First day of tryouts

 March 24 or maybe March 31

After a week’s worth of rain, which knocked out what was to be the first day of tryouts, it looked like we were finally going to conduct our first tryout on March 24. But then a seagull flew into a power line.

            The prison went dark, that early March night. And it was a dark and stormy winter’s night already. No lights at a prison! Worst case scenario indeed. Just after I had contacted all the coaches, the call came in from Don about how a huge generator was going to be installed at the prison, on the 24th, and all programs were to be cancelled. Right away, worry-wart me, began to fear that opening day would arrive and we would not be ready.

            March 31 did roll around. Saturday morning on the lower yard then with a full contingent of coaches, including two I wish were no longer with the baseball program, and a bunch of eager, excited convicts, all of whom wanted to impress the coaches with how good they were at baseball.

            I figured there would be a move made, by a couple of coaches, to sabotage the draft process and for some weeks I pulled as many strings as I could to prevent that from happening. It should never have come to this, but it did, and now the only thing to do is go on. For the first time, in a serious way, I wanted to walk away from it all. Now at age seventy I find it difficult to fight the battles, but this one I was going to deal with. I knew another threat, or an incident of almost any kind, could end the baseball program. One powerful person at the prison told me he was looking for any excuse to shut us down.

            My good friend Don DeNevi, the state employee who has overseen the baseball program for the past twelve years, and I have done what we could to ensure that Plan B would move forward even though there would be two teams and instead of four. We talk on the phone often and do what is within our power to have a recreational program that works for the inmates. Without Don being of the same mind as I am, I would have walked away long ago. But consistently, we have supported each other.

            Don cannot take the same stand as I do against those who would bend the baseball program to suit their own agenda. By ” those” I mean the several inmates that started the trouble as players for the A’s last year and those two A’s coaches who became their ducks.

Don and I agree that the inmates are acting out of the fear that they will be left out, not drafted, since there are the new guys on the Block, and much younger, and apparently quite talented as athletes. Now, we can empathize with that, but we are not giving in to it either. The program demands an equal and fair chance for a convict to make one of the teams and the draft is our solution. And that is the whole deal–a process of selecting players based on their baseball skills and not on a good old boys’ agreement.

Sometime in late 1968, my wife Bobbie and I with our three kids were living at 10724 Whitegate Ave. in Sunland, CA, in the northeastern part of the city of Los Angeles where I lived from 1955 to 1982. I had graduated from seminary, Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary in Mill Valley and was doing what one might call ‘street evangelism’ in the Haight-Ashbury. The JPM was at full strength, and I would go back and forth from San Francisco to Los Angeles every other week, sometimes on a bus, sometimes hitch-hiking, and a couple of times on my motorcycle.

      Thanks to Dr. Francis DuBose, professor at the seminary in Mill Valley, I was invited to join with a new church in the city, on Balboa St. between 41^st and 42^nd Ave. A store front, but it had been converted into a church. Today it is a Egyptian restaurant. I was invited to stay there when in I was in S.F. At some point I asked the church to let me turn the place into a kind of motel where homeless hippies could come and stay. (No money involved.)_ Graciously I was given permission, and with the help of the Salvation Army, I managed to find sleeping space for a dozen or more people.

      With everything ready, I stopped by a group known as the Haight Defense Committee, who set up a card table on Haight and Ashbury Streets and help direct hippies to those things they needed and told them of what we called “The Soul Inn” at the church on Balboa Street. The very next evening, three of us were at the church, The Soul Inn, about nine o’clock, just finished our dinner which consisted of a quart can of something or other when there was a knock at the door and 15 hippies, males and females, were invited in.

      First thing was food, which we had none of except for an inch or so of the quarter can. One of the guys with us, cannot remember his name right now, but we went in the back room, which we had converted into a kitchen, and started to dish up bowls of the stuff we had almost finished off.

      And here is where something incredible happened. I was dishing up and beyond belief, we feed all of the hippies and had an inch left over in the can. Somewhere in this process we knew a miracle was taking place, yet we did not announce it but only spoke of it among ourselves later on that night.

The San Rafael Pacifics and the U.S. Military Baseball Team

Opening day

Opening day, May 26, and August 18–these will be very special dates for the San Quentin baseball teams, both for the Giants and the A’s.

            On May 26, the San Rafael Pacifics, a professional baseball team, will be playing a game at the prison. The former Dodger power hitter and right fielder from the 1980s, Mike Marshall, will be up against an all-star team from the A’s and Giants on Opening Day.

