Compton

by Alan Swyer

With the Compton youth baseball and softball programs that he had somewhat adopted once more short of funds, Mike Lerner’s mind went into overdrive. It was premature to hit on the Dodgers and Angels again, too soon to start another GoFundMe campaign, and inappropriate to beseech the same corporate sponsors that sprang for donations during the holiday season.

Searching for yet another avenue, possibility, or lifeline, Lerner tossed and turned in bed for three nights in a row until, on a Wednesday morning well before dusk, an idea finally materialized.

Afraid he’d forget his “Eureka” moment if he fell back to sleep, Lerner slipped quietly out of bed without waking his wife or their Labrador retriever, then tiptoed into the den, where he jotted down a few notes.

At 8:45 that morning, Lerner was able to use his powers of persuasion on a friend name Burt Jaffe, who was driving to work. Then he quickly placed a call to the Pied Piper of Compton’s youth baseball and softball programs, Edgar Jones.

“I need four of five kids in uniform this Saturday morning,” Lerner proudly stated.

“For?”

“Fund-raising. You and they are going to be on public access TV.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Right, I made it up just to tease you.”

“That’s great!” said Edgar, who was known around Compton as EJ. “What’s the first step?”

“A casting call.”

“A what?”

“Have a bunch of kids at the park this afternoon at 4,” said Lerner. “I’ll come by, and we’ll see who looks right.”

It was not because he was a suburban do-gooder, or someone with too much idle time on his hands, that inner city youth programs became a part of Lerner’s life. Instead it owed to a Thursday evening call that his son received some years before from a friend he’d made at a batting cage in Culver City.

“Benny wants to know if I can try out with him for a Connie Mack team,” Jeremy, then twelve, said to his father, phone in hand.

“I don’t see why not,” responded Lerner. “When?”

“Saturday.”

“Okay,” said Lerner. “Find out what time and where.”

While Jeremy’s phone conversation resumed, Lerner headed into the living room and sat down to check out SportsCenter. A few minutes later, his son stepped in. “They want us there at a quarter to 9,” he announced.

“Where’s there?”

“Compton.”

Vividly aware that Compton was depicted by the media, and by rappers galore, as prime gang country, Lerner almost balked. Instead he nodded, making a decision that he would be proud of for years thereafter, despite choosing not to frighten his wife by telling her where the tryout would take place.

Once he was accepted on a team that was otherwise entirely black and Latino, Jeremy’s period of adjustment owed less to reality that for the first time in his life he was the minority, than to two factors not based on race: he lived farther away than his new teammates, and, at the moment he joined, he was the youngest.

Yet he was immediately embraced, in part because of his bubbly personality, but also because, simply put, he could really play ball.

What thrilled Lerner more than Jeremy’s prowess on the field was something Edgar Jones said when he approached him one day after practice. “Know what I love?”

“Tell me.”

“For most, maybe all of the kids here — ”

“Yeah?”

“Your son’s the first white teammate, or classmate, or friend they’ve ever had. And know what?”

“What’s that?”

“He’s a really good kid.”

In a community where far too few dads were present, Lerner made a point of keeping a relatively low profile. Though he helped raise money not just for local play, but also for trips to tournaments out of state, he chose not to accompany the team when they traveled to Alaska or Arizona.

It was only once Jeremy moved from off-season Connie Mack to what’s known as Scout Ball during his high school years that Lerner finally agreed to join CBAT’s Board of Directors.

It was in that capacity that he soon became the principal fundraiser, using as a sales pitch that the purpose of CBATS was to get kids off the streets and onto the playing field. In other words, away from gangs and on to places like UCLA, USC, Cal State Long Beach, and, in some cases, a career in pro ball.

On the afternoon in which he was to meet with Edgar, Lerner braved freeway traffic to arrive at Jackie Robinson Field in Compton’s Gonzalez Park, where he spotted EJ standing with several teenagers.

Immediately, Lerner pulled him aside. “Back to the drawing board,” he said softly.

“You said players,” Edgar replied.

“What’s the impression we want to make? Visually. On TV.”

“Tell me.”

“Cute. Want to know why?”

“Sure — ”

“Innocence.”

Edgar Jones nodded. “So nobody mistakes ’em for gangbangers.”

Lerner smiled. “And so they reach for their checkbooks.”

Ten minutes later, Edgar returned with three significantly younger kids. “This is Lamar, who’s seven,” he said, introducing them one by one. “And Miguel, who’s eight. And Desmond, who’s nine. We good?”

“We will be once you bring me a softball player.”

While the other kids watched, Edgar headed off once again, then returned with a girl with long braids under her baseball cap. “This is La Quita, who’s the same age as Desmond.”

“So,” said Lerner, addressing the kids, “how’d you like to be on TV?”

Four sets of eyes lit up, then Desmond spoke. “What do we have to do?”

“Be yourselves and represent CBATs.”

“Do we get to play on TV?” asked La Quita.

“You may get to demonstrate a throw or a swing. But for the most part you’ll be telling the world why you play for CBATs, and what the experience is like. Sound good?”

All of them nodded.

“Any questions?” asked Lerner.

“Can my cousins watch?” Miguel wondered aloud.

