29th Post THE PAST IS MYSELF

During my service in the United States Army, while stationed in Germany, I purchased at the
PX a paperback book titled: Southern Fried. Whenever my outfit was in garrison at Krabbenloch Kaserne in Ludwigsburg, I would entertain my buddies by reading aloud to them, excerpts from
the book. When I was reassigned to Ft. Bragg, N.C., I left my book behind for their reading pleasure.

During my tenure at Ft. Bragg, I had the pleasure of wandering into South Carolina and visiting Moncks Corner and other areas around Southeastern South Carolina and North Eastern
Georgia.

Returning to civilian life, I happened upon a copy of a new release of Southern Fried this book
was Southern Fried Plus Six and the author William Price Fox.

The following story is from this book, which is presently out of print. I will add Mr. Fox’s stories
to my personal blog and hope that his writing is enjoyed by others as much as it has been enjoyed through the years by me.

THIS IS FOR ALL YOU BASEBALL FANS
“LEROY JEFFCOAT”

On Leroy Jeffcoat’s forty-first birthday he fell off a scaffold while painting a big stucco rooming

house over on Sycamore Street. Leroy was in shock for about twenty minutes, but when the
doctor brought him around he seemed all right.

Leroy went home and rolled his trousers and shoes into a bundle with his Sherwin-Williams

paint company cap and jacket. He tied the bundle with string to keep the dogs from dragging it
off and put it in the gutter in front of his house. He poured gasoline over the bundle and set it on
fire. That was the last day Leroy Jeffcoat painted a house.

He went uptown to the Sports Center on Kenilworth Street and bought two white baseball uniforms with green edging, two pairs of baseball shoes, a Spalding second baseman’s glove, eight baseballs and two bats. Leroy had been painting houses at union scale since he got out of high
school, and since he never gambled or married he had a pretty good savings account at the South Carolina National Bank.

We had a bush-league team that year called the Columbia Green Wave. The name must have

come from the fact that most of us got drunk on Friday nights and the games were always
played on Saturdays. Anyhow the season was half over when Leroy came down and wanted to
try out for second base.

Leroy looked more like a ball player than any man I’ve ever know. He had that little ass-pinched

strut when he was mincing around second base. He also had a beautiful squint into or out of the
sun, could chew through a whole plug of Brown Mule tobacco in four innings, and could worry a
pitcher to death with his chatter. On an don and on….we would be ahead ten runs in the ninth
and Leroy wouldn’t let up.

But Leroy couldn’t play. He looked fine. At times he looked great. But he knew too much to play

well. He’d read every baseball book and guide and every Topp’s Chewing Gum Baseball Card
ever printed. He could show you how Stan Musial batted, how Williams swung, how DiMaggio
dug in. he went to all the movies and copied all the stances and mannerisms. You could say,
“Let’s see how Rizzuto digs on out, Leroy.” He’d toss you a ball and lope out about forty feet.

“All right, throw it at my feet, right in the dirt.” And you would and then you’d see the Old

Scooter movement - low and quick with the big wrist over to first.

Leroy could copy anybody. He was great until he got in an actual game. Then he got too nervous.

He’d try to bat like Williams, Musial and DiMaggio all at once and by the time he’d make up his
mind he’d have looked at three strikes. And at second base it was the same story. He fidgeted
too much and never got himself set in time.

Leroy played his best ball from the bench. He liked it there. He’d pound his ball into his glove

and chatter and grumble and cuss and spit tobacco juice. He’d be the first one to congratulate the home-run hitters and the first one up and screaming on a close play.

We got him into the Leesboro game for four innings and against Gaffney for three. He played the
entire game at second base against the State Insane Asylum….but that’s another story.

When the games ended Leroy showered, dried, used plenty of talcum powder and then spent

about twenty minutes in front of the mirror combing his flat black hair straight back.

Most of the team had maybe a cap and a jacket with a number on it and a pair of shoes. Leroy

had two complete uniform changes. After every game he’d change his dirty one for a clean one
and then take the dirty one to the one-day dry cleaner. That way Leroy was never out of
uniform. Morning, noon, and night Leroy was ready. On rainy days, on days it sleeted, and even
during the hurricane season, Leroy was ready. For his was the long season. Seven days a week,
thee hundred and sixty-five days a year, Leroy was in uniform. Bat in hand, glove fastened to
belt, balls in back pocket, and cut plug going. And he never took off his spikes. He would wear a
set out every two weeks. You could see him coming from two blocks away in his clean white
uniform. And at night when you couldn’t see him you could hear the spikes and see the sparks on the sidewalk.

