Baseball players are rated according to five “tools” or categories of physical ability: hitting, hitting for power, running, fielding, and throwing. There’s also a quality that is harder to measure. It’s beyond mere statistics like batting average and homeruns.
Though there are a myriad of ways a player might position the hands, feet, and bat before the swing, there’s something intangible that the best hitters have in common. You know it when you see it. A coach or scout will nod toward a particular player, “He’s got it.”
It’s known as The Look.
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As the pastor of a predominantly white congregation in an overwhelmingly white denomination, I’ve worked with a local Black clergywoman and community organizer to create an anti-racism workshop for parishioners to identify their implicit racial biases, then work to change them.
This group of white people has focused on the issue of police brutality. We have seen statistical evidence that people of color are pulled over and arrested exponentially more than white people. We have read firsthand testimonies from Black writers such as the poet Ross Gay: “Any time you meet the cops and don’t go to jail is a good time.”
Occasionally, someone gives pushback in the form of a smokescreen argument (all lives matter) or red herring (Black-on-Black crime). I’ll respond with statistics from the Stanford Open Policing Project, which proves the impact of “the veil of darkness” — the 5–10% drop in Black people pulled over by police for traffic violations after sunset. In the dark the officers cannot see the color of their skin.
The Look of the driver.
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I grew up with baseball as a second religion to Christianity. Like the people in the pews of the church of my childhood, the vast majority of my teammates and opponents were white suburbanites. There were differences in the quality of equipment used on the field and cars in the parking lot. Differences in the English accents of families originally from the South, the North, and the Midwest.
But in terms of skin color, we looked the same.
Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I believed that Black kids were better at football and basketball because they were faster and could jump higher. I thought of baseball as the more cerebral game. “A thinking man’s game” as one white coach put it. All my coaches were white.
I thought of baseball as a white man’s game. I thought of Jesus as a white man.
I grew up, went to seminary, and learned that the biblical phrase “veil of darkness” conveys a different metaphor. Instead of offering protection, it refers to ignorance. And sin.
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Author and activist Ibram X. Kendi claims the heartbeat of anti-racism is confession. As a leader of a religious community, I believe it is among my responsibilities to confess.
Throughout high school, many of my male athletic peers took gym every semester as an elective. On Free Fridays, we baseball players lazed in the gym bleachers, spitting chewing tobacco into plastic Coke bottles. Pointing at a muscular Black upperclassman as he walked past us, a white teammate sitting next to me whispered, “That ‘boy’ was bred to pick cotton.”
I knew that was a horrible, hateful thing to say. But I sat there as mute as the wooden bleachers.
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After accepting my call to serve as pastor of the new church, my wife and I moved our young family to a subdivision less than a mile down the hill from the sanctuary. In addition to its proximity to my job, this neighborhood was attractive to us because of the twenty-six miles of wooded trails, the pool, and the half-dozen rainbow flags flying from front porches on our street alone. This is a university town, so we expected such progressive politics even in the South.
I was not surprised to learn that roughly 90% of residents in our subdivision were white.
Due to the population growth in our county, a new high school is slated to open in 2021. This summer the county’s school board considered a proposal to widen the new school’s district just enough to include my neighborhood. The motivation was as it Looked—more white students at the new high school.
I wrote an editorial for our county newspaper. I documented national data demonstrating that Black students have higher academic achievement levels in schools that are more fully integrated. I also expressed my belief that the existing high school’s academic performance would increase if the large number of young families in my neighborhood supported this school with our social, political, and economic capital.
On the day of the school board meeting, the topic was discussed in a private Facebook group specifically for neighborhood parents.
One mother commented (lamented?):
This decision is going to be based on “whiteness.”
I wondered if those scare quotes implied that, for her, whiteness was not a reality.
I posted that, if the lines were redrawn, the percentage of Black students at the old high school was projected to be twice that of Black students at the new high school (14% to 7%).
Another parent chimed in:
I have black friends who just want to stay [at the old school]. They don’t care where our kids go.
I noted that another large subdivision was already in the new school’s district. Once families moved into those homes, we should expect the racial disparities between the high schools to increase.
Someone clicked on the “angry” Facebook emoticon. I didn’t know if, like me, this fellow white male was upset by this racial disparity, or if he was pissed off at me for making the point.
Then another parent posted that she wanted to “lighten the mood.” She reported that her (white) high schooler said that, if the new high school had fewer Black students …
They sure are going to SUCK at basketball and football!!!
His mother added the laughing face emoji. A dozen people “liked” her comment.
The school board unanimously passed the proposal to redraw the school districts.
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Austin Channing Brown writes in her memoir, I’m Still Here, “Black folks still have to be on the lookout for white fragility’s cousin: white guilt.” Brown poignantly describes being on the receiving end of unsolicited confessions as painful to Black bodies and hearts, concluding that she no longer wishes to function as a priest for the white soul. Instead, she challenges white people to accept responsibility for their own transformation: “So what are you going to do differently?”
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My friend, who led our anti-racism workshop, told me that she doesn’t give every white person an “Atta-boy” or “Atta-girl” for doing the decent thing. I was reminded of Little League baseball when I received a trophy just for showing up, a shiny trinket that ended up in the trash.
In baseball, each player steps into the batter’s box alone. I want to do my part. This includes showing up and speaking out, opposing fellow white people who make racist remarks and working for reforms in institutions like the police and the schools.
But, as in the example of the school redistricting, this work is draining. It’s tempting to unplug. In the past, I’ve protested against the Iraq War. I’ve marched for women’s rights and rallied for LGBTQ equity. I still hold these politics and values, but I never made lasting connections with a group of people dedicated to the same causes. As a white, heterosexual, cis-male, it was too easy to move on and focus exclusively on my own life.
So, what I am going to do differently?
Baseball is a team sport. When I am tired, frustrated, or distracted, I look for a fellow anti-racism activist in church or the community. Someone to encourage or inspire me. Someone to hold me accountable for supporting anti-racist policies through my actions.
At the end of the workshop, my friend shared with our group what her grandmother used to tell her: Don’t be weary in well-doing. While this verse is found in the New Testament, what’s striking to me is that my friend attributes those words to a living person, a mentor, and a role model.
I think that makes the difference.
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White. Male. Southern. Anti-Racist.
I held this sign along a busy highway one Friday afternoon. A pickup truck blared its horn, and I saw a young white guy giving me the finger as he sped away. His truck had a bumper sticker of the professional baseball team that I have followed since childhood.
That Friday, I was joined by two or three dozen other white folks from different churches. We came from different places and pasts, each carrying different signs. I imagine we have different skills and interests.
Yet, we all were there in hopes of making a difference. We all look to put our skin in the game.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman serves as poet pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church in Chapel Hill, NC. His fourth book, Gently Between the Words, was published in 2019.
