The JV practice field, Roosevelt Field, wasn’t all that bad

when you came right down to it. It had an all-dirt infield

that was nothing to write home about, but it had a pretty

sturdy backstop, and the outfield was basically flat. There

was a street right out beyond the visitors’ bench, and there

were a few dumpy factories out on the other side of the

street. Down a ways was the headquarters of the White

Brothers Garbage Company.

I thought White Brothers was a strange name because

every single person who worked on the trucks was black.

I was kind of fascinated by the sight of all those garbage

trucks parked at the big old White Brothers garage. I had

been seeing those trucks for years, and I never knew where

the heck they came from. In fact, the first black person I

ever saw was driving one of those garbage trucks. When I

110 | Roosevelt Field, Darrell, and the Hawk

was a kid, I didn’t know that black people were anything

but garbage men. On the other hand, I didn’t know that

garbage men could be anything else but black, until a

couple of years ago, when I saw some news reports about

some of the garbage men in New York City, and most of

them were white guys. I was always amazed by how those

garbage men rolled those big green garbage barrels up and

down everybody’s lawn. They’d spin the top of the barrel

around and tip it at just the right angle so that the barrel

would roll along real nice and not stand up straight or fall

over. Then they’d go over to a house’s garbage cans, dump

them out into the barrel, roll the barrel to the garbage

truck, and dump the garbage in the back. All of us kids

who were up early on a Saturday morning would gather

around the truck for the best part: one of the garbage men

would pull down a lever; the truck would start whining;

and the big old metal crusher would slowly come out, grab

all the garbage, and jam it into the back of the truck. We

were only little squirts, but we thought the garbage trucks

were great. The best part of all was when one garbage man

would hop onto the back of the truck and grab hold, and

the truck would drive away with him just kind of hanging

out there, having a great old time. Boy, I thought it would

be great to be able to jump onto that truck and hang on

with one hand while riding through the neighborhood—

and to be able to twirl the garbage barrel with one hand

and pull the magic lever to start the big old crusher. I

thought garbage men were great.

One time, when I was still real little, some of my

aunts and uncles were over, and my uncle Freddie asked

me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said with a

whole lot of little-kid pride and sincerity that I wanted

to be a garbage man. All the grown-ups started to laugh

like crazy, and I felt really stupid and embarrassed. Then

my uncle Freddie said, “You don’t want to be like them

coloreds, do you?” Everybody laughed again. I wasn’t sure

what he meant because I had never heard the word colored

before, but I thought they were making fun of me, even

though I didn’t know why. I felt bad and snuck up into

my room.

Later that day, my brother told me that the next time

somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up,

I should just say I wanted to be a baseball player, which

he said was what all dimwitted little boys were supposed

to want to be when they grew up. I figured that was good

advice because I really did want to be a baseball player

back then. Then my brother said, “Oh, and don’t tell them

you want to be like Elston Howard.” I wasn’t sure what he

meant by that, but I guessed it had something to do with

the fact that Elston Howard was black.

As we started throwing that first day at Roosevelt

Field, I still wished I had had a chance, just once, to pull

that lever to start the garbage crusher.

It was nice to be practicing on good old grass and

dirt instead of asphalt, as we could slide into bases,

dive for ground balls, and get all dirty and have a great

time. One of the great things about playing high school

sports was that you could get real dirty and be proud of

it. When my friends and I were kids, we always had a

natural inclination toward getting dirty, and of course,

our mothers were never too keen on dirt, so when we were

out playing and having a great old time, in the back of our

minds, we knew we were going to be yelled at for having

a good time and getting filthy. However, most of us did it

anyway and accepted the fact that we’d catch hell as soon

as we went home for supper. It seemed there was some

kind of rule that the amount of punishment you had to

endure was directly related to the amount of fun you had.

I used to love to make headfirst slides into third base

just like Yogi Berra did. The Mick was too cool to make

headfirst slides, and he was also too fast to ever need to

make a dopey headfirst slide. But Yogi was getting a little

old, and he was pretty slow, so he would always make

headfirst slides into third base. Well, when I started doing

it, I had a number of things to consider. First of all, my

idol was the Mick, so I sure as heck didn’t want to go

imitating old weird Yogi, but I had to admit that it was

more fun to slide into third base headfirst than feetfirst.

However, there was another thing to consider: when you

slid into a base headfirst, you got twice as dirty as you

did from a normal slide. Not only did you get your pants

dirty, but you got your shirt, face, arms, and hands dirty.

You got dirt in your hair, in your ears, and down your

pants. So if getting dirty was your thing—and of course,

most of us kids loved to get dirty—then the headfirst slide

was the way to go. You could get dirtier with one headfirst

slide than with a whole afternoon of playing with cars in

the dirt.

Then again, there was another factor to consider: the

punishment factor. Since the headfirst slide had twice the 

dirtying power of the normal slide, it therefore had twice

the punishment potential. The punishment potential

was directly proportional to the amount of fun we had,

and the headfirst slide was way more fun. Naturally, I

developed a sensational headfirst slide technique that old

Yogi would have loved and even the Mick might have

appreciated. But of course, my mother definitely did not

appreciate it. “Did you have to bring half the dirt from

the field home with you?” she’d say. Then she probably

wouldn’t let me go out after supper or something. But

what the heck? You had to learn to compromise. In order

to do one thing, you had to give up another, and there

was no way I was going to give up the old headfirst slide.

However, as I got older, a funny thing happened:

there were a few things I didn’t have to compromise on

any longer, and one was the headfirst slide. The first time

I pulled my headfirst slide in practice, my coach went

crazy—crazy with praise!

“What a great effort,” he said. “That’s what I want all

you guys to do. Put out that extra effort every second. If I

catch any of you loafing or not putting out one hundred

ten percent, you’ll be catching splinters on the bench.

When you slide, slide hard and fast. When you go after

a ball, go after it all out. Dive if you have to, but give it

all you’ve got.”

In other words, he was saying, “Bring home half the

dirt from the field with you.” It was a license to get dirty!

All of a sudden, getting dirty was praised, not punished.

A dirty uniform was something to be proud of—a status 

symbol—and I was great at getting dirty. Of course, my

mother was still in charge of washing my uniform, so

I still had to hear, “Did you have to bring half the dirt

from the field home with you?” But at least I got to go

out after supper.