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The Adventures of Wee Coyle: Chapter III Prologue In 1954, early in the year of my second grade in school, my mother Rosanne Coyle Lomen and my brother Terry and I moved from Kirkland across Lake Washington to Seattle. We arrived without my dad Jerry, who disappeared from our lives, never again to appear except by rumor. Suddenly within days, the three of us were living in a large three-story northwest box house on Capitol Hill at 1412 E. Aloha, with my mother’s parents Minnie Dalby Coyle and my “larger than life” grandfather William Jennings “Wee” Coyle and his stray cat, Civic, a brown tabby. As our grandmother, whom we called Mimi, showed us our giant bedrooms on the third floor, her gentle voice calmed the confusion of the unsettling changes that had occurred during the past week. Then when Wee said to Terry and me, “As soon as you boys get unpacked come on downstairs and I’ll teach you how to play blackjack,” our new house began to feel like a home. Everybody called my grandfather Wee, from his own daughters to strangers who would introduce themselves to him on the downtown streets of Seattle. He would politely shake the newcomer’s hand, introduce his two grandsons and then listen patiently as the person would explain how he knew Wee Coyle. My brother and I would stand there on the sidewalk listening to stories about a specific football game, a political event, or an occurrence at the Civic Center, and we could see the joy in the person’s recollection. After they shook hands again, we would be on our way to the Washington Athletic Club or to visit Henry Broderick or Joe Gottstein. After a moment we would ask, “Wee, who was that man?” Wee always had two answers: Joe Bush or Harry Williams. After a while we realized that everyone we met had those two same names and when we asked why, he would say, “Boys, I’ve met so many people in my life I can’t remember them all.” As our walks with our grandfather continued around the city, we would ask him, after meeting another one of his admirers, “Was that Harry Williams?” He would look thoughtful for a moment and then say, “No, I believe that was Joe Bush.” Terry and I would laugh as we neared the Pike Place Market or Pioneer Square. The main point being that a lot of people knew who he was and he never walked past one of them who wanted to talk. (Click here to read Chapter II) Chapter III During the Spring of 1902, the Coyle family of Bill and Mary Kate and their sons Frank and Willie, better known as Wee, are still living at 400-1/2 Broadway on Seattle’s First Hill. The reason for the ½ designation in their address is because the Coyle house is situated in the center of the lot behind 400 Broadway and 402 Broadway, which both face wooden sidewalks and the dirt thoroughfare of Broadway Avenue. In the back southeast portion of the lot, at 910 Terrace Street, is another house bordering the alley that ran north to the end of the block at Jefferson Street. Also behind the Coyle house, on the alley, is the shed that houses the wagons and bags that the Seattle Times paperboys use for their paper routes in the First Hill neighborhood. Wee still has his route but is going to give it up at the end of summer to start his bicycle delivery service. He has saved enough for his new Schwinn Roadster but wants to save some more money by working through the summer. He already has the local Drug Store at 618 Broadway, near the corner of Broadway and Cherry, the Madison Market, T.L. Irving’s Shoe Store and the Broadway Butcher Shop at 620 Broadway as clients. Also he is working on adding the Broadway Bakery, which is located at 514-1/2 Broadway in the alley bordered by Broadway and 10th Avenue running north and south and James and Jefferson to the east and west. The idea for his delivery service is that immediately after school he will bicycle to his various clients and deliver small orders to anyone within the First Hill neighborhood, which is loosely defined as: Pike Street to the north, 12th Avenue to the east, Yesler to the south and Seventh Avenue to the west. Wee could see himself poaching a little north of Pike onto Capitol Hill but he would have to be careful about getting too far away from his base and slowing down his deliveries. Directly across Broadway from the Coyle’s block is a building that looks like a Victorian mansion except for the four large ten-foot doors and the thirty-foot tower attached to the south side of the building. In fact, it is a Seattle Fire Station built in 1890 and identified as Chemical Engine House #2. Located on the northwest corner of the Broadway Avenue & Terrace Street intersection, the station houses 3 firemen and a two-horse drawn vehicle identified as an 1890 Holloway Wagon that carries two 50 Gallon Soda-Acid Chemical Tanks. Frank and Wee like to visit the station, talk to the fire fighters, and brush the coats of the two horses, Siwash, brown