            Everyone is justifiably excited about it. Scads of media will be on the field recording about everything possible. It will mean a lot to both teams, I hope.

            At first Mike Marshall, or as he signs his email’s, MM, and I thought about switching batteries, that is, their pitcher and catcher playing for the prison team and our pitcher and catcher playing for the Pacifics. Thinking it over though it seemed better to just try our best to beat those guys.

            On May 19 then, Elliot Smith’s team, the Oaks/Cubs, will be in Saturday morning for an opening day prior to opening day, the real one, on the 26th. Then that evening the A’s and Giants will play each other for the purpose of determining the “all stars” that will go up against the San Rafael Pacifics.

The Red, White, and Blue Tour

Along about the middle of February I began getting emails from a Terry Alvord, whom I thought was a manager of a local adult men’s baseball team that wanted to come in and play a game at the prison. Since it was way too early to schedule any games, I merely read the email and replied that the scheduling would take place toward the last of March. That was followed by a couple more emails from Terry and I happened to open up an attachment to one of them. I was shocked at what I saw.

            Turned out his team is the U.S Military Baseball Team, on what they called the Red, White, and Blue Tour to raise money for wounded war veterans. They were heading up north from southern California and intending to go up through Oregon and Washington and then into Canada. They wanted to make a stop at the prison and play the team. But that was not all.

            Looking at the few photos attached I was startled to notice that some of the players had metal legs. The players themselves were wounded vets. Our teams, and it is teams plural, are going to play both teams on August 18, one in the morning, the other in the evening. In the middle of the day, they want to connect with local VFW chapters. Then the next day, Sunday, the team will visit our little Miller Avenue Baptist Church in Mill Valley, where I am pastor. We will have a breakfast for them, then they will take over the service and preach and teach, then we will have lunch for them before they head out up north in their bus. what an honor.

            My son Vern was in Desert Storm, and I consider him a real war hero, and I served as a medic for four years with the Air Force. So, it is a good match and we are privileged to be involved in this.

            There will be lots of media at this game too. Cameras do funny things to people, me included. We will do and say dumb things. Looking at a camera, we lose it and can say some things we later wish we hadn’t. I am especially concerned about convicts with agendas who like to take advantage of situations. This stuff is out of my control so I just have to let it go, however, I will have a little talk about proprieties with the coaches and the players.

            Wow, the Red, White, and Blue Tour–I wonder how the cons might get involved in the fund raising?

The next day, Thursday, after selling shoes at J.C. Penny’s, I drove into San Francisco, got there on a cold misty night about 10:30pm, parked, no one on Haight Street so I walked up one block to Waller Street. Vacant, but I could see a light up a couple of blocks and walked up to it. It was Hamilton Methodist church, a light was burning inside, but no one was there. Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and here was a young man, about my age and size, and he said, “Are you looking for God?” I said yes, and he said, “follow me.” So I did, and up a block and a half, we crossed the street, he led me up some stairs to a large house, a class door, and knocked on it. Turned out it was a house of lesbians, and a woman came to the door, opened it, and asked who I was. I turned to the guy who brought me up, but he had disappeared, never to be seen again.

Chapter One

More death threats

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Plan B is no more. Now there will only be two teams and mostly due to a few guys who played for the A’s in 2011. They did not want a draft, because, as I have heard, they were afraid they would not be chosen in the draft.

            These disgruntled ones were in regular contact, by means of smuggled cell phones, with two of their coaches who got way too close to the convicts, something called over-familiarity. (This charge is based on bits of evidence that have come to me since May of 2011, but it is not completely determined that the cons did indeed have access to a cell phone.) ^[1]Together they conspired to keep things as they were last season with the draft only filling in if and when needed. 

            Bottom line however is that I am responsible for the problem since I was the one who brought these guys in to coach the A’s in the first place. These two did not function as head coach but were assistants. The head coach, another guy I was responsible for bringing in, did not run the team at all but left that work to a convict. It was a strange mix; two assistant coaches who put themselves into the game, and a convict made out the line ups and the calls at the third base coaching box.

            The baseball program became more and more popular and the need for a second team was obvious, and for that to happen, more coaches were needed. I had no idea they would get caught up in the game cons love to play, that is, making “ducks” out of free people whether volunteers or state employees. You make a duck so you can, well you know what, and that is what happened to the new coaches. The central dynamic is an exploitation of a desire to be liked by the convicts. 