The Green Wave worked out on Tuesday and Thursday in the evening and we played on

Saturday. Leroy worked out every day and every night. He’d come up to Doc Daniel’s drugstore
with his bat and ball and talk someone into hitting him fly balls out over the telegraph wires on
Mulberry Avenue. It could be noon in August and the sun wouldn’t be any higher than a high
foul ball, but it wouldn’t worry Leroy Jeffcoat. He’d catch the balls or run them down in the
gutter until the batter tired.

Then Leroy would buy himself and the batter a couple of Atlantic ales. Doc Daniels had wooden

floors and Leroy wouldn’t take his baseball shoes off, so he had to drink the ale outside.

Doc would shout out, “Leroy, damn your hide anyway. If you come in here with those spikes on

I’m going to work you over with this ice-cream scoop. Now you hear?”

Leroy would spin the ball into the glove, fold it and put it in his back pocket.

“Okay, Doc.”

“Why can’t you take those damn spikes off and sit down in a booth and rest? You’re getting too

old to be out in that sun all day.”

Leroy was in great shape. As a rule, house painters have good arms and hands and bad feet.

He would laugh and take his Atlantic ale outside in the sun or maybe sit down in the little bit of

shade from the mailbox.

Later on, he would find someone to thrown him grounders.

Come on, toss me a few. Don’t spare the steam.”

He’d crowd in on you and wouldn’t be more than thirty feet out there.

“Come on, skin it along the ground.”

You’d be scared to throw it hard but he’d insist.

“Come on, now, a little of the old pepper. In the dirt.”

Next thing you’d be really winging them in there and he’d be picking them off like cherries or

digging them out of the dust and whipping them back to you. He’d wear you out and burn your
hands up in ten minutes. Then he’d find somebody else.

Leroy would go home for supper and then he ‘d be back. After dark he’d go out to the street

lamp and throw the ball up near the light and catch it. The June bugs, flying ants and bats would
be flitting around everywhere but he’d keep on. The June bugs and flying ants would be all over
his head and shoulders and even in his glove. He might stop for a while for another Atlantic ale,
and if the crowd was talking baseball he’d join it. If it wasn’t and the bugs were too bad he’d
stand out in the dark and pound his ball in his glove or work out in the window of Doc Daniels’
front window. In front of the window he became a pitcher. He worked a little like Preacher Roe,
but he had more class. He did a lot of rubbing the resin bag and checking signs from the catcher
and shaking them off. When he’d agree with a sign he’d nod and his head slow …. Exactly like
Roe. The he’d get in position, toss the resin aside, and glare in mean and hard at the batter. He
took a big reach and stopped and then the slow and perhaps the most classic look toward second
base I’ve ever seen -- absolutely Alexandrian. Then he’d stretch, wind, and whip it through. He
put his hands on his knees …. Wait. It had to be a strike. It was. And he’d smile.

And read a sports page? Nobody this side of Cooperstown ever read a page the way Leroy

Jeffcoat did. He would crouch down over that sheet for two hours running. He’d read every word and every figure. He went at it like he was following the puzzle maze in Grit, trying to find the
pony or the seven-teen rabbits. He had a pencil about as long as your little finger and he’d make
notes along the margin. When he finished he’d transfer the notes to a little black book he carried
in his back pocket. Leroy would even check the earned run average and the batting and field
average. I don’t mean just look at them….he’d study them… And if he didn’t like them he’d
divide and do multiplication and check them over. And if they were wrong he’d be on the
telephone to the Columbia Record or else he’d write a letter.

Leroy was always writing letters to the sports writers. Like he’d read an article about how Joe

DiMaggio was getting old and slipping and he’d get mad. He’d take off his shoes and go inside Doc Daniels’, buy a tablet and an envelope, get in the back booth and write. Like: “What do you mean Joe DiMaggio is too old and he’s through. Why, you rotten son of a bitch, you just wait and watch him tomorrow."

Next day old Joe would pick up two for four and Leroy would take off his spikes and get back in that back booth again. "What did I tell you? Next time, you watch out who your're saying is through. Also, you print an apology this week or I am going to personally come up there and kick your fat ass. (Signed) Leroy Jeffcoat, taxpayer and second baseman, Doc Daniels’ Drugstore, Columbia, S. C.”

This would be a much better story if I could tell you that Leroy’s game improved and he went on and played and became famous throughout the Sally League. But he didn’t.

