Sanity vs. insanity

Mental illness plays large in what happens at San Quentin. I often forget this however and it costs me.

            Some of the players that were cut from the Giants and then formed the core of the A’s I suspect are dealing with emotional troubles. And how could it be any different.

Merely being in the misery that is San Quentin has got to impact the psychological well being of any human being. Over the course of four decades I have seen how exposure to the prison environment affects correctional officers, prison administrators, volunteers, as well as the convicts themselves. Sadly I have seen seminary students utterly lose their desire or ability to function as a minister. More than a few seminary classmates made ship wreck of their faith after a few years of either working at or serving as a volunteer in the ministry of the Protestant Chapel. I wonder how I am doing actually and it occurs to me that I have likely not avoided the dangers either.

Some forms of psychosis develop, or so it is thought by some, by not being able to deal with reality and so a separate reality is constructed that is more easily  navigated. The word schizophrenic comes to mind, and it is something I know about because my youngest brother was so diagnosed, in 1968, after he returned from a bad tour in Vietnam[1].

When I come into the prison for a practice or a game during the week, I head to the Mac Shack, which is positioned right by North Block where most of our players are housed. Those who are physically disabled, are on special diets due to diabetes for example, and those who are on meds of some sort, exit the block first for the chow hall. For years I have watched this group of men shuffle toward the hall and have noticed a number of our ball players in the mix. More than once I have been told by one of our players that so and so is on meds, and therefore be graceful in dealing with them.

The convicts who fair the best, in general only I suppose, are those who have had contact with the criminal justice system as juveniles. These often become institutionalized at an early age and fit more easily into adult prisons. But there are many who lived the average middle class life, end up coming to prison, and the adjustment is brutal. Insanity is right around the corner.

On the ball field there is a sense of normalcy to the point that is easy to forget the playing field lies in the heart of a big time prison. The guys seem normal, and many are in fact, but the place is ugly and unhealthy despite the department of corrections and rehabilitation’s effort to create a safe environment. It simply cannot be done. Under the surface is pent up anger and rage, sex stuff is always just below the surface, these combined with the racial tension–fear, despair, and more is right there all the time.  

I do admire and respect those convicts, who after a decade or more in prison have been able to maintain some sense of sanity and avoid, to some degree, becoming institutionalized. It is better to respect and admire these men than feel sorry for them. It is dangerous to let a convict get into your head to the point you will bring in whatever[2] for them, which happens a whole lot.

Insanity can become a place of escape for otherwise normal people, and yes some such do end up in prison. California’s laws regarding domestic violence and driving under the influence can result in a couple years in a state pen. And by the way, county time is no piece of cake either, and can be worse than state prisons. Once in a while I will find someone who looks like me, talks like me and I figure it is either a DUI or some kind of domestic violence deal that brought them to prison. And these people are not prepared for it. From the office to the joint and it is this group that is most vulnerable for going crazy. Prison can be just that awful.

[1] My brother Gary committed suicide about a year after his Army experience, he had been a combat engineer, and was on medication at the time.

[2] A favorite item requested by prisoners is cash money, which oddly enough there is plenty of in the prison and is used to buy all sorts of things. Drugs of course are asked for, eventually demanded, and the best way is for a woman to bring such in. Even food will be sought for, specialty candies for instance, and of course cigarettes. “Playing on the sympathies” is certainly a phrase that applies to prison dynamics.

I am too embarrassed, due to what I have done, to face the world anymore.

This sensation I have experienced a number of times, but somehow, over the years, it has been fading away. The reality is, So What! It is now not enough to get me to think I need to do myself in.

Forgiveness, the reality is that I do know, not feel really, but know that my sin has been forgiven, past, present, and future. I also know that the enemy of Christ and so of myself, throws this up at me from time to time. And it stinks for sure. But slowly I have been able to ignore this, and say to myself, “Yeah Philpott, you are the worst that has ever been, yet I know of the incredible power of God to wash my sin away. So, get behind me Satan.”

I am thinking though of folks who are saying, “Okay good for Kent, but I am not there yet.” Here is where we need to ignore our feelings and focus and center on the finished work of Christ. We cling to truth not to feelings and emotions.

