Home Sweet Home

I umpired college and high school baseball games for eleven years. I enjoyed the challenge to 'get calls' correct and baseball has always been my first sports' love. Not many 'White' umpires would accept contracts to work games in East St. Louis during the 1970's. I suppose when you are a native of a community, you tend to embrace a denial regarding safety; my goodness 'those ' are the streets and playgrounds of my youth, how dangerous can it be to return?

I always felt comfortable umpiring for East St. Louis baseball coach, Arthur May. He was always at my side the instant I needed to address an unruly crowd. Let me share a quick footnote on East St. Louis baseball per se'. That city produced some great high school teams and many major leagues players. I can personally attest to the incredible youth baseball leagues, high school programs and American Legion teams of the 1940's and 1950's. In time the 'white flight' removed many people with baseball passion and the city became primarily Black with its growing interest in professional basketball. Sadly, East St. Louis high school's baseball today is a 'joke.' It was once suggested to me by a MLB scout that he believed if young Black athletes spent as much time on baseball sandlots as they obviously do on outdoor basketball courts, there would be more Blacks playing pro baseball and many who are truly too small to succeed in the NBA might find $$$ in MLB. I agree.

My final umpiring gig at East Side, Jones' Park Diamond #1 was on a warm May day, 1978. The big cross-town rival games between the Lincoln 'Tigers' and East St. Louis 'Flyers' was the draw and it indeed drew hundreds of fans that day. It would appear that 50% of the East St. Louis population owned German Sheppard dogs. After a lengthy explanation of ground rules that included conversation about a lot of 'imaginary-lines,' I called out, "Play ball," as I assumed my home plate ump duties.

Several times during the first three innings, I had to call time out and move people and dogs back from slow encroachment near the playing field; each time Coach May was at my side offering administrative 'backup.' In the top of the fourth inning, I noticed a male patron walking from the right field area towards the infield; his staggering gate indicated that he was either drunk or' high' on some substance. I call for play suspension and began walking towards the second base area where the inebriated gent was heading as he gestured and shouted incoherently. I arrive at the position and within ten feet of the guy, his eyes suggested that he was not in control of any thing! I had removed my umpires mask and in my most stern-authoritative voice ordered the man from the field. He grumbled some words and slowly staggered towards the second baseman and took the lad's glove as he offered fielding pointers. Another command for him to leave the field seemed to resonate as the man stumbled to the sidelines. Between innings, I asked Coach May, "Hey Man, why were you not at my side helping me remove the drunk?" Coach May response, "Oh shit Mel, that's crazy Willie and he packs heat."

The game over, I found myself standing at my auto's trunk on North Park Drive putting my equipment away as the street lights flickered 'on.' I thought to myself, 'Roustio, you can go home but you're a fool to do so!"