5
COURAGE
A few strike out, without map or chart,
Where never a man has been,
From the beaten paths they draw apart
To see what no man has seen.
There are deeds they hunger alone to do;
Though battered and bruised and sore,
They blaze the path for the many, who
Do nothing not done before.
The things that haven't been done before
Are the tasks worthwhile today;
Are you one of the flock that follows, or
Are you one that shall lead the way?
Are you one of the timid souls that quail
At the jeers of a doubting crew,
Or dare you, whether you win or fail,
Strike out for a goal that's new?
Rosa
Parks
Kai Friese
Rosa Parks's refusal to "move to the back" of the bus on the
evening of December 1, 1955, marked a historic moment: the
start of a movement
that would bring an end
to
a tradition of
legal segregation across the South and entire nation. Parks certainly never suspected her gesture would turn a new page in the
history of American race relations. She didn't move, she later
explained, because she was just suddenly fed up with being
pushed around. But the courage of the moment sparked the fires
of change.
It was Thursday, December 1, 1955. The workday was over, .
and crowds of people boarded the green-and-white buses that trundled through the streets of Montgomery. Rosa Parks was tired after
a full day of stitching and ironing shirts at the Montgomery Fair
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department store.
She thought she was lucky to have gotten one 0 f
.'
the last seats m the rear section of the Cleveland Avenue bus that
would take her home.
Soon the back of the bus was full, and several people were
standing in the rear. The bus rolled . on through Court Square ' where
African-Americans had been auctioned off during the days of the
Confederacy, and came to a stop m front of the Empire Theater.
The next passenger aboard stood in the front of an aisle. He wasa
white man.
When he noticed that a white person had to stand, the bus
driver, James F. Blake, called out to the four black people who were
sitting just behind the white section. He said they would haveto
give up their seats for the new passenger. No one stood up. "You'd
better make it light on yourself and let me have those seats," the
driver said threateningly. Three men got up and went to stand at the
back of the bus. But Rosa Parks wasn't about to move. She had been
in this situation before, and she had always given up her seat. She
had always felt insulted by the experience. "It meant that I didn't
have a right to do anything but get on the bus, give them my fare
and then be pushed around wherever they wanted me," she said.
By a quirk of fate, the driver of the bus on this December
evening was the same James F. Blake who had once before removed
the troublesome Rosa Parks from his bus for refusing to enter by the
back door. That was a long time ago, in 1943. Rosa Parks didn't feel
like being pushed around again. She told the driver that she wasn't
in the white section and she wasn't going to move.
Blake knew the rules, though. He knew that the white section
was wherever the driver said it was. If more white passengers got
on the bus, he could stretch the white section to the back of thebus
and make all the blacks stand. He shouted to Rosa Parks to moveto
the back of the bus. She wasn't impressed. She told him again that
she wasn't moving. Everyone in the bus was silent, wondering what
would happen next. Finally Blake told Rosa Parks that he would
have her arrested for violating the racial segregation codes. In a finn
but quiet voice, she told him that he could do what he wanted to do
because she wasn't moving.
Blake got off the bus and came back with an officer of the
·
I dR a Parks
M ontgomery Pohce Department
As the officer p ace
os
under arrest, she asked him plainly, "Why do you people pushus
around?"
: h h
W It t e eyes of all the passengers
.
h
on him, teo
fficer could
1
COURAGE
only answer in confusion.
491
"I don't know. I'm just obeying the law,"
he said.
Rosa Parks was taken to the police station, where she was
booked and fmgerprinted.
While the policemen were filling out
forms, she asked if she could have a drink of water. She was told
that the drinking fountain in the station was for whites only. Then a
policewoman marched her into a long corridor facing a wall of iron
bars. A barred door slid open. She went inside. The door clanged
shut, and she was locked in. She was in jail.
Rosa Parks's decision to challenge her arrest in court led Montgomery's black community to organize a bus boycott as a show
of support.
Rosa Parks woke up on the morning of Monday, December 5,
thinking about her trial. As she and her husband got out of bed, they
heard the familiar sound of a City Lines bus pulling up to a stop
across the road. There was usually a crowd of people waiting for the
bus at this time. The Parkses rushed to the window and looked out.