with white legs, and Chinook, a gentle solid-white horse. William John Coyle has the oldest machinist union card in the State of Washington, issued to him in 1876 in California, and there was never a delinquency in dues for 44 years. His shop is located on Second Avenue just north of Yesler street, and his latest project has been making parts for a new bridge being built over the stream running through Fremont. His shop is in the core of the city, the five blocks either side of Yesler, between 1st and 2nd Avenues that are flourishing in Seattle’s rejuvenated downtown following the Seattle Fire of 1889. It is a bustling area filled with stores that sell groceries, baked goods, fresh meat and fish, and businesses such as furniture manufacturers, cabinet makers, dressmakers, and laundries. In June of 1902, Pacific School, at 1114 Jefferson, is home to over seven hundred students. With only a couple of weeks left in the school year, Wee and his pals are staring out of the second floor of that two-story brick building and are thinking about nothing but playing baseball. They have been watching the Seattle High School nine practicing and playing games on the Y.M.C.A. field down Jefferson Street on 14th Avenue, and they dream of when they will be wearing uniforms with S.H.S. on their chests. Finally, the Summer of 1902 officially begins with end the of sixth grade for the neighborhood boys: Wee, Charlie Mullen, Penny Westover, Charlie Schmutz, Ten Million, Fred Hickingbottom, Virgil Belford, Eugene Beebe, Roy Bell, Mert Hemingway, Harry Martin, Bill Lewis, Lad Kittinger and James “Toots” Agnew. Most of these boys will form the nucleus of the 1907 Seattle High School team that travelled the country the summer of 1907 to promote Seattle’s Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exhibition. The sun is shining; they’ve scrounged up some baseballs and are ready to start their daily ritual of all-day marathon baseball.
Since it's the nearest place to play, Y.M.C.A. Field is usually taken up by the Clamdiggers, the local “B Class” team from the Pacific Northwest Baseball League, or with bigger boys. Wee and his friends usually play work-up on a vacant lot just down the street. If they have a bunch of guys, they choose up teams. The owner of the vacant lot, Mr. Garrett, a crotchety old man who sits in his back yard and watches the boys play, usually has something negative to say if a baseball lands on his finely manicured yard. When Wee had asked the old gentleman if they could play in his lot, he frowned and said, “Let me think about it. Come back tomorrow.” Not very optimistic about getting approval from Mr. Garrett, Wee sleuthed out a couple of other sites, but they all were farther away and not as big. When he goes back to see Mr. Garrett, Wee shows up carrying a brown paper containing freshly baked sweet rolls from the bakery down the alley from his home. Mr. Garrett, a skinny, bald-headed man who is always wearing a sweater, frowned at Wee and said, “I guess it’s OK to use my lot for your baseball, but if it gets too loud I’ll have to think twice.” Wee nodded as if he understood perfectly. How are we supposed to play ball without being noisy? Then the old man, who could smell the aroma of freshly baked goods, looked down at the bag Wee was holding. Having forgotten Wee’s name, he narrowed his eyes and said, “What have you got there, sonny?” Wee held up the bag. “They’re for you, sir, if you want some.” The old man nodded knowingly. “A bribe,” he said without humor. “Uh,” began Wee as Mr. Garrett took the bag and peered inside. After he examined the contents, he rolled up the bag and said, “OK, I’ll keep ‘em but that’s not the reason I’m letting you use my lot.” Not quite sure what to say Wee finally nodded and said, “Well, OK, we’ll see you tomorrow, sir, and thank you.” The old man nodded then walked into his house and shut the door with a loud thud. I wonder why he is letting us use his lot? Wee headed down Mr. Garrett’s sidewalk and glanced back, catching a glimpse of a moving curtain in the front window. Maybe he’s just lonely. During the summer, Wee has a noticeable growth spurt, growing from 4-foot-10 to 5-feet-2; he is taller than his mother, who stands 4-feet-11. He has taught himself to switch hit like his Seattle Clamdigger hero George Darymple, who is the team’s centerfielder. Wee likes to play every position except catcher because he got smacked in the mouth with a foul ball once. Mert Hemingway, who loves to catch, has his own face mask, but Wee knows full-well that there are other spots that can get whacked besides his mouth, and they hurt a lot more. Sometimes Wee plays with older boys whom he knows from his paper route. They like his scrappy way of playing, as he dives for balls in the dirt and always tries to take the extra base on a ball hit through the gap. In 1898, an itinerant minor league baseball player named Daniel Dugdale arrived