1923

Copy of a Charles Russell painting.

__________ 

The Senate: “a herd of miscellaneous mediocrities…” 

H.L. Mencken

__________

June: Writing in McClure’s Magazine, Myron M. Stearns offers a few observations on Calvin Coolidge. As is so often in this era, the subtle racism of the times comes through. In the White House, Stearns notes the presence of two dogs, Laddie Boy, an Airdale, and Rob Roy, a collie.

 

The dining room is large like the rest. The table is round, with great spaces of green carpet around it, against which the white collie makes a beautiful picture. The White House servants, like the sergeants at the executive offices, in most instances “go with the place.” Presidents come and presidents go, but the old darkies who help you off with your coat stay on. (155/38)

 

 Coolidge is a man who goes to church. He spends many weekends on the Mayflower, dropping down the Potomac on Saturday, and returning on Sunday, with services on the vessel. In town, he attends the First Congregational Church.

 

Every seat in the church is filled. Admission is only to pew-holders, or by card. When the President’s party comes in, at exactly 11 o’clock, the entire congregation rises, at a signal from the preacher.

 

It is a big, oblong room, this main body of the church, with a square-cut gallery along three sides – just such a plain, unornamented hall as my own father used to preach in, in New England forty years ago. The form of service, the music, the hymns, the announcements, all sound as familiar to me as during my boyhood. There is a big bouquet in front of the pulpit, red flowers mixed with yellows of different shades, and white, like a mammoth edition of one of the old-fashioned farm nosegays. The sermon is a plain, homely talk that takes for granted the religious verities and assumptions on which it is based. The singing of the choir, the playing of the organ, are also plain, rather pleasing, rather unfinished performances – music such as I again recall from the nineties.

 

 

Stearns also tells a famous story of Coolidge, a man “with a reputation for silence such as no man in public life ever possessed,” put one he finds talkative while visiting with the president to write his story. 

He offers two explanations:

 

First, Mr. Coolidge, at times, “withdraws” into silence almost as a turtle draws back into his shell. I noticed a little of this at the table, and occasionally in his office. Much more marked instances, of course, have come to me second-hand. One story tells of a bet made between two men, one of whom was to sit next to the President at a large dinner, that he would not say three words during the entire meal. Towards the end of the evening, getting desperate because Mr. Coolidge had not yet spoken at all, the man next to him told of the bet, ending: “He bet ten dollars you wouldn’t say three words,” but I bet you would. Mr. Coolidge, according to the story, considered the matter for some moments, then turned a little towards his companion. “You lose,” he said. Two words. I take it the President doesn’t feel it worthwhile, on such occasions, to make the necessary effort to start a conversation; the smaller conventions get little attention from him, and “small talk” is the last thing you can imagine him bothering about.

 

Stearns ends with a complimentary assessment. He finds that Coolidge has surrounded himself with men like himself, “simple, direct, and extremely able.”

 

He secures results that would be perhaps impossible for other men by choosing the men he needs, and then putting behind them his own faith, his own simple reliance, his own unwillingness to change, his own outstanding loyalty.

 

His power is almost unthinkable. When the selection of a new attorney-general came up, the whole matter of law enforcement and justice, our own respect for the government, our own attitude, and that of others towards us, and towards our lives and property, was involved. Matters of taxation, of economy, of tariff, touch the pockets of each of us. Five hundred million dollars annually is spent by the Army and Navy Departments for national defense, to protect us from possible foes; how is that expenditure made – wisely, or foolishly? It is the President, through his selection of the Secretaries of the Army and Navy, and shaping the policies they are to pursue, who, largely, decides. When we commute to the city, when we mail or receive a letter, when we pay the freight on a shipment of household goods, when we tour through the national parks or camp in national forests, we come in contact with the work of the Department of Commerce, or the Department of the Interior, or the Department of Agriculture – all directly affected and guided by the President himself.