He got a little better and then he leveled off. But we kept him around because we liked him

(number one), that white uniform edged in green looked good (number two), and then, too, we
used him as an auxiliary man. A lot of the boys couldn’t make it through some of those August
games. When you start fanning yourself with a catcher’s mitt, it’s hot. All that beer and corn
whisky would start coming out and in most games we would wind up with Leroy playing.

One game, Kirk Turner, our right fielder, passed out right in his position in the short weeds. We

had to drag him into the shade and Leroy ran out to right field and began chirping. He caught a
couple and dropped a couple. At bat he decided he was Ted Williams and kept waiting for that
perfect ball that Ted described in the Saturday Evening Post. The perfect ball never came and
Leroy struck out twice. In the seventh he walked. It was his first time on base in weeks and he
began dancing and giving the pitcher so much lip the umpire had to settle him down.

Our last game of the year and the game we hated to play was with the South Carolina State

Penitentiary down the hill.

First of all, no one beats The Pen. Oh, you might give them a bad time for a couple of innings but

that’s about all. It’s not that they’re a rough bunch so much as it’s that they play to win. And I
mean they really play to win.

Anyhow, we went down and the game started at one-thirty. The high walls kept the breeze out

and it was like playing in a furnace. Sweat was dripping off my fingertips and running down my
nose.

Billy Joe Jasper pitched and in the first inning they it him for seven runs before Kirk Turner

caught two long ones out by the center field wall.

We came to bat and Al Curry, our catcher led off. Their pitcher’s name was Strunk and he was in

jail for murder. The first pitch was right at Al’s head. He hit the dirt. The crowd cheered. The
next pitch the same thing; Al Curry was as white as a sheet. The next pitch went for his head but
broke out and over the inside of the plate. Al was too scared to swing and they called him out on
the next two pitches.

Jeff Harper struck out next in the same manner. When he complained to the umpire, who was a

trusty, we went out and talked to Strunk. It didn’t do any good.

I batted third. It was terrifying. Strunk glared at me and mouthed dirty words. He was so tall

and his arms were so long I thought he was going to grab me by the throat before he turned the
ball loose. I kept getting out of the box and checking to see if he was pitching from the mound. He seemed to be awfully close.

I got back in the box. I didn’t dig in too deep. I wanted to be ready to duck. He reached up about

nine feet and it came right at my left eye. I hit the dirt.

“Ball One.”

From the ground: “How about that dusting?”

“You entering a complaint?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

The umpire went out to see Strunk and the catcher followed. They talked a while and every few

seconds one of them would look back at me. They began laughing.

Back on the mound. One more baseball and once more in the dirt. And then three in a row that

looked like beaners that broke over the plate. Three up. Three down.

At the end of five innings we didn’t have a scratch hit. The Pen had fourteen runs and the pitcher

Strunk had three doubles and a home run.

We didn’t care what the score was. All we wanted to do was get the game over and get out of

that prison yard. The crowd cheered everything their ball team did and every move we made
brought only boos and catcalls.

At the end of seven we were still without a hit.

Leroy kept watching Strunk. “Listen, I can hit that son of a bitch.”

I said, “No Leroy, he’s too dangerous.”

“The hell he is. Let me at him.”

Kirk Turner said, “Leroy, that bastard will kill you. Let’s just ride him out and get out of here.

This crown make me nervous.”

But Leroy kept on insisting. Finally George Haggard said, “Okay, Leroy. Take my place.” So

Leroy replaced George at first.

Strunk came to bat in the eighth and Leroy started shouting. “Let him hit! Let him hit, Billy Joe.

I want to see that son of a bitch over here.”

He pounded his fist in George’s first baseman’s glove and started jumping up and down like a

Chimpanzee.

“Send that bastard down here. I want him. I’ll fix is ass.”

The crowd cheered Leroy and he tipped his hat like Stan Musial.

The crowd cheered again.

Strunk bellowed, “Shut that nut up, ump.”

Leroy wouldn’t ‘t stop. “Don’t let him hit, Billy! Walk him. Walk that bean ball bastard. He might

get a double; I want him over here.”

Billy Joe looked at Al Curry. Al gave him the walk sign. Two balls … three balls …

“You getting scared, you bastard? Won’t be long now.”

The crowd laughed and cheered.

Again the Musial touch with his cap.

Strunk shouted, “Listen, you runt, you keep quiet while I’m hitting or I’ll shove that glove down

your throat.”

