Dennis Biddle

In and Out by^, 19

NEGRO LEAGUE DEBUT: 1953

 The record for wins at the age of 17 in the major leagues is five, set by Bob Feller in 1936. In 1953, Dennis Biddle, pitching in the Negro leagues, equaled that number, then turned 18 and won ten more, giving him 15 wins in his rookie season.  An injury derailed Biddle's baseball career when he was only 19, but he got him­self back on a successful track a few years later by returning to college. Although the fame that may have come with baseball escaped him, he has enjoyed a long and rewarding life as a social worker, working with young people.  At the time Biddle's career began-1953-blacks were making in roads into organized ball, but, all else being equal, most major league teams still preferred white kids.

These were the days of the bonus babies, when money was spent by the hundreds of thousands of dollars on young talent; interestingly, not one bonus baby was black.  So it wasn't surprising when 17-year-old Dennis Biddle didn't receive any offers after his senior year in high school, even though he had hurled seven no-hitters. Negro baseball was dying then as the top Negro league players were being taken by organized ball, but the last of the Negro league teams were still operating and devel­oping players such as Ernie Banks, Gene Baker, Elston Howard, and a raft of oth­ers.  Biddle signed with the Chicago American Giants, and had not a fluke base running accident ended his career after two seasons, he may well have joined that list. You played for the Chicago American Giants in 1953 and '54.

How old were you when you began?

Seventeen. I've been put into the Congres­sional Record as the youngest to play in the Negro baseball leagues. I played two years in the Negro leagues, then the Chicago Cubs were interested in purchasing my contract. Matter of fact, they were purchasing it and I reported to spring training and I broke my leg the first day of spring training, 1955. I jammed the bag sliding into third base, broke my ankle in two places. I was an excel­lent slider [but] somehow cut my slide short and jammed the leg. It was one of those freak accidents.  I still limp. When you look back 40 years ago, they didn't have the modern-day medicine they have now. They didn't oper­ate on it like they would do now and make sure that everything was okay.

How did the American Giants get you?

I was playing in the state championship in Arkansas for the National Farmers' Association. That was the conference that we were in. We couldn't play in the regular state conference because that was white. I pitched a 1-to-nothing no-hitter in the championship against a team named Eudora, and a scout-he was a scout and booking agent for the Chicago American Giants - saw me pitch and asked me if I would like to try out with the Chicago American Giants.  Now, when he told me this I didn't know anything about the Negro baseball leagues. I thought it was a team that would be trav­eling down through there and I would try out for the team nearby. I said, "Sure, I would like to," and he said, "I'll have some­body call you." 

I gave him my telephone number. This was on a. Friday. That Sunday I got this phone call as we were getting ready to go to church. The guy said, "My name is Frank Crawford from the Chicago American Giants. How would you like to try out?" I said, "I would love to." 14 said, "Well, be in Chicago Tuesday morning, 10:30, Washington Park, diamond number seven. I'd never been hardly out of my home­town-Magnolia, Arkansas. I told Mom, I told my dad and my sister. I told my mom and dad, "I gotta go." We didn't have any money. My dad, he was crying; my sister was crying, but my mother gave me the strength I needed and also the money.

I don't know where she got the money, but she gave me twenty dollars. It cost me four­teen dollars to catch the bus from my hometown to Chicago- one way. She hugged me and she said, "Baby, good luck."

I caught the bus, got off the bus in downtown Chicago- Randolph Street. They had the roving steps - the escalator stairs; I'd never seen them before. I saw these steps and I was afraid to get on them, so I walked up the stairs to the street. I saw a bus and people were getting on it, so I got on there. I asked the bus driver how to get to Washington Park. He said, "I'll tell you where to get off because you've got to transfer." So I got off where he told me and he told me what bus to catch and I got on that bus and he let me off right by the park. The name of the street now is King Drive, but it used to be called South Parkway. Fifty-first and South Parkway is where he let me off.  I walked across the street and there was this guy sitting there.

