The Deacon and Me

I sat next to Vernon “The Deacon” Law, 1960 Cy Young Award winner, in Fenway Park.? The sky was a Boston gray.? The air had a New England chill.

I leaned over to him.

“You never pitched a regular season game in this ballpark, did you?”

“No.? I never did.”

A sudden thought struck me.

“But you’ve got to be one of the last pitchers left who can describe pitching in Braves Field.”

“Oh, yeah.? It was over there, that way.”

He waved his arm in a half arc that gave me no clue of the direction he meant.? I still couldn’t tell you where the Boston (then Milwaukee, then Atlanta) Braves played.

“They made the stadium into part of the university campus over there.”

Another vague arc of the arm indicated nothing.

For the next few minutes, I pried him for information, trying to drag stories out of an 89 year old mind about baseball games that happened nearly seventy years before in a stadium that had long disappeared from Major League Baseball.

It’s been an interesting life.

Vern and I were taking part in a program at Boston’s Emerson College.? Vern was one of my go-to guest speakers at events and a good friend.? How he became both is a story unto itself.

I was developing a conference at the University of Southern California on race and sport.? I planned on having an evening program with James “Mudcat” Grant, former football player and media personality Marcellus Wiley and one other participant to discuss the challenges of racism in baseball and football.? I asked Mudcat who he thought I should bring in.

“Well, the first person you gotta have is Vern Law.”

“Vern Law?”

“Yeah, we always called him The Deacon.”

“Why Law?”

“I’ve seen him talk to a room full of kids at my golf tournament about what he experienced when he was in the minor leagues down in New Orleans and you couldn’t hear a peep outta them kids.? He still gets emotional, tears up, about what he saw, the mistreatment of black people, the segregation, and he’s so sincere that everyone buttons up and listens.”

“But, Mud, this is a conference on race and sports.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if you noticed but Law is, uh, well he’s an old white guy.”

“Yeah?”

“And he’s Mormon, Jim.? You can’t get any more white than that.”

“Trust me.? He’s the guy you want.? He’ll have ‘em riveted.”

I took Jim’s advice and started a long friendship with The Deacon. ?But, then, it’s hard not to start a friendship with such a kind and generous soul.

Mudcat, The Deacon and I ran up to the University of Idaho one cold winter to talk about race, religion and baseball.? Idaho was Law country so he was the star of this show.

Vern was 84 years old, Jim was a bare 79.? One morning, we went to downtown Moscow, Idaho to grab breakfast at one of the local cafes.? The Deacon and I were stuffed in the back seat of a small Audi.? We got out and Vern immediately jumped to the front passenger’s door.? Mudcat had crippling arthritis and diabetes.? The Deacon opened his door and took Jim by the hand and the arm slowly helping him out of the car.

I watched the two struggle together arm-in-arm to get Jim out of the tiny car and I thought how strange and heartening it was that two men from such different backgrounds, one from the black part of a small segregated lumber town in Jim Crow Florida, the other from a Latter Day Saints enclave in Idaho in which there was only one black person in the entire valley, could have such a special bond, could hold each other so close like the brothers they were.

Later that day, we sat in one of the town’s gathering halls telling baseball stories from fifty and sixty years before.? The crowd that stuffed the hall to the walls cheered every comment and laughed at every joke.

Of course, Vern Law is a deeply committed Latter Day Saint.? He was, indeed, a Deacon in the church before he hit the Major Leagues and continued to be a witness for his faith throughout his baseball career and into his ninth decade, signing autographs and quietly testifying to his deep faith.

I had already taken my family through Provo, Utah on a trip to western Colorado.? We drove far out of our way to that high desert town so that we could stop to have dinner with Vern and his wife VaNita.? When we arrived, Vern had already alerted the wait staff that he would get the check (something that rather miffed me).? At dinner, one of his son’s leaned forward and asked if we’d heard all the stories of the “crazy Mormons”.? I deflected the question, accepting it as an attempt to evangelize.? I never saw Vern do that.? Vern wouldn’t try to force a conversation about his faith.? He would simply live it and, when prompted, tell stories that illustrated his faith.

At the University of Idaho talk, Vern launched into one of his most entertaining stories about the time his teammates paid a woman to go to Vern’s hotel room in the nude and climb into bed with him.? Vern politely but firmly sent her on her way.

“Well, ma’am, I appreciate your kindness, but I happen to be a married man and . . . “

As Vern told his tale, Mudcat leaned close to me and mumbled sardonically, “And The Deacon is the only baseball player who ever lived that would have done that!”

About two months after our visit to Boston, I had The Deacon out to speak to a class at USC.? He brought along a stack of autographed cards that included a picture of him in his prime, a bit about his career and a brief testimony concerning his faith.? He handed them out at the end of class.

We enjoyed over an hour of conversation.? Then, as he talked with several students halfway up the staircase in the Annenberg Auditorium, I turned to talk to my assistant.?

Behind me, I heard an “OH!” and a body falling roughly to the ground.? I turned just in time to see Vern land head first at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh my gosh!” I thought.? “I’ve killed The Deacon!”

I would have thought some saltier language, but it was The Deacon after all.

In a loud grunt of disgust, Vern said, “Doggone it!”? For him, that was a blue streak.? He jumped up from the ground.

“Are you all right?” I said in near panic.

“I’m fine.? Just too doggone clumsy!”

Wow!? Two doggones in two sentences.? He really was mad at himself.? He picked himself up and, other than a nasty strawberry on his forehead, seemed none the worse for wear.

I will now admit to an embarrassing selfishness.? I had always wanted to play catch with Vern.? He was born the same day as my dad and I took him to sort of be my surrogate baseball dad.? We had an hour before our dinner reservations.? So, I pulled out a couple gloves and a baseball and got the 1960 Cy Young Award winner to play catch with me for a half hour.

Vern got into his catch rhythm and, at 89, turned slowly until his back was to me. ?His eyes closed as if in some sort of deep meditation and he spun back around lazily throwing the baseball to me in a gentle overhand arc.? I wondered if this was how he warmed up before the seventh game of the 1960 World Series.

Nothing special happened.? We just played catch for half an hour outside of my office suite.? The Deacon and me.? It was a memorable moment in life

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