Of course, there will be times when someone, whether intentional or accidental or unintentional, when someone will bring our sinning. It happened to me three days ago, and at church for that matter. It was unintentional, said jokingly, but I heard it and for a moment made me angry. Yes, there I was, Pastor Kent, and the words were heard. What did I do? I laughed right along with the others. It even went through my mind that I hoped the person who uttered the gaff was going to be okay.

How many of such incidents have I endured? Too many to count.

Am I still embarrassed about some of the things I have done? Yes, I am, but this is not enough to think about killing myself. Yes, years ago this is what hit me, but I am moving away from this now. Thank God for His mercy.

Opening   Day

There was some doubt whether the opening day game would be played on May 7. There was the kite dropped about Chris Marshall, the racist charge, the missing jersey, and the battle over the status of the A’s–were they an A team or a B team. The kite, or death letter, supposedly from an A’s player, maybe a white player as Chris is black–if the prison got word of it the 2011 baseball season would likely be lost. We managed to keep it a secret known only to about two thousand inmates.

Racism–in my case it would be reverse racism, was clearly absurd and no one entertained it for long–the whole of it seems to me to be nothing much more that an attempt to sabotage the season. Perhaps a jealous wannbe ball player or maybe just an angry man who can’t stand others enjoying themselves and who sat up long nights figuring how to cause mischief. It will probably remain a mystery.

May 7, 2011, 8:30am we were at the East Gate, and there were a number of us. In my van were Jim Parker, Vern Smith, and Shane Hedegar along with the video cameras and tri-pods. My intent was to document the event. And Bill Mauck, my old friend, was sitting in the front passenger seat with his camera to take photos as he has done for a number of opening days. I have thought it might be possible to produce a documentary and suspecting this might be my last chance to do so, I had plotted carefully during the run-up to the game to have all the pieces in place. With no story-line in mind I considered that it might be little more than a keep-sake, or something to show family and friends, but nevertheless, I wanted to document opening day.

            Lt. Sam Robinson, the prison’s public information officer and an A’s fan, would be there so that cameras could be taken into the prison. No Lt. Robinson, no cameras; this would also be a chance to take team photos as well as individual shots. Many of these photos I will put up on flickr so that families and friends of the guys can view them. Not a small deal either and the guys will be on me to get it done. As soon as they know the photos are up they will get the word out.

It was the usual confusion on the lower yard with the hustle to get the uniforms on, the field prepared and stripped, and a whole lot of other details attended to.

The A’s were throwing out in right field. They occupied the first base dugout, the dugout used by the visiting team. A couple weeks ago one of them, sent by the “brain trust” of the A’s, approached me and asked if there would be a coin toss to see which team would be the home team. My answer was one word, “No!”.

The Giant’s were stretching in left field. I walked out to check on the emotional condition of the guys; the desire to beat the A’s and just smash them, prove to them they were not an A team was running higher than I hoped. I knew it would be there, and I had not done a good job in cooling things down. The whole team knew I wanted to win, and badly. We all suspected that if the A’s won, they would be demanding to be the A team, and that would be utterly intolerable. The stakes were indeed high. Stakes–a lot of betting would be going on too.

I was anxious now too. For the A’s Marvin Andrew was going to be the starting pitcher, Ke Lam would be at short and batting leadoff–anything can happen in a one game series.

Kevin Loughlin and I had figured out a line-up two days earlier, at the Thursday night practice, and before we left that night I read it out to the guys. This has long been a practice of mine so that the players could mentally and emotionally adjust to their assignments whether as a player on the field or on the bench.

 A couple of players would be disappointed, too, Marcus Crumb for one. Our back-up catcher, he was no Johnny Taylor for sure, but has improved considerably since last year. Stafont Smith, the third base back-up to Matt White and Kevin Discoll, third on the depth chart; I thought he might be expecting to start. Stafont is a very good player but not to the caliber of Matt and Kevin. If I were him I would switch to second base which would mean that only James Bautista would be in front of him. Pete Steele would feel bad but he was behind Redd Casey at first base so he knew he would not be a starter.

Pete Steele played for me before. Probably about 2001 he was on the team and pitched. It was a real fluke how he came to be on the team. Early that year we had a Wednesday night game and the Hispanics were locked down in North Block and the whole of H Unit was also locked down. Don’t recall why but probably fighting, racial stuff, Mexicans versus blacks. Only seven players showed up to play and at the same time I found out about the trouble I saw the visiting team walking down cardiac hill toward the ball field. In desperation I walked over to the fence behind the Giant’s dugout and yelled out, “Anybody know how to play baseball?”