            Prison is boring to the extreme and to create some excitement, or to find a way to manipulate things, con games are run, and continuously. The fun part for the prisoners is to spend huge amounts of time plotting the strategy. It is like a chess game played on a large scale. I don’t judge it one way or another as I might well do the same given the same circumstances. But it can be dangerous for those who are being manipulated. 

            Rumors are key to the cons fun. An inmate might start a rumor in the morning and then check on its progress at the end of the day, just to see how it had morphed. Rumors that get a lot of traction have to do with who is coming in and who is going out. The rumor that impacted me most was the one wherein I was going to be kicked out of the prison.

            The plot only partially succeeded. Things were swinging in my favor when all of a sudden, I got a call from a sergeant at the prison’s Investigative Unit who read to me three death threats that had been deposited in the box the prisoners place their outgoing mail into. Actually, only two were real threats, one read, in part, “There is a hit contract out on our dear coach and we want him protected.” There followed the usual questioning of the usual suspects, who were read the riot act, and that was it. Of course, I get only the briefest of details, but more will probably be forth coming once I make it back down on the lower yard.

            That was last Wednesday, the 7th of March, and already things have cleared up and I am once again allowed to go back in.

            The threats do not much comfort the other coaches. Surprisingly however, I have been able to add three new coaches to our staff this year, one being my son Vernon, who as a Desert Storm war vet, a military policeman, and is not easily frightened. 

There will be a draft, which is set for next week, March the 24th, and it will then become apparent who will prevail. 

            I have a suspicion, hope I am not going paranoid here, but I have a rather strong sense of things that the “white boys” have somehow gotten the ear of the powers that be, really one person whom I cannot identify, but if I am right, what is left of Plan B will be trashed and the same old set-up as last year, that miserable, stressful year, will be in place once again. At this point, I am not clear how I will proceed if my worst fears are realized, but I will not quit no matter what. I refuse to let my enemies get the better of the situation.

            I am determined not to get angry and start saying stupid things like I have in the past. Seems like every careless word I have spoken was remembered, twisted, and used against me. Sometimes I lose it on the yard; I know better but can’t seem to stem the flow of scandalous words. I will talk way too harshly to convicts. Maybe I try too hard to live up to what has long been said of me by those who know me best: “Philpott takes no shit.” 

^[1] In 2011 the prison conducted a sweep of North Block aimed at finding cell phones. Three hundred phones were found, 200 outside the block scattered around the upper yard and another 100 in cells. That means that one third of the convicts in North Block had a cell phone. Cell phones fetch as much as $500 so there is a steady supply. How do they get in? A phone call, a letter, all coded per plan, says how much money for what contraband item is to taken to the person who will bring the item(s) in. Once done, the outside outlaws have a power hold on the person who broke the law, thus insuring compliance.

Panic Attack

Must have been somewhere in 1993 or 1994 that I learned the destructive force of anxiety.

            Prior to my involvement in the baseball program I was part of a ministry outreach begun by Chaplain Earl Smith and Carl Gleeman. Earl was the chaplain of the Protestant chapel and together with Carl they developed a cell to cell visitation program. I began to be a part of it in 1986 and came into the prison every Thursday evening to go to the blocks and talk to the inmates in their cells. We would distribute Bibles and other Christian literature as we endured the thick cigarette smoke and clamor of voices that was a normal part of life in the five tier high blocks.

            Sometimes we were in North Block, other times in West Block, rarely in South Block with its four divisions, Alpine, Badger, Carson, and Donner. The time I have in mind I was in West Block. We never went into East Block with its overflow from Condemned Row and segregation cells. The “Row” was mostly in North Block, kind of a sixth tier that was not visible if inside North Block; once the row was full, East Block was used for the condemned prisoners.

            It was not a pleasant winter’s night and I ended up going alone to West Block. This is where new convicts would be housed early on, and often I found some who still had on ordinary street attire. The guys, most in orange jumpsuits, had been fed and were all locked down in their cells. At the time, there was only one man per cell and the wire mesh had yet to go up over the bars.[1]

            Entering the block, I stood for a moment to look and listen. The concrete and steel acted like a megaphone almost and the noise was almost overwhelming. It was far louder than anything I had experienced in any other block.[2]

            Amidst the myriad of voices I could hear someone yelling out, “I was not supposed to be here. This is a mistake. Get me out of here. I don’t belong here.” Desperate, scared, panicked–these and more were evident in the pleadings–and I knew no one would be paying attention.

            The voice seemed to be up on the third tier, so I climbed the steel stair-well and followed the ongoing protestations until I came face to face with the subject.