Except for the driver, the bus was empty and there was no one
getting on either. The bus stood at the stop for more than a minute,
puffing exhaust smoke into the cold December air as the puzzled
driver waited for passengers. But no one appeared, and the empty
bus chugged away.
Rosa Parks was filled with happiness. Her neighbors were actually boycotting the buses. She couldn't wait to drive to the courthouse so that she could see how the boycott was going in the rest of
Montgomery. When Fred Gray arrived to drive her to the trial, she
wasn't disappointed. Rosa Parks had expected some people to stay
off the buses. She thought that with luck, maybe even half the usual
passengers would stay off. But these buses were just plain empty.
All over the city, empty buses bounced around for everyone to
see. There was never more than the usual small group of white
passengers in front and sometimes a lonely black passenger in back,
wondering what was going on. The streets were filled with black
people walking to work.
As Rosa Parks and her lawyer drove up to the courthouse,
there was another surprise waiting for them. A crowd of about five
hundred blacks had gathered to show their support for her. Mrs.
Parks and the lawyer made their way slowly through the cheenng
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-
crowd into the courtroom.
Once they were inside, the trial did '
. kl
. dInt
take long. Rosa P ar k s was qUiC y convicte
of breaking the bus
segregation laws and fined ten dollars, as well as four dollars for h
cost of her trial. This was the stage at which Claudette Colvin's /. ~
had ended seven months earlier. Colvin had had little choice but~a
accept the guilty verdict and pay the fine.
a
This time, however, Fred Gray rose to file an appeal on Rosa
Parks's case. This meant that her case would be taken to a higher
court at a later date. Meanwhile, Mrs. Parks was free to go.
Outside the courthouse, the crowd was getting restless. Some
of them were carrying sawed-off shotguns, and the policemen were
beginning to look worried. E. D. Nixon went out to calm them,
but nobody could hear him in the din. Voices from the crowd
shouted out that they would storm the courthouse if Rosa Parks
didn't come out safely within a few minutes. When she did appear,
a great cheer went up again.
After seeing the empty buses that morning, and this largeand
fearless crowd around her now, Rosa Parks knew that she had made
the right decision. Black people were uniting to show the city administration that they were tired of the insults of segregation. Together, they could change Montgomery.
They could do some good.
It Can
Be Done
True courage is mixed with circumspection, the kind of healthy
skepticism that asks, "Is this the best way to do this?" True
cowardice is marked by chronic skepticism, which always says,
"It can't be done."
The man who misses all the fun
Is he who says, "It can't be done."
In solemn pride he stands aloof
And greets each venture with reproof.
Had he the power he'd efface
The history of the human race;
We'd have no radio or motor cars,
No streets lit by electric stars;
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ours will see that those who are dependent
on us are properly pro-
vided for.
R. SCOtt
The
Iron
Horse
Bob Considine
Lou Gehrig (1903-1941) played a record 2,130 consecuriveballgames for the New York Yankees from June 1,1925, ro May2,
1939, earning rhe nickname "the Iron Horse." The power-hitting
first baseman hit. 300 or better for twelve srraight seasons,batted
in 100 or more runs for thirteen consecutive
years, and hit 493
home runs. The form of spine paralysis that ended his careerand
eventually his life has come to be known as Lou Gehrig's disease,
not just because of the publicity surrounding his sickness, but
because of the remarkable courage with which he faced the end.
The Yanks won easily in 1938, Lou's fifteenth year with theball
team. They went on to demolish the Chicago Cubs in the World
Series. But Lou's contribution was modest. During the regularseason he hit .295, a highly acceptable figure in today's baseball, but a
source of great embarrassment for Gehrig in 1938. It was the rust
time he had hit under .300 since joining the team. DiMag had beat
him in home run production the year before. Lou played through
the Series against the Cubs, but the four hits he got in fourteen ume
at bat were all singles.
The first hint I had that Lou's problem was more sinister thana
routine slump that year was provided by a wild-and-woolly Wash.