in town, expecting to follow the Klondike Gold Rush fever to Alaska. Instead he followed his love for baseball and, while working as a grip man on Seattle’s early cable cars, he became wealthy investing in local real estate. Using that money, he established and owned teams such as the Klondikers, Rainmakers and Chinooks. This led to building a couple of stadiums which he rightly named after himself, to be followed by organizing the Class B Pacific Northwest League that included teams such as: The Portland Webfoots, Spokane Smoke Eaters and the conventionally named, Tacoma Tigers. In 1902 Wee and his pals would circle Y.M.C.A. Park, between 12th and 14th Avenues at Yesler, foraging for foul balls, and then sneak into the games to watch their Clamdigger heroes: Billy Hulen, Jack Drennan, Jesse Stovall, Jack Hickey, and George Darymple. One day as Wee and his pals are playing on Mr. Garrett’s lot, a black boy about the boys’ ages shows up and begins watching. A couple of times the ball gets loose and the boy picks it up and throws the ball back to the pitcher. The way he throws indicates he has played baseball. Finally Wee, who is playing shortstop for the time being, says, “Do you want to play?”
“OK,” said Wee, “since you’re a new player, you have to start out in right field and work your way up. You know how to play work-up, don’t you?” “Yup,” the boy said, and he jogged into right field. “What’s your name?” called Wee. “William,” said the boy. “That’s my name too,” said Wee with a smile. “Do you want us to call you Willie?” The boy reached right field and took his position. “Nope,” he answered. “My dad told me my name is William and that’s what people should call me. He said if he wanted a son named Willie he would have named me Willie.” As part of the work-up rotation, Wee never ended up batting with William, but he could see that Charlie Mullen and Fred Hickingbottom talked with William when they were waiting to bat, so at least those guys were getting along with their new chum. Finally after getting a few hits and catching most of the balls that went to him, William said, “I’ve got to go home; thanks for letting me play.” Play stopped for a moment as he waved and jogged across the field toward twelfth Avenue. “OK,” Wee called,” come back if you want to play again; we’re here just about every day.” A couple of the other boys called, “See you, William.” A little later and knowing it was time to head up to the paper shed, Wee turned to Fred Hickingbottom and Charlie Mullen and said, “See you tomorrow.” Then, as he turned to leave, he stopped and said. “What did you think of William?” Fred, whose hair was as dark as Wee’s but was four inches taller, scratched his head and said. “He seems OK; he’s a good player.” Charlie Mullen said, “Yah, he said, he plays with some guys up on 18th and Union. He’s a good player.” Fred chuckled and said, “He said he saw us playing here one day when he and his father drove by in their car.” That got all the boys' attention. “His father’s got a car?” exclaimed Ten Million, another dark-haired boy who was just a little taller than Wee. “Impossible,” one of the boys said. Fred shook his head. “That’s what I said, and he told me it’s a green Packard Model G that carries four people.” “No way, “ said Mert Hemingway, the only one of the boys who actually liked to play catcher. “You know why I don’t believe it?” All the boys looked at him, knowing he was an authority on automobiles, or acted like one. Mert paused a moment then continued. “Who ever heard of a green Packard? Anyone with any sense knows they only come in black.” They all looked at Fred Hickingbottom, who shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what I said, too, but William said his dad paid extra when he ordered it because green is his favorite color. He had to wait longer, too, but his dad said it was worth it to have a car painted a color no one else in Seattle had. “No kidding?” said Toots Agnew. “Maybe his father will give us a ride.” All the boys looked at Wee as if he could confirm what William had said, even though the two of them had never really had a conversation. Something sparked his memory, and he looked up east toward the ridge on Cherry Hill. “Wait a minute,” he said. He looked back at his pals. “A couple of Sundays ago when I was delivering the early morning edition, I was walking down James Street and a green Packard shot past me like a bat out of hell and a black man was driving it. It was still dark and I forgot about it because there was no one else around, but…….” His voice trailed off as he and the boys traded glances. As Wee is heading to the paper shack, Mr. Garrett calls to him. “Sonny, come here.” Wee knows he has to get going on his route but he headed toward the old man who is leaning on his white picket fence. Wee approaches and says, “Yes, sir.” Mr. Garrett gestured toward Cherry Hill and said, “What do you think you’re doing