Two cons walked up to me and said they could play the game and would play ball right then. Pete was one of them. He pitched that game, warmed up a little, and ended up winning the game and playing for the team the rest of the year. The other walk-on was Donnie Worthy, a Black guy, and he caught Pete that game and became our starting catcher the rest of the year. Donnie was voted MVP for the season. I will never forget it and now Pete and I talk about that season and team now that he is back.

The game was not all that interesting as the Giants beat the A’s 9 to 4, but it was not that close; it could easily have been 14 or more to 2 or less. The umpiring crew blew easy calls; I say blew because I would not want to accuse them of rooting for the A’s. Four clear, easy calls went against us. It was no simple thing to keep our bench at ease after the second one. The home plate umpire, although Johnny said he was consistent in his calls over the course of the game, still I saw pitch after pitch, grooved pitches, called balls. I polled our pitchers later on and they told me that low strikes were called balls so that our pitchers had to elevate the ball upward toward the “happy zone,” which is about waist high.

There was never a time I felt anxious about the outcome of the game. The A’s, bless their hearts, are the B team though they did their best to beat us. If only the competition between the teams could be managed so that games between them would be enjoyable. 

During the top of the seventh inning a guy I had never talked to before approached me and asked when the soccer players were going to get the field. Now the soccer players are all Hispanic and are to get the field at 1pm. It was 1pm, the A’s at bat, and I wanted at least for them to finish their part of the inning.

Sitting up against the left field fence, strung out for about twenty years, were the soccer guys. I walked out, got in the center of the line, and pleaded for one half an hour more–1:30pm and we would vacate the field. All along the fence I heard the voices or approval; I thanked them and walked back to the third base dugout and announced the decision.

The A’s did not score against Matt White who had relieved Kevin after the fifth inning, the Giants tacked on another run in the bottom of the seventh, and Pete Steele finished off the A’s in the top of the eighth. Game over, we lined up for high fives.

The meeting at the holy mound was quick and upbeat. I asked again that we not rub our win in the face of the A’s, and that we would not argue calls and little things that happened in the course of the game. We determined that if A’s players complained or criticized certain things that we would listen and not be defensive. I reminded the Giants that any team can beat any other team–such is the game of baseball.

Play the A’s again? I don’t think so. We will probably slide past this win, but one, two, or three more wins in a row and the peace might be broken. The combination of boredom, anger, hopelessness, meaninglessness, loss of whatever is left of one’s youth, these along with the power of athletic competition does not add up to confidence that the peace will hold.[1]  

[1] As it turned out, the two teams played each other one more time with the Giants winning again, and easily. The Giants coaches decided there would be no more games between the teams. The coaches were somewhat divided on the issue but the players insisted they did not want to play the A’s ever again.

“Kent will go insane or commit suicide before one year is up.”

The “prophecy” was given by a woman whom I had helped and encouraged through a troubled marriage over a period of years. Now, one week after my resignation from the charismatic church where I was senior pastor in San Rafael, California, this same woman made her pronouncement from the pulpit, while my teenage daughter sat in the congregation. The pastor who then replaced me announced that my entire family was to be shunned from that point on. This, again, while my eldest daughter was present. The year was 1980.

My dear daughter came home in tears and told me what had happened. I was determined from that point on to keep from going crazy. And I would certainly not kill myself. (I ran into this very woman some years later and she denied having made the statement. My guess is she was disappointed that her “word from God” had not come true.)

Not that I did not think of killing myself on several occasions—I did. Going through the divorce was pure hell, and all these years later I have not completely recovered, but I would never give that false prophet or her eager hearers the satisfaction of seeing her predictions come true. Is this a bad motivation?

No satisfaction for my enemies

There it is—reason #1 for not killing myself. Whether it is the healthiest of reasons does not matter to me. Sure, I have a number of other reasons, which I will get to as this book proceeds, but #1 worked at the time and continues to serve me well.

I have always had enemies of one variety or another. Some I may have imagined, others were real. They were not the kind of enemies with whom I might fight it out with bare knuckles, but enemies, nevertheless.

There are some people, sad to say, who would like to see me dead. This is no doubt true for most of us. But I am not going to give them the satisfaction. Not at all. There is no question that I have failed people, let people down, and abused trust put in me. And I can feel pretty bad about it. Oh well! Whether these people learn grace and forgiveness is not my problem; I have forgiven myself as best I can, despite the fact I cannot forget; I have been forgiven by God, so I refuse to live a life of guilt and shame.

