I recently finished a 392-page biography of Leroy “Satchel” Paige, a man whose professional pitching career started in 1926 (during the presidency of Calvin Coolidge) and ended 40 years later (Lyndon B. Johnson).
First, about the book. Published in 2009, it was written by Larry Tye, a staff member of the Boston Globe and Harvard University professor. I would give Tye fairly high marks for his treatment of the fabulous Paige, with a couple of caveats. Twice he made reference to a 1949 article in Sports Illustrated, but that magazine did not begin publication until 1954. I have to assume that editors and fact-checkers are in short supply at Random House. A relatively minor point, I concede. What really irked me was Tye's insistence on referring to Paige, with few exceptions, as “Satchel.” I remember being in elementary school and reading biographies in which the subjects’ first names were used. Such an approach may be acceptable for children’s books, but certainly not here. It was unclear to whom Tye was being more disrespectful—his readers or Paige himself. In my opinion, this editorial matter detracted considerably from the book’s gravitas.
Although it is rich in detail and sociological insights, I do not propose to review the book. Instead, I will focus on Paige—most assuredly not “Satchel”—and his life. He was a fascinating character. Born into poverty in Mobile, Alabama, his baseball ability flourished while in reform school. If that sounds familiar, it had been the case for Babe Ruth in Baltimore a decade earlier. Ruth, however, had the good fortune to be of European-American heritage whereas Paige was black. He had to deal with a cruel Jim Crow system that held him back in countless ways.
How different Paige’s life would have been without the yawning racial gap. He would have made far more money, had a stable environment in which to develop his skills and been universally recognized for what he was—a long-limbed pitcher with a blazing fastball, a nice bender, pinpoint control and endurance. Playing in the major leagues alongside Ruth, Paige would have won 300, maybe 400 games and set records for strikeouts, no-hitters, etc., about which we can only speculate. Instead, Paige worked the "chitlin' circuit." He had no choice but to play for a series of teams (primarily the Birmingham Black Barons, Pittsburgh Crawfords and Kansas City Monarchs) in the Negro Leagues, not to mention clubs in Mexico, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Venezuela and elsewhere. He had his own barnstorming team, the Satchel Paige All-Stars, for several years. Paige and many other fine athletes had a hard life in the days before integration. Indeed, they did a lot to hasten that process.
There were good reasons for Branch Rickey to pick Jackie Robinson—rather than Paige—to integrate the Brooklyn Dodgers and thus the majors in 1947. Robinson was a clean-cut, articulate man who had considerable experience in interracial competition at UCLA. The rough-hewn Paige, on the other hand, was known almost as much for his savant-like sayings as for his performances on the mound. Some people perceived him as simple-minded, an Uncle Tom or a Stepin Fetchit character, which was simply untrue. He certainly was unstable, and the first black player in the bigs would have to exude stability. One example from Tye’s book I found particularly galling pertains to Game 4 of the 1942 Negro League World Series between KC and the Homestead Grays in Philadelphia. Paige was supposed to start for the Monarchs, but he did not show up until the fourth inning because he had been romancing what he called “a pretty little gal” in Pittsburgh.
Recognition—in the European-American world, at least—came late for Satchel Paige, who played parts of six seasons with the Cleveland Indians, St. Louis Browns and Kansas City A’s; his own people had known about him long before that. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1971, and most baseball historians today put him on a short list of the greatest pitchers of all time. For what it’s worth, Joe DiMaggio said Paige was the best he ever faced.
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