For Hoss, the highlight of each road trip was the local bus tour and the chance to learn some little tidbits of history about the cities he visited. Knoxville, he discovered, was the home of the Dempsey Dumpster and Mountain Dew, which was originally sold to mix with whiskey and had a hillbilly and an outhouse on its label to appeal to the moonshine folks in the hills of Tennessee. He also found out that in a book titled Inside USA, published in 1934, John Gunther described Knoxville as the “ugliest city” in America. According to the brochure, that sparked a downtown rejuvenation.
As the bus passed the landmark Tennessee Theatre, Hoss was surprised to see blacks standing in line with whites for tickets to a matinee. In 1963, the theater had been desegregated after demonstrators pointed out the hypocrisy of Knoxville billing itself as an “All-American City” while maintaining separate public accommodations. Knoxville’s downtown lunch counters were also integrated, and it was one of the first Southern cities to hire black policemen.
Hoss enjoyed riding up to Sharp’s Ridge, where he could see the Great Smoky Mountains in the distance. But his favorite part of the tour was getting out and walking through the campus of the University of Tennessee. Located in the heart of Knoxville, the university was slightly ahead of other Southern institutions in admitting blacks. Its first black student was enrolled way back in 1952, more than a decade ahead of the University of Alabama (although it was not until June 1964 that a black completed a four-year undergraduate degree at Tennessee, and the school’s first black athlete did not arrive on campus until 1967).
Of course Hoss wasn’t as interested in campus history as he was the coeds hurrying to their summer school classes. An ardent admirer of attractive young women, he thought Knoxville girls were pretty, but not quite as good-looking as the two girls from the Ice Capades who rode with Hoss and a couple of teammates on the same elevator at their hotel. If he was to believe these teammates, they got lucky with the skaters, and could’ve gotten free tickets to the show except that it was at the same time as the Barons vs. Smokies game.
Sullivan walked out of his office and glanced at Hoss, who gave him the thumbs-up sign, letting him know he was okay to play again that night. It had been over two months since he’d sat out a game, but no way would he take himself out of the lineup. His batting average, which had barely jiggled the meter back in April, was now up to .270. According to Alf Van Hoose of the News, he was a solid candidate for the Southern League All-Star team… if the Barons weren’t in first on July 5 and hosting the game.
Hoss eyed Stanley Jones approaching his locker. Jones had been pitching well lately, mostly out of the bullpen, and with a 5–2 record was second only to Ron Tompkins in wins. Hoss didn’t know Jones all that well—they stayed in different hotels, ate in different restaurants, and didn’t chat much at the ballpark or on the bus—but he thought he seemed like a nice quiet guy, who had a wife and three little kids, and every time he pitched at Rickwood the black fans cheered like crazy for him.
“I was wondering,” said Jones, his voice barely above a whisper, “if you’d like to come over to my place for dinner on Sunday? My wife’s a great cook. My mom and dad and a few aunts and uncles will be there, too.”
The invite caught Hoss totally off-guard. He prided himself on trying to get along with everybody on the team, but he didn’t figure that one of the black players would extend him such an invitation.
“I don’t know if you know that my wife and son got in town last week,” said Hoss. “Are they invited, too?”
“That’s why I’m asking,” said Jones. “My wife got to talking with your wife the other night, and thought she was real nice.”
It was Camera Day at Rickwood—anybody bringing a camera could get into the ballpark for fifty cents and take pictures of his or her favorite ballplayers before the game. Judging from the swarm of kids draped over the railing and clamoring for Hoss, he was the most popular.
Six months earlier when he was lying on his back in the oncology ward at the Memphis hospital, and the doctor had told him his baseball days were over, he did a lot of thinking about what the future might hold. With less than a year’s worth of college credit on his transcript, his options were limited. Getting up at 4 a.m. to drive a milk truck, as he’d done in a couple of off-seasons, wasn’t appealing. Maybe he could go to work selling shirts and underwear in his father-in-law’s clothing store in Paragould, but he knew enough about himself to think retail sales wasn’t his calling. Or he could go back and help his dad with the farm, but there again, picking cotton and feeding the pigs held little appeal. What he really wanted to do, other than make the big leagues, was coach. He loved working with kids. In his third year of pro ball in Billings, Montana, he organized a baseball clinic and spent most mornings during home stands working with local kids. His efforts didn’t go unnoticed. The Billings City Council awarded him the Youth Inspirational Award for 1962.
“Hey, Hoss,” yelled a freckle-faced eight-year-old, “make a funny face.”
Hoss made a funny face.
“Mr. Bowlin, can I get a picture of you next to my son?” asked a young mother.
Hoss posed with the youngster, nudging him with his elbow to get him to smile.
And so it went, the rest of the team fulfilling their Camera Day obligation and retreating to the clubhouse, but not Hoss.
“Who else wants a picture?” he asked.
This time he flexed. If it had been Halloween, he probably would have pulled up his shirt and showed the kids the Frankenstein scar running up his stomach.
After infield practice, Hoss heard somebody call his name. He turned around, surprised to see Albert Belcher motioning him over.
“Young man, how’d you like to make an extra $50?” asked Belcher.
Given his $600-a-month salary, and the money he owed the hospital in Memphis, he liked the sound of it. “What do I have to do?” he asked.
“It’s simple,” replied Belcher. “Ride Miss Baron around the park.”
Miss Baron was an old mule that Belcher had bought, partially to be the team’s mascot but also to poke fun at Finley and his mascot for the A’s, a palomino mule named Charlie O.
“When?”
“Tonight, just before the game starts.”
“Sign me up,” said Hoss.
He figured this would be an easy fifty bucks. He’d been around horses growing up, and used to hop on the family’s workhorses and ride out into the fields.
“There’s no saddle,” said Belcher. “Think you can do it bareback?”
“Piece a cake.”
“Wanna make another fifty backs?” asked Belcher.
“How?”
“When, or should I say if, you bring Miss Baron back to home plate, I’ll be up on the roof of the grandstand. The PA guy will make an announcement, and then I’ll throw a baseball down to you… and if you catch it in a popcorn box, it’s another $50.”
“While I’m still on Miss Baron?”
“Yep.”
“Cash on the barrelhead?”
Belcher showed him a roll of hundreds.
“What if you make a bad throw?”
“I won’t.”
A few minutes later, Hoss mounted Miss Baron and whispered in her ear. As the crowd roared, off he rode… down the third-base line to the foul pole, across the outfield, and then clippity-clomping back to home… just as he’d said… a piece of cake.
He waved to the cheering crowd.
As the PA announcer directed everyone’s attention to the rooftop, the batboy handed Hoss an empty popcorn box. Belcher inched toward the edge of the roof, waved to the crowd, and peered down. Hoss signaled he was ready.
Belcher gave it a toss, and the ball arched downward toward home plate. Raising the popcorn box, Hoss reached out, his eyes fixed on the flight of the ball… as it sailed right into the box.
And the crowd went wild… especially Madelyn.
After the game, Belcher hand-delivered to Hoss a crisp $100 bill. He put it toward his hospital bill.