Letter to the Grandkids #2: Racism in College Years

This is the second of a series of letters to my grandkids. I try to convey my reactions and emotions to the world that I was encountering as I grew older, and why, at age 79, I have these convictions. I share these letters with the public with the hope that other grandparents consider something similar.

Dear Kids:

My last letter to you spelled out my first 18 years in Braidwood, a town that gave me an introduction to racism. It was also a small, unique town that laid the foundation to connect, respect, and love those who were different than me. Although that introduction was insufficient for the college years, I had the basis for this next stage.

Getting a baseball scholarship to Lewis College (University) opened a door to grow beyond the Joliet city limits and into Chicago. As a freshman commuter student, I didn’t become a real college guy yet. Go to classes, shoot around in the small gym, and hang around with my Joliet buddies before the 30-mile trip back to Braidwood.

Although I was a baseball player, I genuinely enjoyed pick-up basketball games wherever they might be. I had played in two Joliet Catholic intramural games when I was a senior and was surprised that I had some talent for the game. 

My Joliet baseball friends asked me to join their park district basketball teams in Joliet and Lockport as well as the Lewis intramural league.  Playing in the park districts, however, was especially enjoyable because of the outstanding talent I had the chance to play against.  Young 20-30-year-old former high school players, Black and White, knew how to play a rough, undisciplined brand of ball that was a challenge, but I did pretty well during that fall. Well enough to be invited to be on the Lewis basketball team in January.

Being on the team gave me the chance to practice with teammates from Chicago and to be coached by a great man, Gordie Gillespie. My new teammates had diverse backgrounds, but it was two who made a big difference in my life. Bob Thayer, a sophomore, and Gordie Kendall, a junior, were Black student/athletes who became good friends.

Gordie, a future Secret Service protector of presidents and one-day father-in-law to Isaiah Thomas, became a mentor, guiding and advising the rookie who knew nothing about basketball drills. Bob would be my roommate in my sophomore year when I was invited to move into the residence hall. 

Bob and I became friends on and off the court. Being with Bob off the court introduced me to the world of discrimination, segregation, and hate. It was my first time to get a glimpse (and only a glimpse) of this world through his lens. Bob lived in that world; I made only brief, shocking visits. But those occasions burned a new paradigm, a new framework into my soul where I could moderately identify with my friend.

We opened the 1960-61 season with a game at Memphis, Tennessee against Christian Brothers College. On December 2, 1960 we boarded the train in Kankakee and headed down to Memphis, as far south in Tennessee as possible. For ten hours, we played cards and even had the chance to meet and talk with Stan Hack, former Cub 3^rd baseman and manager. Now I looked forward to seeing a new city.

We disembarked from the train, got our luggage, and were awaiting the cabs when I saw something that shocked me.  My roommate, Bob, got into a different cab and was headed out to a place where he would stay. I still have visions of him riding in that vehicle by himself, in a “colored” cab. I was told for the first time that he couldn’t stay in the same hotel as the rest of the team. 

My world was stopped for a while. I wasn’t aware, or could grasp, that this would be the situation. I should have known, but didn’t. While I was in a daze, my thoughts turned to Bob. How did he feel about this turn? Was he even aware that this would be the case?

The game? We lost 70-67 the next night, but Bob Thayer was our leading scorer with 19 points. 

I would later learn that Bob had been alerted by Coach that these were the rules of the South and that he didn’t have to go on this trip. Bob told me that he discussed it with his mother, but she thought that it would be a learning experience. Although he knew what was coming, he was still stunned.

A few years ago over dinner at Merichka’s, Bob told me that he had been escorted to the “colored” car of the train before crossing Ohio River into Kentucky, the “Mason-Dixon” line. He knew that he would not be staying in our hotel, but he had not known ahead of time that the change of cars would happen or that he would be taken in a different cab.

That was the first racial experience that I had while being with Bob, but there would be more.