.
ykSramgton pitcher named Joe Krakauskas. After a game at an ee
dium he told Shirley Povich of the Washington Post and me thata
frightening thing had happened to him while pitching against
ng. Joe had uncorked his high inside fast ball with the expectat~
that Lou would move back and take it, as a ball. Instead, Krakausas
id L
d closerto
Sal,
ou-a renowned judge of balls and strikes-move
the plate.
Ge~;
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497
"My pitch went between his wrists," Joe said, still shaken.
"Scaredthe hell outta me. Something's wrong with Gehrig..
Lou's salary was cut three thousand dollars a year before he
wentsouth with the Yankees in 1939. There was no beeffrom him.
Hehad had a bum year, for him, so the cut was deserved. He'd
comeback. After all, the Babe played twenty-two years without
evertaking good care of himself. ...
Joe McCarthy started Gehrig at first base on opening day of the
1939season, contemptuous of a fan who, a few days before in an
exhibitiongame at Ebbets Field, had bawled, in earshot of both of
them, "Hey, Lou, why don't you give yourself up? What do you
wantMcCarthy to do, burn that uniform off you?"
Lou hobbled as far into the 1939 season as May 2. Then, on
themorning of the first game of a series against Detroit, he called
McCarthyon the hotel's house phone and asked to see him.
"I'm benching myself, Joe," he said, once in the manager's
suite.McCarthy did not speak.
"For the good of the team," Lou went on. "I can't tell you how
grateful1 am to you for the kindness you've shown me, and your
patience... 1just can't seem to get going. The time has come for
me to quit. "
McCarthy snorted and told him to forget the consecutivegames-playedrecord, take a week or two off, and he'd come back
strong.
Gehrig shook his head. "I can't go on, Joe," he said. "Johnny
Murphytold me so."
McCarthy cursed the relief pitcher.
"I didn't mean it that way, Joe," Gehrig said. "All the boys
havebeen swell to me. Nobody's said a word that would hurt my
feelings.But Johnny said something the other day that made me
know it was time for me to get out of the lineup ... and all he
meantto do was to be encouraging."
McCarthy, still angry, asked for details.
."You remember the last play in that last game we played at the
StadIUm?"Lou asked. "A ball was hit between the box and first
base.Johnny fielded it, and 1 got back to first just in time to take the
throw from him. "
"So?"
"So, well 1had a hard time getting back there, Joe," Lou said.
"I'should have been there in plenty of time.
.
1made the put-out, b ut
whenJohnny and 1 were trotting to the bench he said, 'Nice play,
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Lou' '" I knew then it was time to quit. The boys were beg1'nmug
. to
feel sorry for me.
At the urging of his devoted wife, Eleanor, Lou checked into
the Mayo Chmc in Rochester, Minnesota. In due time he emer ed
with a bleak "To Whom It May Concern" document signed by~he
eminent Dr. Harold C. Harbemg:
"This is to certify that Mr. Lou Gehrig has been under examina_
tion at the Mayo Clinic from June 13 to June 19, 1939, inclusive.
After a careful and complete examination,
it was found that he is
suffering from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. This type of illnessinvolves the motor pathways and cells of the central nervous system
and, in lay terms, is known as a form of chronic poliomyelitisinfantile paralysis.
"The nature of this trouble makes it such that Mr. Gehrig will
be unable to continue his active participation as a baseball player,
inasmuch as it is advisable that he conserve his muscular energy. He
could, however, continue in some executive capacity."
Lou returned to the team for the remainder of the 1939 season,
slowly suiting up each day, taking McCarthy's lineups to home plate
to deliver to the umpires before each game. It was his only dutyas
captain. It was another winning season for the Yankees, but hardly
for Lou. The short walk from the dugout to home plate and hack
exhausted him. But more exhausting was a cruel (but mostly true)
story in the New York Daily News to the effect that some of his
teammates had become afraid of drinking out of the Yankee dugout's
drinking fountain after Lou used it.
