Your Grandpa Never Had A Fight
(To My Grandsons – Kamal, Musa, Naim
Barack, Khalil, Ameer & Bilal)
I have never had
a fight where anyone got beat up; I never really had to. I have had scuffles in which somebody got
slammed, then, that was it. Why exceed
bounds when the person has already been
vanquished? And, why attack, unjustly?
I learned that
from watching my Daddy. I studied him
from my crib, and I knew I wanted to be just like him, a hero. Everybody knew my Daddy was tough and
dependable. He commanded the respect of
about 10 Black men on his job as Supervisor of the Press Room and Stereotyper
at the Kansas City Call Newspaper. He
played football in college and he would never brag, but his buddies alluded to
his scrapping his way up on Vine Street.
Once, I had
quieted the colored manager at Melody Lanes after having been harassed for one
of my many faux pas's
and nearly brought to tears, when I threatened to “bring my Daddy around
here!", our house being only about a block away from the newly built
bowling alley. There was a hush... and
the subject changed quickly.
I went
everywhere with my Daddy: the pool hall, the bar, family events (cabaret
parties, picnics, etc.), his job (the Pressroom) and the Newsroom at The Call,
NAIA and Harlem Globetrotter basketball games at the Municipal Auditorium.
From the time I
was about 6 he took me amongst the raucous rowdy crowds at the Negro League Baseball games at the Kansas
City Blues Municipal Stadium up on Brooklyn Ave. to cheer Satchel Paige and the Monarchs
and boo Goose Tatum (whom we, later, cheered when he played basketball with the
Harlem Globetrotters) and the
Indianapolis
Clowns.
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