“Hopefully everybody we know’ll be watching,” stated Edgar.

“And a lot of people we don’t know as well,” added Lerner.

Aware that it was unlikely the CBATs kids had ever ventured out of their own community, meaning that a television studio, even a small one used for local TV, would be as familiar to them as Venus, Mars or the moon, Lerner was not surprised that he had trouble sleeping that Friday night.

Though he had gone twice through a checklist with Edgar — about parental approval, that the kids would be in uniform and bring their gloves, and that departure from Gonzalez Park would the park at 9AM — to which Edgar joked, “And I promise no CPT” — Lerner kept wondering what, if anything, he might have missed. And what could possibly go wrong.

Fortunately, when he arrived at Gonzalez Park in a borrowed van on Saturday morning, everyone was assembled. “Want to give the pep talk?” Lerner asked as Edgar greeted him. “Or shall I?”

“I’ll do it,” Edgar replied as he led Lerner toward where the kids and their families waited.

Facing the group, EJ studied them for a moment, then spoke. “What Mr. Lerner has set up is potentially great not just for all of you, but for everybody in our programs. With me?”

Parents and kids all voiced their agreement.

“Bet you never thought you’d get to be on TV, huh?” EJ continued, eliciting more affirmatives from the crowd. “But doing something great also is a responsibility. You kids’ll be representing your families, your schools, Jackie Robinson Stadium, Gonzalez Park, and our entire community. Know what that means?”

“We gotta behave?” offered seven-year-old Lamar.

“Damn right, you gotta behave,” stated Edgar. “It’s an opportunity for us to show the world not just who we are, but also what we are. And what we are is CBATs, right?”

“Yes!” said the kids as one.

Pleased, Edgar turned to Lerner. “Anything I forgot?”

“What they’re likely to find there.”

“Yeah,” Edgar said with a wry smile. “What Mr. Lerner’s saying is that chances are nobody at that TV studio — and I mean not a single soul — is gonna look like you kids, or like me. Read me?”

Though Lerner tried to keep from wincing, the message was received by the kids and their families loud and clear.

“So make me, and your teammates, and your families, and the whole community proud,” EJ continued. “And above all, make yourselves proud.”

During the trip across town, Lerner could feel the tension increasing exponentially the farther and farther they ventured from Compton.

By the time they reached East Hollywood, it was not just the kids, but Edgar Jones as well, whose jitteriness was reaching a level of high anxiety.

As Lerner anticipated, not a single person they spotted upon entering the facility was black, Latino, Asian, or any race other than white, which ratcheted up the uneasiness even further.

Fearing that his plans would backfire, Lerner flirted momentarily with pulling the plug. But everything took an unexpected turn when he, Edgar, and and their charges were led into what passed for a green room, where two rappers in their early twenties were waiting impatiently. The taller one, was heavily tatted and bedecked in chains and assorted bling. The other, short and stocky, sported a baggy shirt and pants, over-sized sunglasses, and a red doo-rag. Not surprisingly, both were copping heavy attitudes of the fuck-you variety.

Immediately, the nervousness felt by the CBATs kids gave way to something entirely different. Led by nine-year-old Desmond, they moved in on the two rappers. “Where you from?” asked Desmond with an aggressiveness that surprised Lerner.

“The ‘hood, motherfucker,” snarled the guy wearing chains.

“What ‘hood?” demanded La Quita, equally pugnacious.

“Compton,” replied the one in the doo-rag.

Lerner made a move to intervene, but was stopped by Edgar Jones. “Let it go,” he whispered as Desmond pointed a finger at the rappers.

“You ain’t from no Compton,” stated Desmond in no uncertain terms.

“Says who?” demanded the guy in chains.

“Says me!” stated little Lamar, who promptly turned to Miguel. “These punk-ass motherfuckers look Compton to you?”

“Whoa, little bro!” warned the rapper with the doo-rag.

“I ain’t no bro of yours!” Lamar snapped.

“Compton, my ass!” hissed Miguel.

With a flair, Desmond pulled out his iPhone. “Know what I’m gonna do?” he said. “I’m gonna call my brother Butchie.”

“And I’ll call my cousin Willie,” added La Quita, taking out her phone.

“You keep lying about being Compton, they’re gonna come here and cut your punk asses,” added little Lamar.

Once more, Lerner stepped forward to intervene, but was stopped by Edgar.

Starting to sweat, the two rappers exchange worried looks.

“We ain’t really from Compton,” the guy in the doo-rag suddenly acknowledged ever so softly.

“So where’s this so-called ‘hood of yours?” demanded Miguel.”

“Granada Hills,” the embarrassed tatted rapper admitted.

As the victorious CBATs kids burst into laughter, Edgar turned to Lerner. “Now they’re ready to go on-camera,” he whispered.

To Lerner’s delight, the kids proved to be cute, sweet, and, despite the toughness they displayed with the rappers, wonderfully cute once their TV moment began taping.

A substantial amount of much needed funding was raised not just the first time the segment aired, but also a week later when it was rerun.

That was incredibly gratifying for Lerner, who deflected the praise he received, choosing instead to give all the credit to Edgar Jones and his young players.

Originally published in Jab around 2015.