Chapter 4: The Minor Leagues

I had a little more than three years at the Lancaster Intelligencer-Journal, but they were some of the best of times. I fell in love with the game of golf. I traded my old Ford for a MG-TD, a British sports car. A perfect day was getting on the golf course while the greens were still wet with dew. At night, the magic was in covering the Class A Red Roses baseball team from the press box at Stumpf Field. Later, I wallowed in the camaraderie at Obie Miller's, a reporters' hangout, where we stayed and talked until they shut us off with "Last call!" well after midnight.

Sports were the center of my world. When Jackie Robinson came to Lancaster in 1960 campaigning for Richard Nixon, who was running for president against John Kennedy, I was an easy mark. The first vote I ever cast was for Nixon. It wasn't difficult: in the section of Pennsylvania where I was raised, nearly everybody voted Republican, including my father.

Nothing on the newspaper beat writing about sports. We covered games. We could tell stories that had real endings. People gravitated to us. We became known around town. Lancaster was a conservative city of about 70,000 located in the heart of Amish country in southeastern Pennsylvania. By 1961, the civil rights movement was poking through even in places like Lancaster, although the city's black population was little more than 5 percent.

When the NAACP led a campaign to desegregate the swimming pool at a local amusement park, association members came to recruit me. "It's important that we have people like you with us," they told me. "You work for the newspaper." I would not do it. "I don't swim," I explained, missing the point entirely. The NAACP could not persuade me to budge from my position. But it did not end there. When I went down to "the ward," the black section of town, and climbed into the barber's chair, the first thing said was, "I hear you wouldn't have any part of that demonstration the NAACP had out at Rocky Springs."

In a barbershop, nothing is private, and others jumped into the conversation. They got on me good. The NAACP called again. My response was the same. Then, one evening while I was on my way to work, a number of blacks were picketing a department store directly across from the newspaper office. The signs they held demanded jobs. I stopped for a moment to watch. Then, for reasons I cannot explain, something moved me to join the demonstration. If anyone in the newsroom noticed, it was never mentioned.

While I loved my work in Lancaster, the urge to move up was always with me. I felt like a baseball player toiling in the minor leagues. Your mind is on getting to the majors almost all the time. And that's what I wanted. I interviewed for a sportswriting position at the Patriot-News in Harrisburg, the state capital. The sports editor, a widely known and respected figure, offered me the job. "I always get the person I want, and I want you," he said. He was enthusiastic and promised to call and give me a starting date. Thrilled beyond words, I returned to Lancaster and handed the editor my resignation. My colleagues threw a goodbye party for me. The days went by, then weeks, and I never heard another word from Harrisburg. Nothing; not ever. I was devastated. "You can take your resignation back," the editor said, softening the blow. It had to be race that blocked my path, I told myself. I was so certain of it that I vowed not to apply for another job. I believed that no paper would hire a sportswriter who was black.

For me, that conclusion meant that Lancaster was the end of the line. I could go no further. I went to the editor and asked to be transferred to news. "A good move," he told me. If I was to finish my career at the Intelligencer-Journal, it was better to enjoy more money and status as a cityside reporter. And that was not a horrible prospect. There were a lot of classy, talented people on the staff. But just as I was lowering my sights, a most incredible thing happened.

Robert Pfannebecker, a friend and a prominent lawyer in Lancaster, invited me to a party. "There's this guy I want you to meet," he said. He told me that the fellow was a reporter at The Gazette and Daily in York, a town about 25 miles away. I assumed he was white. When I arrived at the party I spied this black fellow mingling in the crowd. "Probably a lawyer," I thought. I was as wrong as I could be. He was Bob Maynard. Until that moment, I had never met another newspaperman who was black like me. We plunged into conversation. Maynard told me that he was in line to become the city editor of his newspaper. I couldn't believe it; the city editor runs the newspaper. I was electrified. We talked of New York, his hometown; of the newspapers we liked; and of reaching the top. Maynard was so confident. He believed everything was possible. The two of us had the same dream. We agreed to meet again the very next weekend. But that night when I left the party, I knew I could go higher. I was sure of it.