There is a saying I like to remind myself of from time to time: “The devil is an accuser.” That is not all the quote but enough to tell me I have another enemy, unseen and flying below the radar. And I am not going to give that bastard any satisfaction either. Another point about the devil–he has been “a murderer from the beginning,” and that was spoken by Jesus who would know.

A murderer from the beginning. That enemy—I refuse to satisfy him either. No, I am going to live and fight back.

This first chapter about me

Before getting into some of the stories from others I wanted to open up with my own experience so you can see this is not merely an academic treatise. No, I am more than an observer, I am a player. I have been there, as they say, and I have something to contribute.

I have been through two divorces, and that is enough to drive anyone to the bridge, I mean the Golden Gate Bridge, which is just a short distance down Highway 101. I also have five kids and eight grand kids; but more than that, I have been a pastor of three churches for the last fifty-plus years. Right, I am an old dude now (almost wrote dud), but I am still here and going strong, even though I have felt like giving it all up on any number of occasions–discouraged, probably depressed, angry, and saddened all at once, with the thought of killing myself stealing across the brain and lodging in the heart.

Mostly I have dummied up about my feelings and would never think of talking to a therapist. I haven’t even talked to my closest friends about my dark times. I am mostly an upbeat, type-A guy, and those who know me would be shocked to learn I have even felt bad enough to think of suicide. Not that I sink down into that pit, but I have looked over the edge. Come on, most of us have peered over at one time or another. It is really nothing that needs to be hidden. On the contrary, the whole subject has to be brought out into the open. So I admit it. Does it make me a bad person, or a sick person, or a person to be avoided, or pampered, if I have thought about killing myself? No, maybe it is better to engage with those who can take me like I am. The rest can hang with those who are balanced, focused, purpose-driven success stories who skip lightly over the mountain tops and never slip into a valley.

That is enough about me. What about you? How are you feeling right now? Maybe you would like to send me your story so that I can put in the sequel to this book. Try me: kentphilpott@comcast.net. I might get a flurry of mail, so please be patient with me. 

Insight and remorse

The California board of prison terms, the people who grant parole dates, like to estimate whether a convict have reached some form of insight into their crime and are remorseful for it as well. Insight and remorse–the road to freedom. Insight, I think this must involve whether or not a criminal understands that he or she has broken a law and that punishment must follow.

            Hard core career type criminals, the socio or psychopaths among us, apparently have little or no conscience and break laws and hurt people with little or no concern. All that counts is the satisfying of needs and desires. This is likely accurate to some degree. Trouble is the real pro, the hardened crook, is an excellent liar and persuader. I know, I have fallen victim more than once. These folks are charmers, highly skilled at deception, and are devious almost beyond detection.

            The career type criminal recognize only two types of people: civilians and people like themselves. People like me, are to be taken advantage of, used. We are the suckers who have stupidly accumulated possessions that can be, ought to be, appropriated. How is it that such a person has anything approaching genuine insight? It can only be feigned.

            Cons have their informal schools on how to beat parole boards. They know what the panels want to hear. Stock phrases, “I broke the law, I did the wrong thing, and I am sorry for it.” The lies are well rehearsed.

            That brings us to remorse. In Shawshank Redemption, Morgan Freeman’s character, Red, tells a parole board, “I think about my crime every day.” He is granted parole, and rightfully so. Was he having genuine remorse?

            Most felons are remorseful; they have remorse over having lost their freedom, being away from their families, being stuck with people like themselves (who are not the best company), and a host of other easily understood reasons. How is remorse measured–probably it is impossible to say? Who could judge such a thing? Maybe remorse has to do with breaking the law, taking something from someone that you had no right to, like a life. Is it something that is felt or understood? How about a combination of the two?

            Parole boards hear words, observe body language, spot something in the look on a face–arbitrary at best and the prize goes to the best actor. Maybe actions, achievements, objective statistics, anonymous evaluations from others–maybe there is something here that might take the pressure off both convict and parole board member. Insight and remorse–who but God could possibly know. 

There is a painting of Hamlet in the book but my computer isn’t helping. Oh well, life in the big city.

Chapter One

Are You Perhaps A Hamlet?

