From the majors to Little League, baseball is losing African-Americans. It might be that the sport is no longer cool, or it could be marketing. Whatever the cause, a tradition of great players seems to be dying.
By EMILY NIPPS
Published October 5, 2003
Some people say the problem is marketing. Or is it cultural differences? Maybe it's simply the speed of the game. The bottom line can't be ignored: Fewer African-Americans are playing baseball.
The number of American-born black players in Major League Baseball is at its lowest ebb since 1968, according to a study led by the University of Central Florida's Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport. The percentage of black players has fallen from 19 percent to 10 percent in the last seven years.
While NCAA Division I college baseball rosters saw an increase in black players during the 2000-2001 academic year, it can be measured in terms of going from hardly any to very few. The latest number is 6.7 percent black players, up from 2.8 the year before. More than 80 percent of Division I college players are white.
Locally there is evidence of the disconnection at lower levels. St. Petersburg's Thunderdome Little League, which drew from neighborhoods with many black families, folded in January due to low participation and lack of support. Tampa's Belmont Heights Little League, one of the nation's most famous inner-city leagues, which advanced to six World Series in the 1970s and '80s and developed players such as Doc Gooden, Gary Sheffield and Derek Bell, has also taken a hit. Last season, the league had about 300 players, half of what it had about 25 years ago.
"We poured a lot of money into it and tried to keep the tradition going, but it just didn't go right," Sheffield said. "It's pretty much a dead issue as far as keeping the tradition going."
It's not that the vanishing fan and player base has gone unnoticed. In 1989 MLB launched Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities (RBI), a development program for ages 13-18. Nor does the problem strike anyone within organized baseball - major league, prep or youth - as a new or shocking phenomenon.
J.J. Pizzio, a 10-year prep coach who left mostly white Seminole Presbyterian (now Cambridge School) to become an assistant at historically black Middleton, coaches one of the most racially diverse teams in Hillsborough County. He said the reasons most racially balanced high schools feature teams with few or no black players is obvious: There are few black coaches.
"Culturally and diversity-wise, the average (black) teenager just seems to relate better with an African-American coach," said Pizzio, who is white. "It's just like how a white kid in an all-black class will never raise his hand. A black kid in an all-white class won't raise his hand, but he will if the class has a black teacher."
Of the 57 varsity baseball teams in Hillsborough and Pinellas counties, there are three black head coaches (Larry Doby Johnson of Middleton, Alan Mills of Blake and Darnell Coles of Countryside). Of 16 high schools on the North Suncoast, Pasco's Ricky Giles is the only black baseball coach.
Giles is accustomed to going entire seasons without shaking hands with another black head coach. This year, he did not have a single black player on his team.
"They put a lot of focus into basketball and football," he said. "A lot of young kids took an initiative that they wanted to play football. They don't want to play baseball. I don't know. It's just one of those things."
While Giles is aware of the absence of black coaches, he doesn't believe that should be blamed for low participation among today's black players. He said he never had a black coach and grew up playing stickball in his neighborhood.
"The only coaches I had were white coaches," he said. "I don't think color really means anything. To me, it never did. I played the game because I love it."
Sheffield said baseball's marketing is part of the problem.
A young black athlete is unlikely to be attracted to a sport where the promotion of black superstars is virtually nil, he said. There is no Michael Jordan or Warren Sapp of baseball.
"They (MLB marketing officials) don't promote blacks the right way," Sheffield said. "Half of the fans don't even know who we are. Because all they hear is Derek Jeter and A-Rod and Sammy Sosa and none of them are really black. (Jeter's mother is white, Alex Rodriguez is Hispanic and Sosa is Dominican.)"
Elijah Dukes, who is black, had choices growing up. He played for the Yellow Jackets, North Seminole and Belmont Heights Little Leagues. He played football at Hillsborough High. He was offered a football scholarship to North Carolina and was a third-round draft pick of the Devil Rays in 2002.
Now an outfielder in the Rays' farm system, he has his own theories. He remembers the lack of interest and support at the inner city parks: by parents, not players.
"For one, it's a money issue," Dukes said. "For some families, $65 to play Little League is a sacrifice. And nowadays, you mostly see a lot of kids playing games without their parents there."
It was a contrast to the atmosphere when he played football with the Boys & Girls Club.
"Football was different," he said. "Parents all want their kids to grow up to be football players, so they liked to watch."
