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Tib · 05-22-2004, 01:23 PM

CHAPTER 3:

First Days in Hinesville

Hinesville is in the easternmost section of Georgia, just south of the Fort Stewart Military Reserve and about 40 miles southwest of Savannah. Hinesville has one highway, state route 84. It has one rail yard owned by, you guessed it, someone named Hines. It has one lake, Mill Lake, four grocery stores, two bookstores, a dozen filling stations, a hospital, a library, five schools, seven hundred churches and about a million pine trees.

I’m exaggerating about the churches, but not the trees. They called it Tree City, for God’s sake! I loved it immediately. I had just enough time to call on Sheila, the real estate person, and see about my rental. She told me the house was still available, and she thought I’d be pleasantly surprised. So we went to take a look and I was surprised. The house was across the street from the stadium! It was a little two-bedroom place right on Bagley Ave. I could have thrown a ball from the front porch and hit second base! I took it without going inside. Sheila said she’d tell the landlady, a Miss Draper, about her new tenant in the morning. She said to be ready to answer a lot of questions. Little did I know….

“When can you move in?” she asked.

“How about tonight?”

“That’s a little quick, but I’ll see what I can do about getting you in tomorrow. There is a motel at the 84 and Martin Luther King Drive you can stay in.”

“No kidding! We have a Martin Luther King Drive in L.A., too.”

“Well,” she said with a knowing smile. “It’ll be just like home.”

But it was nothing like home.

Hinesville was 46% black. I came from Mount Rose, which was 99% white. It was quite an adjustment for me, to say the least. To be eighteen and in a strange town is one thing, but I was unprepared for the experience of being the only white person I could see. I really felt isolated. I found myself looking around for white faces. Of course, everyone could not have been nicer, and in the end I felt silly about feeling so intimidated. But it definitely wasn’t Kansas anymore.

I stayed that night in the motel Sheila had suggested and met my new landlady the next morning. Miss Draper was in her mid-sixties, a thin black woman with thick round glasses. She had a stern face, like an angry schoolteacher. She was a little unsure of me at first.

“Young man, Sheila tells me you’re our first rounder.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hmm. A little small for a first rounder, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“How tall are you?”

“Five eight.”

“Five eight. Hmm. Not a lot of meat here either, Sheila. What’s old Cyril up to, drafting this boy when we need pitching?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Draper,” replied Sheila with a small smile for me.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “But Peter Van Alten drafted me. I don’t know anyone named Cyril.”

At this Miss Draper fixed me a stare through her thick glasses. I almost apologized. "Peter Van Alten has money and nothing else. You remember that, Mr. First Rounder. Cyril Ratcliffe is the mind behind. He’s the one that drafted you, make no mistake.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good fielder, are you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good hitter too, I suspect. Singles hitter?”

“Yes, ma’am. And doubles.”

“Humph,” was her reply. Then she turned to face me square. “Rent is $900 a month, collected by Andrew the mail man on the third. Don’t bother putting a stamp on it, just write “Miss Draper” on the front. He knows where it’s going. I don’t like smoking and drinking in my place. If I find drugs I will call my brother, Sergeant John Draper of the Hinesville Police, and he will throw your first round draft pick bee-hind in jail. I don’t tolerate overnight stays by single women in the home of a single man. No loud parties, no firearms. Upkeep of the grounds will be done by my man Drake, once a week. Respect me and what’s mine, David Driscoll, and I will respect what’s yours. As for the rest, the Lord will do as He sees fit. I am a good Christian and I expect you to behave like one, even if you aren’t one.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am one.”

“You are one what?”

“A good Christian.”

“Hmmph,” said Miss Draper. “You are a young man with freedom and little accountability. Time will tell us what you are, Mr. Driscoll. Time and baseball. Come, Sheila, I’ve got some tea going at the house.”

No, it definitely was not Kansas.

March 11, 2003
Moved into 310 Bagley Avenue today. Met Miss Draper, my landlady. She acts like she’s in charge of the whole neighborhood, and she probably is. Asked me baseball questions. Weird. House is old and small, but the rent is good. It’s clean, anyway. The wooden floors creak everywhere. Gas stove. Ceiling fans. The kitchen is tiny, but the two upstairs bedrooms are nice. Out back there is a small porch with a swing and a small yard that runs downhill toward what I thought was a big pond. Turns out it is just stagnant backup from a clogged city drainpipe. It smells awful in the late afternoons when the wind blows toward the house. The frogs keep me up at night.