with that nigra boy on my property?” Wee is momentarily confused, not having heard the word nigra spoken to him before. However, he instinctively knows it’s intent. “He’s not a nigra, his name is William,” says Wee. “I don’t care what his name is," squawked Mr. Garrett, “this is my property and nigras aren’t allowed on my property. You can’t play here if you’ve got nigras playing with you. They belong up in the Central District; there’s plenty of fields up there for them to play on without coming down into the white neighborhood.” Knowing he had to leave because of his paper route and knowing he shouldn’t argue with an adult, Wee bit his lip and said, “Yes, sir.” That evening Garrett showed up at the Coyle house during dinner, and Wee’s dad answered the door. Wee recognized Mr. Garrett’s voice, and a little later, Bill Coyle came back to the dinner table and sat down. As Wee looked down at his dinner, he could feel his father’s eyes on him. Finally he looked up and Bill Coyle had a serious look on his face. “Mr. Garrett tells me you have a new friend,” said his father. Not sure what is going on, Mary Kate and Frank are glancing back and forth between Bill Coyle and Wee. “Yes, sir,” said Wee. “Mr. Garrett called him a nigra but his name’s William, like you and me.” Hearing his mother take in a short breath, Wee wasn’t sure if it was because he had used the word nigra or if she was surprised at his direct language with his father. His father nodded with a slight smile. “It’s OK to use the word William in this house but not the word nigra.” Wee breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Mr. Garrett is from a different part of the country where they call people uncomplimentary names and they treat them differently,” said his father. “In our house we call people by their given name and everyone is treated with respect.” Bill Coyle stared at his youngest son and said, “The way you have.” “Yes, sir,” Wee replied. Bill Coyle took the serving spoon out of the bowl of mashed potatoes and said, “But it sounds like you boys are going to have to find a new field to play on.” Wee thinks about it and nods. “That shouldn’t be too hard, should it,” said his father. After a moment Wee looked at his father, smiled slightly and said, “No, sir.” Wee and his friends, including William, find another vacant lot to play on. It’s a little farther away, with a vacant house in one corner of the lot, but nobody seemed to care if they played on it. The day after his conversations with Bill Coyle and his son, Mr. Garrett sat in his back yard, expecting the boys to show up to play ball, but they never came and they didn’t come the next day or the day after or the day after that. He looked around his finely manicured lawn without really seeing it, then looked out at the dry and dusty vacant lot. It was very quiet, with no boys on it laughing or calling for the ball or swinging in frustration at a missed pitch. He continued staring at his dusty property, with no "nigras" playing on it, nor white boys either. Nice and peaceful……… and lonely for an old man. A week later, William invites Wee and his pals to play at his field at 18th Avenue and Union, the site of T.T. Minor Elementary School, where William goes to school. Wee and Charlie Mullen are the only ones who can go -- or who show up -- and each of them are carrying a baseball as they ride the streetcar up Madison Street. After the car turns up Union, they can see the large school on their left and they get off on 17th Avenue. At first Wee is a little disoriented being around only black boys, and he can’t remember all of their names, but once they start playing work-up, they all settle into a relaxed camaraderie. It’s a nice summer day, and the sound of the crack of the bat, baseballs smacking into bare hands, denim covered legs sliding into the dirt, and general baseball chatter fill the air. After a while the boys all take a break on the west side of the two story building. They peek into the windows and are glad they are playing outside on a day like this and not inside studying. Charlie Mullen looked up toward the roof of the school. “Hey, William,” he said craning his neck, “do they ever ring that bell up in the belfry?” William followed Charlie’s gaze, and the other boys gained their feet and looked up, too. William was aware of the large architectural detail perched on the roof’s peak, which was thirty feet high, but he had no idea why it was on top of the school or if there was a bell or if it ever rang for that matter. His mind raced. “My father said that it used to work but it got damaged during the earthquake.” All of the boys stared at William who was nodding with conviction. “The earthquake,” a few of them echoed. “That’s right” said William, “it was before we were all born, and my father said it knocked down some buildings but nobody got killed.” The boys continued staring at William, then all looked back up at the