Hamlet was depressed, and seriously so.

His father, the king of Denmark, had been murdered by his uncle, the king’s brother. If that loss were not enough, the uncle, now the king, took Hamlet’s newly widowed mother as his wife.

The whole sordid affair plays on Hamlet’s mind especially the way his mother has behaved. She quickly “moved on” and wed, without knowing it of course, his father’s murderer. Hamlet is soured on women and marriage in general. His feelings of love for Ophelia, to whom he had given his love, has become a source of anguish for the young man, so much so that he will say to her: “Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?”

Hamlet was desperate; he did not know what to do. He had learned about the truth of his father’s murder by the ghost of his father. This was not the sort of evidence that could be brought to light and believed. Hamlet felt absolutely alone and very angry.

Not seeing any way out of his torment, he contemplates suicide. If he could simply cease to exist—it might be the answer. So then he utters the famous words, “To be, or not to be…” perhaps Shakespeare’s most repeated verse. If he could only die, sleep, be no more, then the heartaches, the shocks, and all the suffering humans are prone to experience might vanish.

But his mind will not let him off that easily. There was the possibility he might dream—and this thought gives him pause.

“The dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of…”

Hamlet’s question of whether it is better to live or die is one nearly all human beings will ask themselves. I have. Perhaps you have. Perhaps you know someone who you suspect might be thinking along such tragic lines.

Brother Gary

My brother Gary came back from the war in Vietnam wounded in mind and spirit. What he experienced as a combat engineer there in the year 1968 robbed him of his ability to work through his pain. Though his other brother and I and our parents sought to encourage him and give him new hope, we failed, or rather we were not able to break through to the place he had gone to hide, and one morning he drove his Volkswagen Beatle to a nearby Lutheran hospital in the San Fernando Valley, parked under an American flag, and shot himself. Forty-one years later my brother Bruce and I (our parents are gone now) can still become immersed in sadness discussing the suicide of our beloved little brother. (His picture is below.)

The sorrow of that event, mixed with many other suicides I have come to know as a pastor of churches, is the reason I am writing this book. The killing of oneself is all too common. It seems we read of one in the newspapers every day. Perhaps it is not epidemic, but it is common. And we must speak of it; it must come to the light so that it is in some way stripped of its power.

Let’s talk about it

If people can talk about their feelings of suicide, it may be a step away from the pain and hopelessness that most often lie behind the desire to kill oneself. It seemed to me that a book with such a title as this one might be useful. It seemed to me that if I could find some people who were willing to talk about why they decided not to kill themselves, when they in fact had seriously contemplated doing just that, it might be incorporated into a book that would be believable, a book I would feel good about giving to others who are in a desperate place.

Story Contributors

I have gone to several groups of people for their stories. First, I asked for help from convicts at San Quentin Prison at San Quentin, California. I have been a volunteer there, in a number of capacities, for thirty something years. For the last eightteen years I have been the baseball coach there and have gotten to know a number of the men fairly well. When I broached the idea of the book and asked for their help, many came through and provided some solid material I could use for this book.

Second, for the past twenty-five years I have led a “Divorce Recovery and Loss” workshop, sponsored by the church I pastor, Miller Avenue Baptist Church in Mill Valley, California. Upon request, many of the alumni have prepared stories of their struggles associated with divorce, separation, and death and how it is that they decided not to kill themselves.

Third, I asked people who attend Miller Avenue if anyone has a story to contribute.

Fourth, the local newspaper ran a story on the project I was engaged in and invited anyone to anonymously send something to me on the theme.

The result was quite a good number of communications.

The stories of people who have seriously considered suicide will be woven into some of my own thinking about Hamlet’s dilemma, “to be or not to be.” This is the question we will look at in the chapters ahead.

Just when I thought it was all good

Three days before opening day, which is May 7, I am licking my wounds from being pummeled at yet another meeting with the supervisors, whose names I cannot mention due to political and other reasons.

It was bad. The cons had gotten their way, it seemed, and all my plans were set aside–the number of games the A’s would play, who would schedule the games for them (not me), and the “B” status of the team. I was blindsided and things were said about me, supposedly by my own coaches, which put my reputation at risk.