Everybody wants a look at me. Don’t know if it is because I’m white or new or what. Got a visit from the man next door – Cliff Tyler. Nice guy in his 60’s. Looks like a potato with two toothpicks sticking out of the bottom.

As I was taking my gear out of the truck, I noticed him looking intently at me from the front porch next door.

“Good morning,” I said as cheerfully as I could.

“Morning,” he returned. “That your bat in there?” he asked, gesturing at my bag.

“Yes.”

He began to walk down the porch steps. “Let’s have a look at it.”

He made his way over to me slowly, almost gingerly, like each step hurt. He was a black man, about Miss Draper’s age, with thin legs hidden under a pair of amber colored polyester dress slacks and a barrel chest that pushed at the buttons of his flannel shirt. His thinning gray-black hair belied his age, but I could see he was once a strong man. I showed him the bat. He looked it up and down like a jeweler looks at a fine watch, and ran a thick sausage finger over the wood. The Silver Slugger A1 was a pretty bat with burgundy lacquer. “Thin handle,” he said. “Lots of wear above the label. Sign of a good contact hitter. You Davey Driscoll?”

“You can tell that from the bat?”

He laughed, a deep basso rumble punctuated by a sharp cough. “No. Sheila is my niece.” His hand shot out. “Clifford Tyler. Looks like we’ll be neighbors.”

“Looks like,” I said, taking his hand. He had quite a grip. “You know about bats, Mr. Tyler?”

“Call me Cliff. And yes, I know a thing or two about bats. And gloves. And baseball.”

“Are you a fan of the team?”

“Everybody in Hinesville is a fan of the team.”

“Then I hope to see you at the games.”

“Oh, you will. You will.”

Just then a voice called out. “Who you got there, Cliff?”

We turned and across the street I saw another black man walking a dog. “This here’s Davey Driscoll.”

Dave. Dave Driscoll, I said to myself.

“The first rounder?”

“The same,” answered Cliff. “He’ll be renting from Eugenia this season.”

“So Miss Draper got herself another first round lodger. That’s fine. But you watch out for Cliff, son,” the man called to me. “Poor man thinks he knows baseball. All he really knows is grass and dirt.”

“Now, Cope, don’t sour the boy on me so soon. Give me a chance to teach him something.”

“Boy’s going to have a lot on his plate this year,” returned Cope. “You let Theo and them do the teaching.”

“Theo Garner couldn’t manage his way to the altar on his wedding day,” said Cliff.

“Theo Garner is just what this boy needs,” said Cope.

“Aaaah,” said Cliff with a flick of his hands that said “enough of you”. “That’s Mooney Copell,” he said, turning back to me. “He don’t know nothing. He walks that mutt of his to Fiddler’s Bar and when they kick him out the dog walks him home.”

And that’s how I met Clifford Jericho Tyler. I didn’t know at the time he had played in the BBA, the Black Baseball Association, back in the fifties before the CBA was integrated. I also didn’t know he hit .351 with 50 home runs in 1950 for the Birmingham Black Generals. I didn’t know a lot about Clifford Tyler, but I was to learn a great deal about him and from him.

March 14, 2003
Hinesville is quiet. Just a little town like Mount Rose – nothing open after 10 pm except the bars. The Beacon has been doing articles on all the new players. Read one yesterday about a new shortstop they signed from Venezuela named Lino Something. Supposed to be good. Whatever he is, I’ll be better. My article was nice, but they called me Davey. Really starting to annoy me. Thought about calling up the paper but decided against making waves.

Joined a gym. Perry’s. On the other side of the stadium. Turns out all the ballplayers go there. Some boxers, too. The owner, Sam Perry, offered me the first month free because I was on the Gents. I said no. Didn’t seem right. Besides, I don’t want to feel obligated to anybody. There’s a sporting goods store, Ridley’s. Not bad selection. They have Natural Lumber there, but it would blow my whole budget to buy one. After looking at the prices I decided to start the season with what I have and go from there. Bought groceries again. That little refrigerator has got to go. I don’t care what Miss Draper says.

First team workout tomorrow at 8 am. Very excited. This is it! I can’t believe it’s starting. Did some extra stretching tonight. Knee feels good. Haven’t thrown in a week. Haven’t seen anybody else from the team, although I saw some young guy going into the team office building across from Perry’s. Don’t know if he was a player or not. I hear they’re in town somewhere.