 

He must know about telegraph and telephone and radio and railroads and commission men and motion picture censors, as well as about the government forests, and water power, and everyday morality. Through the State Department our entire future, our relation with other powers, our foreign policy, the likelihood of war or the possibility of peace, is at stake. Read, if you will, any of the messages that President Coolidge has sent to Congress, and see how much is involved – and, incidentally, how complete is the grasp which this quiet man has of this subject.

 

A kindly man, I found Calvin Coolidge, and considerate. Friendly, and easy to talk to – at least, it seems to me, for anyone of similar heritage, understanding the same environment and its results. Above all, a competent man who can cooperate with able assistance, securing with them results that more spectacular men might never achieve. Able to come to the great work of government simply. Able to put a full day’s work into every day without fuss or feathers. Accepting the doctrine of human fallibility, keeping himself free from worry and fit for work, attacking the involved and intricate matters of administration directly, with a quiet mind, a step at a time and the nearest one first. Possessing two, at least, of the attributes of true greatness – he is a simple man, and sincere. (155/41-44)

 

*

The artist Charlie Russell and his wife are wintering in California, as they have done for several years. Charlie writes to friend in Great Falls, Montana. 

I was at the beach the other day, and if truth gose naked like they say it dos folks don’t lie much at the sea shore  a man that tyes to a lady down here after seeing her in bathing ain’t gambling much it’s a good place to pick em but it’s sometimes hell to hold em  this is a good country for lawyers and preachers ones tying the other untying and thair both busy.

Russell drew this picture of domestic bliss when he and his wife were newly married.

*

 

“The man was a boy, simple, artless, genuine, unabashed.”

 

September 4: Babe Ruth hits a baseball that may have traveled 600 feet. Edward “Dutch” Doyle, writing in The Ol’ Ball Game, explains that Babe was playing in a sandlot game in Philly, to help out a priest he knew at Ascension Catholic Church. 

(Red Smith once described Ruth: “The man was a boy, simple, artless, genuine, unabashed.”) 

In any case, later that same day, he had an official game against the Philadelphia Athletics. When Babe first came to the plate, the ump stopped the game, and Father Casey presented him with a diamond stick pin. According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Yankee star said “that he could not express how much the gift meant.” 

One of the players for the church team remembered watching Ruth dive for a line drive, and thinking, what if Babe were to break a leg in a sandlot game? At the time, he was batting .390 and the Yankees were in first place. 

When Babe had time during the game, he signed several dozen balls, which Father Casey later sold for $5 each.

 

*

 

September 14:

 

In September 82,000 fans paid $1,000,000 to watch the Dempsey-Firpo fight. Dempsey floored his opponent seven times; but Firpo landed one punch to Dempsey’s jaw that sent him tumbling through the ropes into reporters’ laps. They helped shove the Manassas Mauler back into the ring, where he finally scored a knockout against the “Wild Bull of the Argentine Pampas.” It was, said one newspaperman, “the most savage heavyweight bout that ever was staged.”

 

(From the August 1965 issue of American Heritage.)

Firpo knocks Dempsey out of the ring.

 

* 

“The honor of my race, family and self are at stake.” 

October 6: According to The New York Times, Jack Trice, Iowa State’s first African American athlete, was forgotten for nearly fifty years. Football was a dangerous game in 1923, when Trice, a sophomore, suited up for his first varsity season. Unfortunately, he would become one of at least 18 players, high school, college, and semi-pro, to die on the gridiron that year. 

His tale was rediscovered in a journalism class at the school in 1973. Students began pushing for his name to be attached to the stadium. 

Finally, in 1997, it was. 

Today, there is some question whether or not Trice was targeted by players on the other team. It is agreed he was trampled on a dangerous play, and suffered “severe bruising of his intestines and inflammation of his abdomen.” It was only his second varsity game and, for the 21-year-old, his last. He died on October 8, 1923, two days after he was injured in a 20-17 loss at Minnesota.

 

Racism might have stoked an extra degree of violence on the play. Or it may have been the essence of a sport that in those days was far more dangerous. This much is clear. Trice had to deal with racism all his life. 