For a day after the meeting I did nothing. First thing I did was to poll my coaches to see if anyone had actually complained about me. Took an hour to find out there was nothing to the accusation at all. I knew it was a phony charge but I had to be able to state clearly and emphatically what had taken place. We reasoned that it had to come from one certain state employee who resented the authority I had. Perhaps so, but now there was turmoil among the coaches since the employee had gotten two of them to undertake the responsibilities I have exercised for years.

Upon finding out what had happened behind closed doors I merely relented and said okay. After two days however, everything went back to normal. When faced with it, and especially by the way they had been manipulated into areas they did not want to go, my coaches refused to go along and now we are in union with each other again.

 My son Vernon had been to the meeting as well. Though this is only his second year at the prison–he runs the flag football program–he made a statement that was spot on. He talked about how the inmates will try to get one person against another, divide and create divisions. Vern warned that once that occurs, the sports programs are in jeopardy.

I am not perfect. Though I try to exercise the power and authority that has accrued to me over the years fairly, I will sometimes go too far. I know it when I am doing it.

The inmates are used to being abused, and I very much do not want to be abusive. It can happen all too easily and I have been guilty here. I become protective of what I have developed and struggled for. My rationale always is, “I am protecting the program.” A time or two I have lost my temper and yelled at a player, which will weight on my conscience for weeks or longer. Sometimes I will lay off my character defects on the stress and strain we are all experiencing in the prison. I am the anxious type anyway and being at SQ is not a relaxing, pleasant event. Most of the time I am wary of cons being run on either myself or someone else I am responsible for. Wish it were not so, but some of the convicts claims against me are legitimate. When I become aware of them I try to learn and change. Frankly, I am not so good at this. 

This may be my last year at the prison, I am not sure yet.  How long can I do it physically? My frustration flash point seems to be reached more quickly now. I do not want to abuse the inmates more than they already have been and that, for many, for all of their lives. Sympathy and empathy have their place in human relations certainly, and at the same time if taken too far these qualities can become problematic. Striking a balance requires wisdom born of experience.    

Introduction

How many of us think about killing ourselves? I am going to guess that the majority of the people on the planet will sometimes fall into this.

For those who do, let me just say that it is important to face it, to admit, not only to yourself but to others.

Should you be embarrassed about thinking of killing yourself?

If you do think about it, does this make you a bad person or a huge failure?

In the preparation to writing this booklet, I sent out a letter to a host of people asking their opinion about the subject of the book. Several hundred went out to alumni of our Divorce Recovery Workshop. The result was dozens of letters coming in expressing thoughts and these are categorized here. Here now is the substance of the letter I sent out.

Taking stock of your situation:

Explain in the space below how you are feeling right now.

Sum up in three sentences why you have decided to kill yourself.

Make a list of the persons who would be impacted by your suicide.

Make a List any persons you can think of who might be moved toward killing themselves after hearing of your own suicide.

Would some of these even blame themselves?

What needs to change in order for you to drop the notion of wanting to kill yourself?

What events brought you to this place?

I have placed the responses into two categories.

Some reasons why:

            a trauma

            a loss of relationship

            approach of incapacity

            depression

            discouragement

            dramatic reversal of life circumstances

            fear of a long, painful death

            Not caring anymore

            Being rejected by people I love

Some reasons why not:

            Don’t give your enemies the satisfaction

            People who love you will be hurt

            People who don’t even know you will be impacted

            There are some options you haven’t considered

Then three questions are asked, and without needing to be answered:

1.        What needs to change in order for you to drop the notion of wanting to kill yourself?

2.        Is suicide murder?

3.        Will I be condemned to hell if I kill myself?

Let me clarify some here. I have been a pastor now for 52 years, and during the earliest of these years I ran the Marin Counseling Center. (In my college years my major was psychology). I found that my work centered on encouraging counselees to talk about what they were going through. And just being able to get the inner pain out made a huge difference. And this is precisely what I am doing here.

Here is my email address, in case a reader is struggling to stay alive:

kentphilpott@comcast.net

Please include a phone # if you leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

The death letter

A “kite” is the usual description of a note found that bears a warning to someone in particular. I am not sure why the term “death letter” was used instead of kite. Hope I don’t find out.

I heard about it as soon as I hit the lower yard for the Giants’ practice Thursday night, April 21. The letter had been “sent” from an A’s player to a Giants player, or so it was said. Serious stuff, and if knowledge of the letter found its way into the hands of prison officials that would likely be the end of baseball at San Quentin. Imagine, an attack, whether successful or not, on a player from another player–it could easily make headlines.