Next Week: Meeting the Gents

05-22-2004, 01:23 PM	#8
Tib All Star Reserve Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Paso Robles, CA Posts: 995	CHAPTER 3: First Days in Hinesville Hinesville is in the easternmost section of Georgia, just south of the Fort Stewart Military Reserve and about 40 miles southwest of Savannah. Hinesville has one highway, state route 84. It has one rail yard owned by, you guessed it, someone named Hines. It has one lake, Mill Lake, four grocery stores, two bookstores, a dozen filling stations, a hospital, a library, five schools, seven hundred churches and about a million pine trees. I’m exaggerating about the churches, but not the trees. They called it Tree City, for God’s sake! I loved it immediately. I had just enough time to call on Sheila, the real estate person, and see about my rental. She told me the house was still available, and she thought I’d be pleasantly surprised. So we went to take a look and I was surprised. The house was across the street from the stadium! It was a little two-bedroom place right on Bagley Ave. I could have thrown a ball from the front porch and hit second base! I took it without going inside. Sheila said she’d tell the landlady, a Miss Draper, about her new tenant in the morning. She said to be ready to answer a lot of questions. Little did I know…. “When can you move in?” she asked. “How about tonight?” “That’s a little quick, but I’ll see what I can do about getting you in tomorrow. There is a motel at the 84 and Martin Luther King Drive you can stay in.” “No kidding! We have a Martin Luther King Drive in L.A., too.” “Well,” she said with a knowing smile. “It’ll be just like home.” But it was nothing like home. Hinesville was 46% black. I came from Mount Rose, which was 99% white. It was quite an adjustment for me, to say the least. To be eighteen and in a strange town is one thing, but I was unprepared for the experience of being the only white person I could see. I really felt isolated. I found myself looking around for white faces. Of course, everyone could not have been nicer, and in the end I felt silly about feeling so intimidated. But it definitely wasn’t Kansas anymore. I stayed that night in the motel Sheila had suggested and met my new landlady the next morning. Miss Draper was in her mid-sixties, a thin black woman with thick round glasses. She had a stern face, like an angry schoolteacher. She was a little unsure of me at first. “Young man, Sheila tells me you’re our first rounder.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Hmm. A little small for a first rounder, aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.” “How tall are you?” “Five eight.” “Five eight. Hmm. Not a lot of meat here either, Sheila. What’s old Cyril up to, drafting this boy when we need pitching?” “I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Draper,” replied Sheila with a small smile for me. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “But Peter Van Alten drafted me. I don’t know anyone named Cyril.” At this Miss Draper fixed me a stare through her thick glasses. I almost apologized. "Peter Van Alten has money and nothing else. You remember that, Mr. First Rounder. Cyril Ratcliffe is the mind behind. He’s the one that drafted you, make no mistake.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Good fielder, are you?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Good hitter too, I suspect. Singles hitter?” “Yes, ma’am. And doubles.” “Humph,” was her reply. Then she turned to face me square. “Rent is $900 a month, collected by Andrew the mail man on the third. Don’t bother putting a stamp on it, just write “Miss Draper” on the front. He knows where it’s going. I don’t like smoking and drinking in my place. If I find drugs I will call my brother, Sergeant John Draper of the Hinesville Police, and he will throw your first round draft pick bee-hind in jail. I don’t tolerate overnight stays by single women in the home of a single man. No loud parties, no firearms. Upkeep of the grounds will be done by my man Drake, once a week. Respect me and what’s mine, David Driscoll, and I will respect what’s yours. As for the rest, the Lord will do as He sees fit. I am a good Christian and I expect you to behave like one, even if you aren’t one.” “Yes, ma’am. I am one.” “You are one what?” “A good Christian.” “Hmmph,” said Miss Draper. “You are a young man with freedom and little accountability. Time will tell us what you are, Mr. Driscoll. Time and baseball. Come, Sheila, I’ve got some tea going at the house.” No, it definitely was not Kansas. March 11, 2003 Moved into 310 Bagley Avenue today. Met Miss Draper, my landlady. She acts like she’s in charge of the whole neighborhood, and she probably is. Asked me baseball questions. Weird. House is old and small, but the rent is good. It’s clean, anyway. The wooden floors creak everywhere. Gas stove. Ceiling fans. The kitchen is tiny, but the two upstairs bedrooms