Leroy laughed, “Sure you will. Come on down, I’ll help you.”

Four balls …

Strunk laid the bat down carefully and slowly walked toward first. Strunk go close. The crowd

was silent. Leroy stepped off the bag and Strunk stepped on. Leroy backed up. Strunk followed.
Everybody watched. No noise. Leroy stopped and took his glove off. He handed it to Strunk.
Strunk took the glove in both hands.

Leroy hit him with the fastest right I’ve ever see.

Strunk was stunned but he was big. He lashed the glove into Leroy’s face and swung at him.

Leroy took it on the top of his head and crowded in so fast Strunk didn’t know what to do. Leroy

got him off balance and kept him that way while he pumped in four lefts and six rights.

Strunk went down with Leroy on top banging away. Two of us grabbed Leroy and three got a

hold of Strunk. They led Strunk back to the dugout bleeding. He turned to say something and
spat out two teeth. “I ain’t through with you yet.”

The crowd went wild.

Someone shouted, “What’s his name? What’s his name?”

“Jeffcoat … Leroy Jeffcoat.”

They cheered again. And shouted. “Leroy Jeffcoat is our boy.” And then, “Leroy Jeffcoat is red

hot.”

Leroy tipped his hat Musical - style, picked up George Haggard’s glove and said, “Okay, let’s

play ball.”

Another cheer and the game started.

The Pen scored two more times that inning before we got them out. We came to bat in the ninth

behind 21 to 0. Strunk fanned me and then hit Coley Simms on the shoulder. He found out that
Leroy was batting fifth so he walked the next two, loading the bases so he could get a shot at
him.

So Leroy came up with the bases loaded and the prison crowd shouting, “Leroy Jeffcoat is our

boy.”

He pulled his cap down like Musial and dug into the box like DiMaggio. The crowd cheered and

he got out of the box and tipped his cap.

Strunk was getting madder and madder and he flung the resin down and kicked the rubber.
“Let’s go, in there.”

Leroy got in the box, whipped the bat through like Ted Williams and hollered, “Okay, Strunk,
let’s have it.”

Zip. Right at his head.

Leroy flicked his head back like a snake but didn’t move his feet.

The crowd booed Strunk and the umpire went out to the mound. We could hear the argument.

As the umpire turned away Strunk told him to go to hell.

The second pitch was the same as the first. Leroy didn’t move and the ball hit his cap bill.

The umpire wanted to put him on base.

Leroy shouted, “No, he didn’t hit me. He’s yellow. Let him pitch.”

The crowd cheered Leroy again. Strunk delivered another duster and the ball went between

Leroy’s cap bill and his eyes. This time he didn’t even flick his head.

Three balls . . . No strikes.

Two convicts dropped out of the stands and trotted across the infield to the mound. Thy meant

business. When they talked Strunk listened and nodded his head. A signal passed around the
infield.

The fourth pitch was right across Leroy’s chest. It was Williams’ ideal ball and it was the ball

Leroy had been waiting for all season. He hit it clean and finished the Williams swing.

It was a clean single but the right fielder bobbled it and Leroy made the wide turn toward

second. The throw into second was blocked and bobbled again and Leroy kept going. He ran in
spurts, each spurt faster than the last. The throw go third got past the baseman and Leroy
streaked for home, shouting.

He began sliding from twenty feet out. He slid so long he stopped short. He had to get up and

lunge for home plate with his hand. He made it as the ball whacked into the catcher’s mitt and
the crowd started coming out of the stands.

The guards tried to hold the crowd back and a warning siren sounded. But the convicts got to

him and paraded around the field with Leroy on their backs. The came was called at this point
and the reserve guards and trusties came out with billy clubs.

Later Coley and I learned from The Pen’s manager that the committee had told Strunk they

wanted Leroy to hit a home run. We never told the rest of the team or anybody else about that.

After we showered at The Pen we all went back to Doc Daniels’ Drugstore. Everyone told

everyone about it and when Doc Daniels heard it he came outside and personally led Leroy into
the store with his spikes on.

“Leroy, from now on I want you to feel free to walk right in here anytime you feel like it.”

Leroy smiled, and put his bat and his uniform bag up on the soda fountain. Doc bought Atlantic
ales for everyone. Later, I bought a round and Coley bought a round.

And just as we were settling down in the booths with sandwiches, potato chips, and the jukebox

going, Leroy picked up his glove and started spinning his ball of the ends of his fingers and said.
“I’m getting a little stiff. Anyone feel like throwing me a few fast ones?”