I asked him could I leave my bag there, would he keep my bag 'til I came back? I told him I was looking for diamond number seven, I had a tryout. He said, "Sure."  I got my glove and my spikes out of my bag and I left it with him and I walked across the street. I didn't have to walk too far before I saw diamond number seven, so I sat there, waiting for Crawford. That's all I knew Mr. Crawford. Two or three guys showed up and then finally Mr. Crawford came.  We started throwing and about six or seven other guys came down and I tried out for the team. He had a contract right there already typed out. I've got a copy of the contract now. I signed my contract and three days later I was pitching my first pro­fessional game in Memphis, Tennessee. 

Something happened that [tryout] day that followed me for a long time. This gen­tleman that I had left my bag with became like a father to me. Crawford had a room for me on 47th and South Parkway. He said, "Where's your bag?" and I said, "Across the street over there." He said, "Where?"  I went over there and I was lucky. A lady said, "Are you the young man that left your bag here? Mr. Washington had to go to work and he said you would be back for it." I said, "Could I have his telephone num­ber?" I took it to the hotel with me and I didn't sleep all night long. I have never heard so many sirens!  I couldn't wait 'til daybreak so I could call him. I called him, he came down, picked me up that morning and he said, "Get your bag. You're going with me." Twenty-eight years later, I buried him. He went through everything with me.

How much were you paid?                

Five hundred a month. Six games a week. We played a lot of money games. A money game is where the booking agent would book us in a town with the local team. Twenty

thousand people would come out to see that game. Paying a dollar apiece, that was a big payday for us. That money was split 60-40 by the teams. 'Course, the league games - it was hard, it was really hard, riding that bus from city to city and play­ing all those games. Only 16 play­ers-you played every day. Besides pitching, I played center field and first base. I batted left and right.

Do you remember your first game?

Oh, yeah. I got my game ball. I kept the ball. I didn't know the significance of it. I gave it to my son when he was 6 years old and he kept it.  For years we didn't even talk about the Negro leagues. The only time I talked about it was with my kids and my grandkids. It was something that was a part of my life that had come and gone. Nobody was talking about the Negro leagues; every­body was talking about the guys that were playing in the majors.  [My first game] was against the Mem­phis Red Sox. My catcher was Double Duty Radcliffe and he was an old man but he was still good. 

[Laughs] I struck out 13 batters and I gave up one home run. The score was 3-to-1. I didn't know the guy's name; all I knew is they called him "Big Red." He hit a home run off of me that's still going today, I think. I had struck him out twice and Double Duty had come out and told me to throw him a curveball. I saw him step up in front of the plate so I knew he was wait­ing for my curveball 'cause that's what I struck him out with, so I was going to cross him up and throw the fastball. Double Duty said, "Throw the curveball!" and I shook him off. I threw the fastball and this guy hit it! [Laughs] Double Duty came out and yelled at me, "Boy, I've been in this league 25 years! When I tell you to do something, you do it!" [Laughs] He still remembers it.  "Big Red" is what they called him and he was a big guy.  

He had to weigh close to 300 pounds; he was big and tall and every time he'd swing that bat and miss the ball, it looked like I could feel the vibration of the bat out there. [Laughs] He could swing hard! [Note: "Big Red" may have been catcher Pepper Bassett. He fits the descrip­tion: 6' 3" and probably 240 pounds at the end of his career in 1953.]  I won my first five professional baseball games, all while I was 17.

The second game was against the Philadelphia Stars in Racine, Wisconsin, and that's how I got my nickname as "The Man Who Beat the Man Who Beat the Man." I was pitching against a guy by the name of Lefty McKinnis.   He was a legendary pitcher; everybody was talking about how good he used to be. He had been around a long time and he was one of the very few pitchers that ever beat Satchel Paige. I found that out after the game.  During the game, he was always talking to me, telling me, "Hey, kid! You're telegraphing your pitch." And I'm saying, "I don't know what he's talking about, telegraphing my pitch." My manager told me, "The batter knows what you're about throw before you throw it." I said, "So. 

They still can't hit it." [Laughs] But he said, "Son, let me tell you some­thing. A batter's trained to watch the ball all the way from the pitcher's hand. The longer you keep it covered up, the more effective you'll be because it'll take him time to pick it up."  He showed me how to do it and every game after that - and even today when I teach young pitchers how to pitch- I use the same technique that he showed me that night in Racine, Wisconsin. 