That kind of scene was common among local inner-city Little Leagues 20 to 30 years ago, when baseball was a neighborhood staple and kids received more attention.
"We had what you call a village back in the day," said Belmont Heights Little League President Annette Jenkins, who is black. "We had these older guys running the park, and they were strict and talked the game. They walked the walk and talked the talk.
"Back then, everybody looked after everybody else's kids. If you did something wrong, you got whupped by five or six people before your mama got to whup you."
Jenkins said she has offered to pay Belmont Heights' $65 fee, which is on the low end of most area leagues, to attract players whose parents can't afford it. But it is a struggle to get the parents to work the concession stands or even stick around for practices.
"A lot of them drop the kids off and go about their business," Jenkins said. "We've got a lot of kids that come from single-parent homes, and their parents are too tired to deal with it."
The city recently approved plans to build a Belmont Heights community center near the Little League park, which Jenkins hopes will connect more adults with neighborhood children. Perhaps in doing so, it will revive the league participation.
That barely touches the nationwide issue of a noticeable void in an American pasttime. John Young, who is black, is a former major league scout who founded the RBI program. He said the awareness of the disappearing black player is out there, and that's where improvement will start.
"That's the most important thing: to make people aware of the problem," Young said. "The major thing is what I like to call the pied pipers. They are the people in the community that kids gravitate to. In my time, those people were players, black players.
"Kids like to see people who look like them. Look at the impact African-Americans have made in basketball, and now you see kids moving toward basketball. And the game is marketed so well. ... The NBA is FANtasic, and everyone wants to Be Like Mike. They've marketed the game. That's where baseball needs to do a better job."
Rick Vaughn, the Devil Rays vice president of media relations, cited initiatives such as the RBI program, a broadcasting internship, Monte Irvin Day and a Career Initiative program as ways the Rays are trying to attract African-American fans. Free tickets are distributed into the community, which includes the largely black neighborhoods surrounding Tropicana Field.
He was not aware, however, of any marketing programs specifically targeting African-Americans.
Perhaps programs such as RBI and free-ticket promotions aren't enough to make a difference. Perhaps a child can be led to the baseball but it isn't compelling enough.
In Karl Leslie's case, baseball doesn't even register. The 17-year-old Blake student plays football and basketball, but has never played baseball. Nor has he ever been to a baseball game or watched one on TV.
"It's slow, and it's not interesting to me," Leslie, who is black, said. "In football, there's always a lot of action and hitting, and basketball is an activity I can do at home. With baseball, you need bats and gloves and a lot of people."
No one in Leslie's family is a baseball fan, but he has caught glimpses of highlights on ESPN. When asked to name every African-American pro baseball player he could think of, he struggled.
"Barry Bonds . . . Ken Griffey Jr. . . .," Leslie said. He smiled, a little bit embarrassed. "I think that's about it."
ELIJAH DUKES
A Tampa native now in the Devil Rays' minor league system, Dukes says he was fortunate to find adult support at a critical age. Some of his Little League and RBI mentors introduced him to the Yankees, who train in Tampa, as a 12-year-old.
"It was just by the grace of God that I got sponsored by the Yankees," said Dukes, whose favorite player growing up was Derek Jeter. "I never even knew the Yankees came to Florida, and soon I was hanging out with them, hitting with them, throwing with them."
Despite his love of the game, he knows many people consider it dull.
"Some of my friends who don't play think baseball is boring," he said. "It's like, if you don't know the game, it's hard to like it. In football, there's always someone getting hit, scoring a touchdown.
"Baseball, you need patience. You can get up and go get some popcorn and come back and you missed the game's only home run."
ANNETTE JENKINS
Raised in Tampa's Belmont Heights, where she fell in love with playing softball, Jenkins felt compelled to take over as president in 2001 when she heard the Little League was about to disband.
It opened her eyes to a deeper problem: The community's passion and interest for a once-famous league was waning. Only half as many kids belong to the league as did 20 years before and getting parents involved was an undertaking.
Jenkins acknowledges that basketball leagues and other activities have attracted some of the young would-be baseball players, but believes children still love the game of baseball. Finding the right mentors though, is a challenge.
"All it takes is organization, but I've lost a lot of the cooperation it takes to run this park," she said. "There's so much to running a Little League ballpark."
She sees hope. The city plans to build a community center near the fields, which she hopes will attract children, parents and volunteers. Perhaps then Belmont Heights can begin rebuilding its baseball history.