are nice. Out back there is a small porch with a swing and a small yard that runs downhill toward what I thought was a big pond. Turns out it is just stagnant backup from a clogged city drainpipe. It smells awful in the late afternoons when the wind blows toward the house. The frogs keep me up at night. Everybody wants a look at me. Don’t know if it is because I’m white or new or what. Got a visit from the man next door – Cliff Tyler. Nice guy in his 60’s. Looks like a potato with two toothpicks sticking out of the bottom. As I was taking my gear out of the truck, I noticed him looking intently at me from the front porch next door. “Good morning,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Morning,” he returned. “That your bat in there?” he asked, gesturing at my bag. “Yes.” He began to walk down the porch steps. “Let’s have a look at it.” He made his way over to me slowly, almost gingerly, like each step hurt. He was a black man, about Miss Draper’s age, with thin legs hidden under a pair of amber colored polyester dress slacks and a barrel chest that pushed at the buttons of his flannel shirt. His thinning gray-black hair belied his age, but I could see he was once a strong man. I showed him the bat. He looked it up and down like a jeweler looks at a fine watch, and ran a thick sausage finger over the wood. The Silver Slugger A1 was a pretty bat with burgundy lacquer. “Thin handle,” he said. “Lots of wear above the label. Sign of a good contact hitter. You Davey Driscoll?” “You can tell that from the bat?” He laughed, a deep basso rumble punctuated by a sharp cough. “No. Sheila is my niece.” His hand shot out. “Clifford Tyler. Looks like we’ll be neighbors.” “Looks like,” I said, taking his hand. He had quite a grip. “You know about bats, Mr. Tyler?” “Call me Cliff. And yes, I know a thing or two about bats. And gloves. And baseball.” “Are you a fan of the team?” “Everybody in Hinesville is a fan of the team.” “Then I hope to see you at the games.” “Oh, you will. You will.” Just then a voice called out. “Who you got there, Cliff?” We turned and across the street I saw another black man walking a dog. “This here’s Davey Driscoll.” Dave. Dave Driscoll, I said to myself. “The first rounder?” “The same,” answered Cliff. “He’ll be renting from Eugenia this season.” “So Miss Draper got herself another first round lodger. That’s fine. But you watch out for Cliff, son,” the man called to me. “Poor man thinks he knows baseball. All he really knows is grass and dirt.” “Now, Cope, don’t sour the boy on me so soon. Give me a chance to teach him something.” “Boy’s going to have a lot on his plate this year,” returned Cope. “You let Theo and them do the teaching.” “Theo Garner couldn’t manage his way to the altar on his wedding day,” said Cliff. “Theo Garner is just what this boy needs,” said Cope. “Aaaah,” said Cliff with a flick of his hands that said “enough of you”. “That’s Mooney Copell,” he said, turning back to me. “He don’t know nothing. He walks that mutt of his to Fiddler’s Bar and when they kick him out the dog walks him home.” And that’s how I met Clifford Jericho Tyler. I didn’t know at the time he had played in the BBA, the Black Baseball Association, back in the fifties before the CBA was integrated. I also didn’t know he hit .351 with 50 home runs in 1950 for the Birmingham Black Generals. I didn’t know a lot about Clifford Tyler, but I was to learn a great deal about him and from him. March 14, 2003 Hinesville is quiet. Just a little town like Mount Rose – nothing open after 10 pm except the bars. The Beacon has been doing articles on all the new players. Read one yesterday about a new shortstop they signed from Venezuela named Lino Something. Supposed to be good. Whatever he is, I’ll be better. My article was nice, but they called me Davey. Really starting to annoy me. Thought about calling up the paper but decided against making waves. Joined a gym. Perry’s. On the other side of the stadium. Turns out all the ballplayers go there. Some boxers, too. The owner, Sam Perry, offered me the first month free because I was on the Gents. I said no. Didn’t seem right. Besides, I don’t want to feel obligated to anybody. There’s a sporting goods store, Ridley’s. Not bad selection. They have Natural Lumber there, but it would blow my whole budget to buy one. After looking at the prices I decided to start the season with what I have and go from there. Bought groceries again. That little refrigerator has got to go. I don’t care what Miss Draper says. First team workout tomorrow at 8 am. Very excited. This is it! I can’t believe it’s starting. Did some extra stretching tonight. Knee feels good. Haven’t thrown in a week. Haven’t seen anybody else from the team, although I saw some young guy going into the team office building across from Perry’s. Don’t know if he was a player or not. I hear they’re in town somewhere. Next Week: Meeting the Gents Last edited by Tib; 11-01-2020 at 03:08 AM.