I won the game, 5-to-1. After the game, they said, "Hey, kid, you just beat the Man." I said, "What are you talking about?" "He's one of the very few pitchers ever to beat Satchel Paige. He's the Man." From that night on, they called me "The Man Who Beat the Man Who Beat the Man."  I had 30 wins in two years, 30 wins and seven defeats. The first year [the schedule] was 71 games, the second year was 73 games. The first year I played in 18 games and I had a 15-and-3 record. My second year I had a 15-and-4 record.  The Cubs were following me. As I look back, those days and nights we were riding the buses and we'd get to a stadium, the scouts would be all over me and I could see the older guys sitting there with a sad look on their faces. Being a social worker and taking psychology, I reminisce back to when this was happening and I know they were happy for me, but there was some resentment. You know, the fact that they had passed them by and there was always two or three young guys on the team - these are the guys the scouts would be talk­ing to. 

And these [older] guys were great. They were great then. I saw this with my own eyes and I was only a kid. I can imagine what they were like when they were kids. If you talk to the older guys now, they will tell you they have no bitterness; this is the way things were.  The older guys were training us. Cool Papa Bell trained me. I was fast -I could run real fast-and I remember distinctly Cool Papa Bell coming to the Chicago American Giants, coming to our games and traveling with us on the bus. He was too old to play. He was like a mentor. I think the major leagues were paying him a salary. I can't prove that, but he didn't only talk to me, he'd be talking to the other guys on the other team, too. He would always find something somebody was doing wrong and he would correct them. Like me; I was fast but I would round the bases and lose a lot of time.

After the games or early in the morning, he would take me out to the park and he would walk through it with me.  He didn't smoke and drink and after the game the older guys, they'd be going to par­ties and stuff. I was too young to go and Cool Papa would always stay with me and he would tell me stories about some of the guys. I learned a lot from him about some of the great players that played down through the years that you don't read about in books because they didn't set any records and stuff.

Is there one game that stands out as your best game or biggest thrill?

The first game was my biggest thrill 'cause I was in a daze for a couple days. [Laughs] I had a terrific curveball; I didn't believe people could hit my curveball and my sinker and when I started playing.

I remember I struck out Buck O'Neil in Omaha, Nebraska, one night. We were playing the Kansas City Monarchs; he was player-manager. We went to the eleventh inning. I came in the tenth inning to pitch and we scored a run in the eleventh inning. I think I walked a guy, then some­body made an error. The guy was on sec­ond base and Buck came up to pinch hit and I struck him out. I didn't know him then. I didn't know he was the Buck O'Neil 'til years later. That ranks up there with the biggest thrills - striking him out.

The score was 5-5 going into the eleventh inning and we scored that run, then I struck Buck out and that was the end of the game. He was the last out.

Who was the best hitter you saw?

I saw a lot of good hitters. The guy I was with a lot was Double Duty. Ted wasn't a young man anymore and he could still hit that ball. A lot of guys could tear the cover off the ball but Double Duty, I remember him distinctly hitting long home runs.

There was a guy named Dick Vance; he was a catcher and he could hit some long balls. I don't know; I saw a lot of guys and I don't remember their names. I saw some great ballplayers, some guys that were too old to go to the majors and they were still playing and they were great. They could hit that ball and I wonder sometimes why they were not in the majors. It had to be their age. Jackie was 28 but he was exceptional.

What about the best pitcher?

night he faced me he struck out a lot of men, but they made some errors behind him and we scored some runs.

A guy that I remember was with the New York Black Yankees. He was a Cuban guy and he did go to the majors. His daddy played in the Negro leagues, too, they tell me. Tiant! Boy, he could throw that ball! I got a picture with him in New York. They really talked about his dad. Cool Papa told me about his dad-he was awesome.

You went back to school.

That's the reason I'm in Wisconsin. I went to the University of Wisconsin. I became a social worker and I worked for 24 years with the State of Wisconsin as a social worker. I retired four years ago. I was working in the corrections system and you can retire early, but I couldn't relax so I started working for this social service agency called C.Y.D.- Career Youth Devel­opment-working with the same type of youth I was working with when I was a social worker. I'm like the principal of a school now. I'm enjoying it.