            The letter was directed at a Black Giants player; it was found on the floor in PIA–prison industries where a lot of the convicts work. No one knows who sent it. Word is that the author was an A’s player. If the writer was a white player, and there are only two black players on the A’s, and neither of which would I ever suspect of doing such a thing, then we have a racial situation on top of it all, one that could spill over into the general population. Somebody could get killed.

             The player who had received the death letter approached me shortly after I reached the dugout. He was moving quickly, stuck out his hand to me, quietly told me he could not come to practice and was gone in an instant. No conversation; I merely whispered “I understand.”

It was at this point that for the third time while at the prison that I was accused of being a racist. And this directly from an A’s player. It was openly stated and prompted a meeting with the acting head of education. I guess the charge would really have to be reverse racism since at least half of the Giants are Black while the A’s are almost completely white. I may have inadvertently earned the derogatory designation when, after reviewing the A’s roster, I commented that the A’s looked like the Aryan Brotherhood Baseball Team. That was a mistake on my part.

            Not sure now where to go with this. Maybe it will go away. Maybe the players will take care of it themselves. One thing though, I will have to be paying close attention.

            Perhaps unrelated, but I had to have a player on the A’s removed from the field sometime after the death letter incident came to my attention. He is one of the poison types from last year who the coaches did not want on the Giants. Now an A’s player he cannot accept that his team is the “B” team. And I understand that too since I managed the B team twice in my tenure at the prison. It was of my own choosing, yet, being the second, not as good team, carried with it a kind of stigma. Ego-wise then, second, not as good, the B team; you wanted to be on the A team on opening day; yes I understood that it was enough to be a convicted felon locked up for pretty close to life without also being on the B team.

            To come back with, “Well, it is a privilege to ball baseball at all while you are in prison for murder” Is true enough, but pride and self-esteem are at stake and convicts will struggle mightily to find some for themselves.

            The man was escorted off the yard with a few hundred convicts watching. And everyone knew, or would know, that I had requested it. It is a rare and unusual thing to do and I have done in only one other time and that time was to prevent a fight from breaking out between two players during a practice session. The convict would either be proud or embarrassed at being lead back to his cell; I learned later he was embarrassed.

            Death letter–might I be the subject of one of these, or worse yet, no warning at all. How deep will feelings go? Some convicts with long sentences lose hope and spending their rest of their lives cut off from the general prison population is not much of a deterrent. Desperation and blind rage–these are not uncommon emotions in a prison. This particular man–something other than brotherly love has been driving him ever since I have known him. How desperate is he, how angry is he, and I would be the perfect target. Everybody has got to have someone to blame; someone to hang the dark feelings on; someone to sick the demons on. Hate and rage find outlets on inanimate and not even symbolic objects. I had better stop thinking about it.

Setting the rosters

The Giant’s roster is for the most part the veterans returned from 2010 except for Terry Burton who thought he might not make the team so went with the A’s.

Terry, very helpful with both teams in terms of helping with the field, the equipment, and gathering the information needed to create the memos allowing the players to be released early for practice and games.[1] In his early fifties now, can still play the game, pitch, play first, and any outfield position. While playing right field I have seen him throw out more than one man who thought his hit to right meant a single. We are friends and we treat each other with respect.

A couple of new guys on the team, one is Frank Braby. Tall left hander, young, played college ball in the south bay, red headed, and a real pitcher. Must throw in the low to mid eighties and is a real vacuum in center. Will be perhaps out best hitter and fastest runner, faster than Mike Tyler or Charles Lyons. Quiet, unassuming, not sure what brought him to prison, but he is in H Unit so not a lifer. Probably something to do with dope, possession, dealing, something like not–but no violence or sex related crime, I think.

Matt White is back, pitcher, third base, good swing–well instructed and you can tell he has played a lot of baseball. He disappeared mid-way in the 2010 season: he wanted to go back to court and get any outstanding issues taken care of. He had been due to be released around September of 2010, but as a result of facing up to legal troubles, he will be with us for at least the whole of the 2011 season. Matt must be in his late thirties, and has lost about twenty pounds and looks to be in good shape. Not sure who will be the ace of the team, he, Frank, Kevin, or Mario. Four starters–what a problem to have. One or maybe two will have to pitch in relief. Love to have a Brian Wilson type closer.