"Gehrig Appreciation Day" (july 4, 1939) was one of those
emotional salutes which only baseball seems able to produce: packed
stands, the prospect of a doubleheader
win over the Washington
Senators, a peppery speech from Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, the
presence of Yankee fan and Gehrig buff postmaster General Jim
Farley, and the array of rheumatic and fattening old teammatesof
yesteryear. And The Family in a sidelines box. Presents and trophies
filled a table.
For Lou, now beginning to hollow out from his disease, one
basic ingredient was missing. Babe Ruth wasn't there. Babe, theone
he wanted to be there more than he wanted any of his old buddies,
had not answered the invitations or the management's phone calls.d
Then, with little warning, a great commotion and rustlea~
rattle in the stadium. The Babe was entering. He magnetiZ
COURAGE
499
every eye, activated every rongue. Lou wheezed a prayer of thanksgiving.
The ceremony between games of the doubleheader was nor calculated to be anything requiring a stiff upper lip. Joe McCarthy's
voice cracked as he began his prepared tribute. He promptly abandoned his script and blurted, "Don't let's cry about this ... " which
hadjust the opposite effect among the fans.
When Lou's turn came, he, too, pocketed the small speech he
had worked on the night before. He swallowed a few times to make
his voice stronger, then haltingly said:
"They say I've had a bad break. But when the office force and
the groundkeepers and even the Giants from across the river, whom
we'd give our right arm to beat in the World Series-when
they
remember you, that's something ... and when you have a wonderful father and mother who worked hard to give you an education
.. and a wonderful wife ... "
His words began to slither when he tried to say something about
Jake Ruppert and Miller Huggins, dead, and McCarthy, Barrow and
Bill Dickey, alive.
But nobody missed his ending.
"I may have been given a bad break," he concluded, briefly
touching his nose as if to discourage a sniff, "but Ihave an awful lot
to live for. With all this, I consider myself the luckiest man on the
faceof the earth."
Babe, the irrepressible, stepped forward, embraced him and
blubbered, an act that turned out to be epidemic.
Gehrig made the trip to Cincinnati that fall to watch his old club
clobber the Reds in the World Series. He had a good time, but some
of his friends found it a troubling experience being around him.
Going out to dinner one night, with Dickey at his side, Lou staggered and was on the brink of plunging down the long flight of
marble steps that led from the lobby of the Netherlands Plaza hotel
to the street level. Dicky made one of the better catches of his life
and saved Lou from a possibly fatal fall.
.
.
Then there was a scene on the train that brought the VIctorIOUS
Yanks back to New York. Lou spotted his friend Henry McLemore
of the United Press and invited him into his drawing room for a
drink. A table had been set up. Lou slowly but surely put ice in the
glasses, then reached for the partly filled fifth of Johnnie Walker
Black Label. He wrapped a bony hand around the cork and tried to
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ull it loose. It was not in tightly,
.
. but he did not have the strength
P
to loosen it. Henry stopped listening to what Lou was sayingab
ized bvY Lou'
lOUt
the Series. He was mesmenze
ou s strugg
e and too reverent
.
.'
of the man to offer to help. Pinally, Lou raised the bottle to hisr
closed his teeth on the cork, and let his elbows drop to the table.
The cork stayed in his teeth. He removed it, poured the drinks,and
went on with what he had been saymg.
Henry got very drunk that night.
I
I
I
I
Just before he died on June 2, 1941, Lou called me fromhis
office. Mayor La Guardia had appointed him to the New YorkCity
Parole Board to work with and encourage youthful lawbreakers.
Gehrig threw himself into the work with everything he had, orhad
left. He also kept up a lively interest in research into the diseasethat
had driven him out of baseball.
It was a note about the latter that prompted his phone call.
"I've got some good news for you," he said. "Looks likethe
boys in the labs might have come up with a real breakthrough.
They've got some new serum that they've tried on ten of us who
have the same problem. And, you know something? It seemsto
be. working on nine out of the ten. How about that?" He was
elated.
I tried not to ask the question, but it came out anyway, after'
bit.
"How about you, Lou?"
Lou said, "Well, it didn't work on me. But how about thatfor
an average?-nine out of ten! Isn't that great?"
I said yes, it was great.
So was he.