            White, middle-aged, no tattoos in evidence, no piercings; he looked like a regular guy with family and a job, some education, someone who lived the average American life. When he saw me a visible sigh of relief came from him and he fell at his knees almost ready to worship me. We shook hands, exchanged names, and in a rush or words he let me know how it was that the whole thing was a mistake.

            I have told the story so often the details are yet assessable to my mind. He was in for what might be called a white collar crime, which I think was fraud or theft, but on a large scale. No priors, never involved with the criminal justice system, and he left at home a wife and some kids. He lost everything he had gained, the house would be sold, and it would be five or more years before he would be free.

            Anxiety is a powerful emotional/mental condition and is common to us all. I figured out I was prone to it when I was fifteen years old and was a contributing factor to my focus on psychology in college.[3]   

            Anxiety, if untreated, can quickly move into dangerous territory. As I understand it, there are two kinds of anxiety: One, the anxiety of feeling trapped, that something has happened or is going to happen, and, two, separation anxiety or abandonment anxiety. Here then is this guy, he got greedy, wanted more than his share, and something awful had happened and more was likely to happen, things that he could not even get his mind to explore, and he was separated from all that he loved and felt comfortable with.

            Right in front of me he was having a panic attack, and no one would or could do anything about it. In fact, he might get beaten up, by officers or other cons, if he did not bring it under control. In time, after some months, he might get some meds prescribed, a pill that would calm him down, but that was only a maybe.

            The panic he experienced, if left untreated, might usher him into deeper trouble, maybe into a full-blown psychosis. That guy was well on his way, and likely, in the years in the brutal environment that was and is San Quentin, he might never recover.

            Now, what does this have to do with baseball in SQ? The answer is integral to the story that follows and the stories that went before. These are the ball players down on the field. To one degree or another they have experienced the damaging impact of uncontrolled anxiety, even Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which belongs in the anxiety category. And I knew from day one in 1997 when I started working with the guys on the baseball team that they would, at least some of them, be struggling with diminished ability to cope with the real world.

            By the way, I am not fixing blame; we have what we have and if we, and by we I mean our society, even if we understood the dynamics of it all and at the same time had the means to deal with it, probably even then the problem would be running wild. We are all subject to the vicissitudes of the human condition. Prison is an attempt to mollify it at least to some degree.

[1] The mess was meant to prevent attacks on the officers, or other inmates, who happened along. Some cons knew how to turn toilet paper rolls and the paper itself into spears. Urine and feces would be collected and thrown into the faces of officers–not very pleasant and this in the day when anyone of the inmates might be HIV positive. With the mesh, things were safer but mesh blocked out most of the already dull light from penetrating into the cells.

[2] The cons in North Block would not tolerate the yelling and cacophony characteristic of the other blocks. North Block was for mainliners only and they wanted to live quiet and peaceful lives, at least, as best they could.

[3] During the 1970s I operated the Marin Christian Counseling Center in San Rafael. I was the only counselor and did not charge for my services. I was an unlicensed counselor and advertised as doing “pastoral counseling.”

Monday July 18 would turn out to be my last day at the prison, certainly for the season, and maybe forever.

            The death threat had yet to be dropped. The one on Chris Marshall was found on the floor at PIA where he works; this one on me–I will likely never know.

Saturday July 9 was when the event happened that necessitated I do something. The Giants were playing a team from the Stockton area and Kevin was running the game that day. Frankie Smith, our inmate coach, was in the first base coaching box while I was mostly in the dugout. Frankie had to leave the game to attend a class and asked me to go to first base to coach, I did and apparently few, if any, saw the change. There I was in the bottom of the seventh when I heard my name being used. It was Bobby and Joe on the other side of the fence that separated the third base, visitor’s dugout, from the area where the convicts, or fans, were. Bobby with arms waving wildly was shouting to the opposing team’s coaches. It was so loud that even with my poor hearing I could make out that I was being called an ass hole, among other honorific titles, and was accused of being bi-polar. I just stood there and listened.

After the inning was over, I had to walk in front of the place where it was still going on and Bobby and Joe saw me. The coach of the visiting team stopped me on my way back to the third base dugout and proceeded to tell me what he had just heard. I explained that I knew because I heard the entire harangue. Bobby and Joe knew they had been observed and when they walked near me later in the game Bobby pointed his finger at me in simulation of someone shooting a gun and smiled at me. I acknowledged his gesture by slowly shaking my head as though I was saying, “I saw and that was not good.”