Our coaching staff is back in tact–Kevin, Elliot, Mike, and of course, Stan, and Stan is no coach. He is the enforcer, the guy who settles problems, cuts the hard deals. Mid to late seventies now, Stan was a cop for 25 years in San Francisco and ran security for Bill Graham Presents, the rock and roll impresario, for another 15 years. Stan roams the lower yard, talking to cons, and getting the job done. He often asks me if there are any problems needing to be taken care of, I tell him, and done.  I don’t know how he does it; he has no power, no authority except moral authority.

Stan and I met at a gym in San Rafael at least twenty years ago and became good friends. He has worked on my little television show, The Bible Study, for more than twenty years now. It is not an exaggeration when I say I would never have lasted at the prison all these years without Stan looking out for me.

Our inmate coaches are Frankie Smith, Douglas (have not learned his last name yet), and Curtis Roberts. Curtis, a three striker, all non-violent crimes, wants to focus on cleaning up the goose crap before games and practices. Geese, great big fat geese, Canadian geese, make the outfield a real mine field. It is illegal to chase them or molest them in any way. Years ago I heard a story about an Asian convict who grabbed one, wrung its neck, stuffed it inside his prison issue blue coat, then defeathered it, cleaned it, and fried it in a container of oil of some kind. Story is it took him months to build the cooker, collect the oil, and figure out a way to run a wire from his cells light socket to the cooker–and presto, cooked goose. Sadly, as I understand it, he never got a bite down as the smell of the cooking goose wafted down to the cops at the desk in North Block. I think it was a three month stretch in the hole was all the reward he got. Whenever I see those damned geese crapping all over our field I think of that guy who only wanted to taste something good he had made. I would have rewarded him for ingenuity if nothing else.

A’s, now run by Ed, Ollie, and Steve, looks like will be a good team, a B team, but a good team. We are going to start and end our season playing the A’s. The tension is already building and yesterday evening we had a scrimmage and it was intense. I umpired from behind the pitcher’s mound and I had to be very careful with my calls.

The A’s, the rebels or the no name team of last year, have earned respect from the way they have approached the situation this year. The cancer types are quiet and the big trouble maker has been cut, and I did not have to have a thing to do with it. The whole thing is the guys just want to play baseball and they felt they had to muscle me to get it done. And the way I acted last year only feed their concerns. Now it appears that we are going to be able to cooperate and enjoy some baseball. Who knows what will happen down the road though.

Kevin and I settled on seventeen players per team with three inmate coaches per team. That means I have to bring in twenty Giants and A’s uniforms, plus all the rest of the equipment. Baseball is not a cheap sport to operate at all anymore. When I was a kid growing up in Los Angeles not much money was involved. Not so now. To play the game with all the right stuff, jersey, pants, cleats, gloves, socks, belts, undershirts, caps, you are looking at around $250 per player. Then bats, catcher’s gear, batting helmets, and baseballs–around another $500. Baseballs, we will go through $180 worth a week; two teams, three games a week, require a dozen balls a game and a dozen balls will cost $60. Maybe a little less if we are able to retrieve the balls that go over the wall into industry, but over the course of sixteen weeks–several thousand dollars worth of baseballs will be needed. There are other costs as well: batting gloves, cups and jock straps (the guys do hope they will one day get out), and other stuff that goes with the game like donuts for the bats, pine tar, even a resin bag for the pitcher. It goes on. What happens is the coaches–we come up with stuff and the outside teams may help out in various ways but that cannot be discussed here.

Bobby, the player who lobbied for a second team real hard last year and boasted he was going to start another team and was in a sense squaring off against me, is still very much a presence, but we have learned to get along and a little more–not friends exactly but cooperative colleagues. Found out, from him directly, he has been in prison for fourteen years, and is only thirty-two years old. He has at least eleven more years to do. A lifer we say, felony murder rule, and he was not the shooter. Not sure of all the details but I would guess the usual: dope, gang, young, stupid, stoned, and wanting to show he was a tough guy. In a moment life changes and irreversibly. An old story.

[1] A change from 2010, the players will no longer be released early as always in years past. Perhaps this is the influence of the new warden, but probably comes from the new captain overseeing North Block. It means that the players are not ready to come down to the lower yard until 5:30pm and thus our games will not begin until about 6:30pm. Games must stop at 7:45pm–maybe allowing for 4 innings.