Trice played tackle for Iowa State, with some sources listing him at 215 pounds. He hoped to earn a degree in animal husbandry. When he graduated, he hoped to head south to help black farmers. (George Washington Carver, Iowa State’s first African American student, was likely Trice’s role model.) 

The Times explains: 

John G. Trice, known as Jack, was born May 12, 1902, in Hiram, Ohio, about 40 miles southeast of Cleveland. According to Iowa State researchers, he was a grandson of slaves. His father, Green Trice, served in the all-Black 10th Cavalry Regiment of the U.S. Army, known as Buffalo Soldiers, during westward expansion after the Civil War. His troop skirmished against the Apache leader Geronimo in the waning Indian Wars.

 

Jack Trice attended Cleveland’s East Technical High School, a Midwestern football power [and the same school that later produced Jesse Owens], and in 1922, followed his high school coach, Sam Willaman, who was white, to Iowa State. Only a small number of African-Americans—perhaps fewer than a dozen—had played major college football in the Midwest at that point. Less than 1 percent of Iowa’s residents were Black.

 

Mr. Trice was widely liked, by all accounts, but still faced racial strictures of the time. None of the approximately 20 Black students at Iowa State were permitted to live on campus.

 

(Green Trice was so excited, himself, when he finally had a chance to earn an education, that he enrolled in first grade at the age of 26.)

 

Trice was newly married in 1923. On October 5, he and his teammates took a train to Minnesota for the game. “It remains unclear whether Mr. Trice stayed in a separate hotel from Iowa State’s white players, but he was not permitted to eat with the team.”

Jack Trice, second from left, in 1923.

 

The night before the game, Trice wrote a letter, said to be found later in his coat and now kept in a university archive: 

My thoughts just before the first real college game of my life. The honor of my race, family and self are at stake. Everyone is expecting me to do big things. I will! My whole body and soul are to be thrown recklessly about on the field tomorrow. Every time the ball is snapped I will be trying to do more than my part.

 

On all defensive plays I must break thru the opponents [sic] line and stop the play in their territory. Beware of mass interference, fight low with your eyes open and toward the play. Roll block the interference. Watch out for cross bucks and reverse end runs. Be on your toes every minute if you expect to make good.

 

Trice was a solid 6 feet and 200 pounds, a big lineman in that era. But football was far more dangerous in those days. Face masks were unknown, helmets gave limited protection, passing was rare and bulling ahead on runs was the norm. Several kinds of blocks, since outlawed, were allowed. 

“On the second play against Minnesota, Mr. Trice sustained a shoulder injury that was later diagnosed as a broken collarbone.” He kept playing. 

In the third quarter, according to some accounts, he dived into the legs of Minnesota blockers, trying to impede a ball carrier. The move—the roll block referred to in his letter—was later barred for being too dangerous. He landed on his back instead of on all fours and was stamped by a rush of cleats.

 

He was taken to a hospital in Minneapolis, then accompanied his teammates back to Ames, Iowa, “lying painfully in a train car on a mattress fashioned from straw. A doctor considered his condition too risky to undergo an operation.” He died two days after the game at the campus hospital.  

Years later, Cora Mae Trice, his wife, wrote that she looked at her husband in his hospital bed and told him, “Hello, Darling,” but he didn’t respond. She heard the campus bell tower chime at 3 p.m., and “he was gone.”

 

The next afternoon, classes were canceled, Mr. Trice’s teammates carried his coffin and several thousand students attended a memorial service on campus.

 

Teammates set out five-gallon milk cans and collected $2,259 to cover funeral costs and settle the mortgage his mother had taken out to pay her son’s tuition. One newspaper elegy that soon followed referred to Mr. Trice as “steel of character,” a “true modern knight” who won glory “upon the fatal field.”

 

His mother, Anna, wrote a letter to the university president saying that if Mr. Trice had inspired other Black students who came to Iowa State [she called them “colored players” in the letter she wrote], “he has not lived and died in vain.”

 

Yet she was inconsolable, adding that while she was proud of his honors, “he was all I had, and I am old and alone. The future is dreary and lonesome.”