That next Monday, July 11, I spent an hour in the building that housed the warden’s office confiding in and asking for counsel from a higher-up. He vowed he would get to the bottom of it and asked me to check back in with him on Thursday. With some vague trepidation, I made the call and the higher-up’s report bothered me; there would be no discipline, nothing. Despite this, I was assured I would be fine. Then the death threat came, which meant there would be an investigation.

Then the practice Monday the 18th. As usual the east gate officer did not let us in until 5:30pm. Year after year we would be let in when count cleared, usually some time around 4:30pm. Count, one of many taken throughout the day, but this one demanded that each person be visually counted, and this in every prison in the state. A bell, and old fashioned bell, that hung from a steel frame high above the gateway into the actual prison, would ring, six, seven, or more times. It signaled the start of the count. Always at 4pm.

Stan, Mike, and I would sit on a picnic type bench in front of the hobby shop store. It was rarely open but when it was, visitors and mostly members of convict’s families, could buy crafts, art work, and so on, that the convicts had made in hobby shop inside the prison. An inmate from the “Ranch” served as the storekeeper. The Ranch was a place in the western most part of the sprawling prison, a dorm like setup, where guys who had a low number[1] would spend some time, transitioning, before going home.

We sit on the bench waiting for count to clear, then and talk, tell stories, and sometimes wave at or converse with the guy who mans the US Post Office just across the street that serves the tiny population of San Quentin Village and the prison itself. About 4:30pm, when all the inmates are found, we will hear the count bell ring though it is about 130 yards away. At that point one of us will walk to the iron gate and try to catch the eye of the officer. Sometimes there is a response, sometimes not. You get the idea the man, or woman, does not care much how long you wait. But if an eye is caught and it would be awkward for the officer to be silent, the word is–“Yeah, let you in at 5.” If asked, “Why so late?” the answer, if there was one, would “warden’s office rules.”

On game days the opposing teams show up at 4:30pm, overly early this since we can’t go in until 5pm, but it takes time for the players to get dressed, go through their equipment bags to make sure nothing unusual is hiding therein, be sure they have their photo ID, sign the visitors sheet, then wait and wait.

Once 5pm rolls around, Stan begins bringing the team in. I have gone in already, to get things going.

Stan works wonders, and without him I would not be any longer involved with the prison. He is like a big brother to me. It is a job to keep me out of trouble, stopping me from doing dumb things and soothing the feelings of those who are mad at me. Stan gives new teams a talking to, warns, advises, threatens; the main rule is: nothing in, nothing out and that includes the exchange of any contact info like phone numbers and email addresses. Despite Stan’s speech, he is not always obeyed.

It is a long walk from the east gate to the count gate, which is the real entrance into the prison. Here the count gate officer, and I am told the higher-ups pick the most cantankerous cops they can find for that duty, collects each player’s photo ID and once again runs the info through the computer’s list of who has been cleared to come in. Then each player’s equipment bag is checked, an infra-red stamp is placed on the left wrist, and the sally port’s foyer is entered.  After the whole team makes it through the count gate, an officer who is seated at a kind of control panel, in a separate room but with a glassed in portion that extends in the sally port, hits a switch, and a large black iron gate opens, and the players file into the sally port. One by one each person must face the officer in the control room, hold up the photo ID so the officer can match the actual face with the photo on the ID.

When that is completed, the other end of the sally port’s gate opens up and the guys walk through an entrance into the prison proper. On the right are the chapels, first the Catholic, then the Protestant, then the chapel shared by the Jews and Muslims (ironic in a way), and by the American Indian chief’s office.[2]

On the left is the adjustment center, a prison within a prison, where those who have received a death sentence come to adjust to the fact they will not leave the prison alive. Now it is more common for cons to die of disease or old age than be executed.[3]

            Four Post, a building about 1500 square feet, odd shaped, sits just to the end of the adjustment center and right in front of the new hospital. Here are the officers who monitor who comes in and who goes out. I make it a point to wave at them, but usually I stop in and say hello. Some of my favorite officers have been assigned to Four Post.

Then we take a sharp right-hand turn, past the hospital, toward cardiac hill and the descent into the lower yard. At the right-hand front edge of the hospital, at the top of the hill, is a large black iron door that looks like it came from a medieval castle’s front gate. I have never been through the door but have been told that the door was spared from destruction when the new hospital went up because it marks the location of the prison’s first dungeon, and later on, morgue. Stan loves to tell the story to new teams coming in.