I went to school in '58. I thought my leg was going to come around. The doctors kept watching it and I thought it healed. I could still run, but being a pitcher I kind of favored that leg on my landing. I couldn't get the ball across much anymore; I still had the speed, but it just wasn't there and I saw the light.  

I said, "I better get my butt back in school."  That's what I really wanted to do when I graduated from high school. I had two schol­arships; I had a scholarship to Grambling College to play football and I had a scholar­ship to Arkansas A. M. and N.-which is now the University of Arkansas - to play basketball, but nobody recruited me for baseball. At that time, at the black schools baseball was not one of the money sports.  I went to [visit] Grambling. Mr. [Eddie] Robinson took me down to visit the cam­pus and I spent the night with Willie Davis. We're good friends today because of that. We played football against each other in high school.  I saw some great pitchers, too. I saw some pitchers I modeled myself after and when I look back, you know, you play them tonight and you didn't see them again for a few weeks. You never came to know them personally. Lefty McKinnis was good.  

That Mr. Robinson told me then, "If baseball is your dream, you should go after it, son." This is a week before the Chicago scout talked to me. You know, I saw Mr. Robin­son last year in New York-they had a trib­ute there to the Negro league baseball play­ers and he was there. I went up to him, I said to him, "Mr. Robinson, do you remember me?" He said, "No, I don't remember you." I said, "You recruited me right out of high school back in 1953. You remember Willie Davis?" He said, "Oh, you're that skinny boy!" [Laughs] That was the highlight of the whole thing, so we had a picture taken together. That was great.

Would you be a ballplayer again in the same situation?

As I look back, I would have gone to college, paid my way, and played baseball. But I'd play [professional] baseball again.  I play now. They've got a league here they call the Old-Timers League. You have to be 30 or more and some guys 60 years old are playing. I'm 61; I'm the oldest one on the team. Last year we won one game and I won it. 

[Laughs] You're working with the Negro league players now. 

When we were in Kansas City and I saw the guys that came, some of them were in pretty bad shape. Some of them were liter­ally poor. Some of them just had the clothes they had on their backs.  We had a meeting. Fay Vincent, the commissioner of baseball, had ordered the Negro league players to be insured. Joe Black was given six months to find all the Negro league players. That wasn't fair because these guys are all over the country and he only found a little over a hundred - about half-and that was what the meeting was about-the insurance. They said, "This was two years ago and Joe had six months to do it. After he didn't do it in six months, the rest of the guys were left out."  On the way back home, I felt that was 

wrong and something would not let me rest until I did something about it. Personally, I didn't need the insurance. One day I might. So I started investigating why the other players did not have it and as I got deeper into it, I found out a lot of other things that were not conducive to us. Period.  I was a member of the Negro League Players Association. I'd never got much correspondence from it and I didn't know why. I never knew much about it. I heard that the guy that ran it was a millionaire that put up a lot of money to bring the Negro leagues back to the forefront, bring back the players.

For years, nobody talked about the Negro league players. This guy got an attorney and he filed some papers and he claimed to be representing all of us.  I called New York. I knew it was sup­posed to be nonprofit and I wanted to know what was the charter under and I found out that it was filed under some­one else's name, not the Negro league play­ers.  So I said before we can get insurance, we've got to get organized, so this is why I started this organization. We're organized now and we're legal. It's called Yesterday's Negro League Baseball Players LLC. LLC means Limited Liability Company, which means the players will get paid.  I'm in the process of setting up a pen­sion fund for them. We'll get a pension every month; we'll get insurance. Other people made 2.4 billion dollars on us and we're going to have some say on that now. We've just organized. 

Fay Vincent ordered Major League Prop­erties to look out after us. That includes licensing and anything else. There are sev­eral companies that have applied for licenses through Major League Properties that paid money to sell memorabilia. That money goes to the players - 50 percent of it. Thirty percent goes to the museum, 20 percent goes to the Jackie Robinson Foun­dation.  'Course, that's not right, either, because it all should go to the players first and then to the Jackie Robinson Founda­tion after the players are all gone.  The New York Times reported that, on sales alone, they made 2.4 billion dollars. The players didn't get any of that money. Those little checks they send us every six months is nothing compared to what they are making up there.  These guys, all they have that's worth anything is their little signatures on their pictures. This is all they have. For more Foundation