 

Years later, George Trice, a cousin said of the fallen player: “He went there knowing segregation was going on, knowing what he was doing was about more than football. It was about persevering, changing your stars.”

 

* 

While looking for more information about Trice’s high school career, I did find a list of the worst beatings in the history of Ohio scholastic football. On October 5, 1923, Medina beat Spencer 165-0. That was one of more than twenty high school games in Ohio, in which victors scored at least 110 points, while shutting out the losers. 

According to other sources, Trice was one of six players from his high school to follow his coach to Iowa State. There, he also participated in track, where he excelled at shot up and discus. He also excelled in the classroom, with a 90 average in all his classes, and having piled up 45 credits during freshman year. The idea that racism might have been involved could be bolstered by the fact that Iowa State did not renew a contract to play Minnesota again, and the teams did not meet on the field again until 1989. According to Wikipedia, 4,000 students and faculty members attended Trice’s funeral and his coffin was draped in cardinal and gold, the team colors. 

Trice was the only African American on the field that day, a game that was even, 7-7, at halftime. Midway through the third quarter, Trice threw a roll block, suffered his injuries, and had to be helped from the field. Minnesota fans chanted, “We’re sorry, Ames, we’re sorry,” in a sign of good sportsmanship. 

“The fullback, going through the hole, stepped on Jack’s stomach and maybe his groin,” Trice’s teammate Johnny Behm told The Cleveland Plain Dealer in a 1979 interview. “He was badly hurt, but tried to get up and wanted to stay in. We saw he couldn’t stand and helped him off the field.”

 

Behm, had also been a teammate of  Trice in high school. In that same interview, many years later, he said no better tackle ever played high school ball in Cleveland. Behm said Trice had speed, strength and smarts. 

In 1922, Trice played on the freshmen team since freshman were not allowed to play varsity sports. 

He eloped with Cora Mae Starland, in the summer of 1923. He was 20. She was 15; and they had to lie about her age on the marriage certificate. When the young couple returned to campus, they were unable to find housing in a Jim Crow world, and finally took a room at the Masonic Lodge in Ames. 

Reportedly, several teams refused to play the Cyclones in those years, as long as Trice was going to be on the field. 

Years later, one player who saw the injury occur told reporters nothing occurred out of the ordinary. 

A second, however, “said it was murder.”

 

Trice’s young widow, who had been studying home economics herself, left Ames soon after and returned to Ohio. She never again visited Iowa. She remarried eventually, and started a family.

 

“She would often talk about him, how she was still in love with him when it happened and how devastated she was,” Betty Armstrong, her daughter from her second marriage said in a 2008 interview for ESPN. “But she didn’t want any part of the history by going back there.”

 

The fight for equality was long and difficult, as ESPN noted in 2008:

 

Armstrong was the first black librarian hired by the city of Youngstown, Ohio, in 1953. But she realizes that her own personal struggles in her career were minor compared to those faced by Trice and her mother during their short marriage.

 

“I’ve gone through a lot of heartbreaks myself,” said Armstrong, who turned 80 last year. “But I can only imagine how my mother and Jack went through things back in those days. It had to be horrible for them.”

 

*

 

William Carlos Williams writes The Red Wheelbarrow. Williams, a doctor, often wrote poems on prescription forms (NYT, 7-7-15).

 

so much depends

upon

 

a red wheel

barrow

 

glazed with rain

water

 

beside the white

chickens

 

*

 

Modigliani died a pauper.

 

In 1923 The New York Times carried a small “Hundred Dollar Holiday Sale” notice for New Gallery Inc. For sale were important works by Cezanne, Gauguin, Matisse and Van Gogh.

 

There were also several works for sale by Modigliani, who died a pauper three years before. Modigliani was known for distortion: long noses, longer, slender necks, small mouths. In 2015, he would have been happy to know, one of his paintings a nude, sold for $170.9 million. (NYT; Friday File; 11-13-15)

Woman with red hair.

Nu Couche: for $170.4 million.