Then there is the lower yard. Around the perimeter of the field are steel tables, pull-up bars–space for the different races.  I do not pass through any of them, even the areas for whites, without permission, which is nothing more than a glance at the con who is keeping watch for the group and receiving a favorable nod of the head.

The Pacific Islanders (Hawaiians, Samoans, Vietnamese, Laotians, and so on) have the space to the left of home plate, the whites are in the outfield in the area that runs from right to center fields (which makes it interesting when balls are hit into those areas), the blacks occupy the area around the basketball court (it is the largest of the groups), and the Hispanics are grouped around the tennis court, which stretches alongside the left field line but close to third base. Those without a group to be part of, and there are such, must find other spaces and often just walk and walk.

Monday now, the 18th, a practice day for the Giants. I had asked each of the coaches to come to it as we had something to talk over. Kevin Loughlin, Stan Damas, Elliot Smith, Mike Deeble, and I, we gathered up in left field while the players were getting ready for the practice. I explained what was up, some of which they were aware of, and we quietly talked among ourselves for some little time. We had lost Red and Johnny, it looked like only ten players were healthy enough to play, and I said it may be the last time I would be with the team, this year for sure, and maybe forever.

Now they knew. Sighs and groans, sad faces, a hand on the shoulder but few words. I waved the players over so I could tell them, too. Here were the guys I had been with in the battle that is baseball, some for years, some had become friends, and in ways that I am not completely sure of, people I had come to love and care for. In as few words as possible I explained the circumstances. Then, and it was not expected or planned, one by one the coaches made statements about how they felt. First it was Kevin, then Mike, then Stan. Elliot went last and gave a speech I wish I had recorded. A lawyer in the City, he spoke directly and matter-of-factly, said that he did not always agree with me but that is baseball. He talked about the need to finish with dignity the baseball season and not enter into talk and behavior that would tarnish them as Giants. Yes, it would be tempting to blame some of the A’s players but that must not happen.

Then it was over, the speeches given, we turned and walked toward the dugout. I picked up my equipment bag and said that I was going home. Slowly and silently the guys came up and gave me a hug, told me they loved me, yes the cons did use the word, and they hoped I would be back soon.  

Slowly walking up cardiac hill with the thought in my mind that it would be for the last time, I thought back to that day in 2010 when we all said good-bye to Chris Rich. Just at the point where I would no longer be visible to the guys on the field I turned around and waved my hand and Chris, looking up at me, about 100 yards away, returned my wave. Once again, I did the same, waved, and a bunch of Giants waved back.   

[1] Generally that are four levels an inmate may find himself in, numbered 4 to 1. A point system determines the level. Upon entry to a prison, a convict most often is a #4 level prisoner. Level 4 prisoners go to newer facilities like High Desert, Pelican Bay, Corcoran, and others, where the more dangerous cons can be better controlled. As time goes by, if there are no incidents, the points are lowered, little by little. Being married helps lower points, taking classes, being in drug or alcohol programs, these and other activities help lower points. San Quentin’s general population is comprised of level 2 convicts, but guys at the Ranch, or in H Unit, will often have worked the number down to a level 1. The CDCR, California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, is quite sophisticated in their evaluation process, and significant incentives to change, at least temporary change, is built into the system. .

[2] It is not uncommon, on Saturday mornings, to hear the sound of tom-toms being banged, see smoke arising from the fires that heat up the stones used in the heat up the sweat lodge, and observe naked Indians walking around the encampment that serves as the chapel for the American Indian religion. All this behind the fence in right-center field.

[3] Capital punishment is problematic for me. Sometimes I have thought I would rather die than live a wasted life in a little cell. At other times I have thought that life itself was enough to have despite the conditions. I waffle here, but I think if I had my way I would prefer life without possibility of parole over execution. Where there is life there is hope, and even for the worst of the worse, life is better than death. Without exception, every time that an execution day comes around, I feel somehow complicit, involved, even as just a citizen and voter. Whenever I am around an argument around the subject, I simply listen and contribute little or nothing. I am not convinced that a victim’s family really experiences “closure” with the death of a perpetrator, but this is commonly stated.

Rage, anger, and hate

Three friends these, bosom buddies, without which some would go insane.

            Not friends really but three emotions that reside in many who are living out their lives in prison. Two of these play on the A’s and I have become the focus of the evil that is within them. Bobby was present when someone was killed so received a long sentence due to the felony-murder rule. It was a drug deal gone wrong, a not unfamiliar circumstance. He heard the judge sentence him to twenty-five to life when he was eighteen. Now thirty-two and with another eleven years before he can be considered for parole, he will spend at least his twenties and thirties with Bubba and the boys. No girlfriend, no wife, no kids, no job, no friends, no nothing, and not much chance this will ever change. Rage, anger, and hate–this is all he’s got.

