each time, I relive that conversation with my father on the front step (he died in 1968), I grow more impressed with his character. When the Baseball Hall of Fame finally got over it and inducted Dick Allen

into the Class of 2025, it felt like a good time to take Dick and me out for a spin one more time.