            Joe is in the same hell hole except he is a three striker and with a longer sentence. Not sure what the strikes were as he never talks about the crime, but at age forty-five he could easily do another twenty years. Again, no wife, no kids, maybe a boyfriend, but nothing anyone would want to lay claim to; he lives with rage, anger, and hate.

            Frankly, I do not feel bad for either of them; few would want them back on the streets.

            You can get written up, a 115, and have more years added to your sentence or even be moved to another prison. It is this last possibility that keeps a lot of cons from losing control completely. San Quentin is a desired home, close to lawyers and courts, and outside visitors come into the prison seven days a week. Plus there are a myriad of programs, educational, and religious chapels, and there is baseball.

            Neither Bobby or Joe are big tough guys; and few other cons, including A’s players, identify with them. When I ask for a reason for the power Bobby and Joe seem to have, I am told they are in tight with the “white boys.” I am not convinced of the truth of that. Based on what I have experienced over the years, I think I have become a convenient target to vent anger and frustration.

            Why me? There are reasons among which are the fact that I have a loud mouth; sometimes I am too belligerent and unyielding, and sometimes my efforts to bring correction and discipline to those I think need it is not appreciated. Apparently, I have developed a bad reputation amongst some convicts. I have been dumped into the category of a bad cop. This has gone on for years, but Bobby and Joe have played the con with precision this year. One thing for sure, I am not perfect, and I can be a real ass hole–I admit it. Nothing new.

            I saw it last year. There was a rumor I was a racist. It did not get very far because of the fairly even numbers of the races on the Giants. This year the rumor got more traction as I was accused of reverse racism. As it happened there were only two whites on the Giants, no Hispanics or Pacific Islanders, so it was racism but different. This was dangerous and maybe was why a kite was dropped saying that I was going to be killed. A “kite” may be written or whispered, but it gets to a correctional officer who is then bound to report it and so I get a call from the investigative unit saying I can no longer come into the prison. The season is nearly over, and I still cannot come back in.

            The cops in charge of investigations started interviewing inmates and the accusations mushroomed to the point my beige, or volunteer, card was pulled. I am effectively barred from returning for the rest of the year.

            Just before the kite was dropped, I made an appointment with a higher-up type in the warden’s office who assured me that the rumors I was hearing would be dealt with and speedily. He told me, “You have nothing to worry about.”

I am still not sure what happened, but two days after the talk I had with the higher-up the kite was communicated and here I sit, writing this which is as close as I will get to the team and the game I love, at least this year. I may never get back.

            Rage, anger, and hate must go somewhere, mainly either in or out. Now I have to deal with these myself. They are not friends; I don’t want them, that is clear. Knowing this is not helping right now though, in fact, it is plain that I am not fairing so well.

Over familiarity

 Anyone who has read this far might conclude that I have been overly familiar with some of the convicts at San Quentin.  If such an observation, or accusation, were made, I would have to agree with it; according to all I have heard in the volunteer meetings, I have at least approached being too personally involved with inmates.

            The count I just took in my head runs to over a dozen convicts. There has been nothing sexual, no contraband substances or items brought in,[1] nothing of a personal nature, but bonds of various types, even friendships, will be established–it cannot be helped or avoided.

            Team sports are this way. I have played on and managed baseball teams for fifty-two years now and it never fails that there will be an inner core, maybe not extending to all, but a core of people with whom bonds of friendship will develop. It is part of the game. A team sport–you cannot do it alone; you are dependent on others. Winning as well as losing contribute to the bonding process. Sports are emotional to the extreme, the ups and downs can be dramatic, and especially has this been true in San Quentin.

            Every game is an event, an experience. In North Block and in H Unit, the players will talk endlessly about the games and all that was a part of it. Nothing is too insignificant not to be examined minutely. There are few secrets among team members especially in a prison environment. There is no place to hide; it will come out, and in that place of vulnerability, bonds of friendship will form.

            What will I remember ten years from now? I know, it will be the players, the coaches, the opposing players, too, it will not be scores of games or batting averages, no, it will be the people, it will be the winning and losing, the pain and frustration, the loves and the hates. Here was life and a touch of freedom. Here was a chance to be a kid again, innocent, and happy having fun.

            When I think about my days at the prison I will remember the people–Pete, Bilal, Marcus, Red, Johnny, Curtis, Doug, Frankie, Terry, Stafont, Mike, Chuck, and a host of others. I will think of Kevin, Elliot, Mike, Stan–my dear friends. And I will think of Chaplain Earl Smith, who along with Leonard, Jimbo, Jason, and Tim got the whole program going. Then there is Don DeNevi who stuck with me through it all, the state employee who was my immediate supervisor. Wow, did we have a time of it, boys of summer, we did it together.

[1] Coaches will bring in certain items like cups for catchers, a pair of cleats for someone with either really small or large feet, maybe a glove even (2 players on the Giants are currently using my gloves and will likely have to keep them since I won’t be able to pick them up), and other items related strictly to baseball equipment needs.

Stan catches one in the face

Baseball can be a dangerous game. Some have died even.

            A baseball is hard and only 9 inches in circumference. A pitcher can throw a pitch 100 miles an hour, though this is rare. Major leaguers are clocked in the nineties, and only a change-up will dip into the low eighties. A pitch thrown at ninety mph can come back to the pitcher faster than it was thrown.

            A bat is made of wood, hard wood, and is an incredible weapon if so desired. The prison no longer allows bats to be on the grounds; our coaches have to bring them in for every game and practice–and leave with them.

            More injuries occur when a ball is hit of course, or in trying to catch them. Baseball requires a complicated set of skills; running, throwing, sliding, hitting are only the tip of the ice berg. These may come in combinations and quickly forcing the body’s joints, ligaments, tendons, and muscles to extreme stress. Our seventeen man Giants team has anywhere from one to five players with some kind of injury.

            One law of baseball is when you are on the field, or near it, keep your eye on the ball. Stan failed to keep the rule.

            Every other Monday evening the Giants get the field for a practice; the A’s get the next Monday and so on. Due to injuries there were two guys working out at new positions. Mike Tyler was at first, a position he had never played before, and Duck Harris was at second, just coming back from surgery to his left thumb. They needed practice and I was hitting them ground balls with Frankie Smith catching for me.

The baseball diamond is situated so that the sun goes down behind right field, a little to the right of Mt. Tamalpais, which can be seen from the field. Stan wanted to talk to Frankie, no doubt dealing with some issue, and he simply walked up to him while Mike made a throw in from first base. Mike’s throw was high and off target. Bang it hit Stan in his right, just a smidgen above it, and down Stan went.

Stan is seventy-five at least, strong, wiry, good shape, but down he went. The ball was not thrown terribly hard, but there Stan was lying almost on home plate in the dust and there was blood. I flung my bat in the dirt, not sure why I did that, must have been frustration, and I knelt beside Stan. I looked to find Mike and could not. Turned out he went immediately to dugout and sat down.

When blood is spilled it is a big deal at the prison. An officer, who knew Stan well, rushed over and called for a medic. I made a quick exam and thought it was no big deal, but who knew. Protocols took over and Stan would have to go to the hospital, not the prison hospital, but Marin General in Greenbrae and for reasons I am not sure of.

Stan complied as he was a little shaken up by the blow to the head, and he said he would call his wife Alberta to meet him at the hospital. Off he went then and the practice proceeded.

Mike, not a starter, very fleet of foot but a terrible base runner, did not get in too many games. He would mope around sometimes, and at times I thought he might quit the team, but he held on. His sport is football and he had played on the flag football team I had started some years earlier, The Blues Brothers, and would play for my son Vern who was now running that team. But baseball–Mike mostly sat on the bench.           

One look at him and it was plain he was thunder struck by what happened. Mike was one of Stan’s favorites and vice versa. Mike felt so bad all he would do was sit and look glum.

Practice ends right about 7:30 and Stan had been transported to the hospital at about 6. Just as we were packing up, all of a sudden there was a commotion at the entrance to the dugout. It was Stan, he was back, bandage over his eye and forehead, but there he was and he was hugging Mike. And there were tears in Mike’s eyes but a big smile on his face. Stan and Mike were actually jumping up and down together. Quite a scene.

I caught part of the conversation between the two. Mike was apologizing, Stan was telling him it was okay, assuring Mike that it was a pure accident and that he never should have been on the field talking to Frankie in the first place.

Stan, the retired cop, had arrested plenty of black kids like Mike during his career. Mike had no doubt hated, and feared of course, white cops growing up as a gang banger in the Bay Area. The old white cop and the young black banger. Stan told me later as we were going up cardiac hill that he would never forget the tears in Mike’s eyes.