roof before playing ball again. After about an hour, a 1902 green Packard Model G pulls up, and an enormous black man gets out, the car rocking back and forth due to his emptying weight. Wee, who is playing second base, hears William next to him at shortstop say, “Oh, oh.” Wee isn’t sure what’s going on. At first he thought the man stopped to watch the boys play ball, but then he realizes the boys have stopped playing and are watching the large man. Over at first base, Wee heard Charlie Mullen, who was standing on the bag, ask Fred the tall lanky first baseman. “Who’s that man?” Fred swallowed and said, “That’s William’s dad; he sold my daddy a lot, and then he loaned him the money to build a house.” The big man, who was at least 6’ 6’ tall and maybe 260 pounds, seemed to block out the sky as he walked to the where the pitcher, a boy named Clifford, was standing. “Give me the ball, boy,” he ordered in a surprisingly mild voice. Not concerned with the tone of the man’s voice but aware of its intent, Clifford immediately handed Wee’s scuffed Clamdigger souvenir to the man, then stepped back. The big man turned toward the fielders and said, “Whose ball is this?” Wee raised his hand. “Mine, sir.” The man tossed the ball to Wee, who caught it. “This is my land, and over there,” he continued, gesturing to the West and First Hill, “is where you two boys belong.” He turned his gaze to Charlie Mullen, who was ready to head home in a dead sprint, but the five-foot-two-inch Wee stood his ground. “Sir, we just wanted to play baseball with William and his friends,” said Wee. The man stared at Wee and said, “The way it is now is that William and his friends are going to play ball in their neighborhood and you boys should play baseball in your neighborhood, otherwise it could mean 'bad news' for black folk.” Not really understanding what the big man meant, Wee knew he wasn’t going to win this argument. “OK, sir,” he said. Wee thought he might have seen some softening in the big man’s demeanor for the moment, then the man asked, “Where did you learn to call men sir?” “Sir, my parents taught me to call all adults sir and ma’am, sir.” Wee grimaced knowing he was talking too much and probably sounded like an idiot. A ghost of a smile passed over the big man’s face, then he was gone. “You’re a good little boy but I think you’re a few years ahead of your time.” Again Wee wasn’t sure what the big man meant, and even though he didn’t really feel threatened, he knew who was the boss, knowing it is time to head home. “Let’s go,” Charlie whispered next to him. Wee glanced at his friend and then looked back up to the big man. “Yes, sir.” Finally Wee looked at William, who was still standing at shortstop and said, “Goodbye William.” Then the boys turned and trudged back toward Union Street. “What’s your name, little boy?,” called the big man. The boys continued walking, as Wee turned around, walking backwards and saying, “William Coyle, but everyone calls me Wee.” At that the big man had to laugh. “Wee Coyle,” he mused. “You’re probably going to want to change that when you get older.” (*) [See the background information below.] January 1, 1907, Madison Park Field, Seattle, Washington. Stakes: National High School Football. Score: Seattle High School, 5, North Division High School, Chicago, 6; Time Left: Forty-eight seconds Immediately after his twenty-eight yard run, Wee Coyle had pushed and cajoled his men through the mud and into the huddle, telling them not to waste time by responding to the Chicago team’s threats and insults. Referee Best’s whistle had stopped the clock for a moment -- but only until he and his crew could get the two teams separated and silenced. Wee noted their opponents bunching around together and not paying attention to their positioning. He glanced at the referee. “How much time?” he asked coolly. “Forty-eight seconds, son.” As Wee called signals, the team was dumfounded by the call, for in their minds, there was no way Wee’s plan would work. But when he called the play, neither hesitation on his part nor doubt written in his voice signaled failure. They all knew the clock was running and couldn’t be stopped. The Seattle High School eleven was 50 yards away from pay dirt and down 6 – 5, with their chances for winning the National Championship on the line. As Wee scanned the defensive alignment, he noticed that the left safety Scholes had bunched up with the linebackers, most likely anticipating a buck up the middle from one of the Seattle backs. An opening. Wee felt a gust of wind at his back, scything in off Lake Washington and between the Madison Park grandstands. Perfect. Wee took the snap, dropped back seven yards and slid a couple of steps to his right as the North Division Wolves strained to collapse his line’s protection. With the ball cradled in his palm, he balanced himself and cocked his right arm. Without looking, he could sense Lefty Burke cutting diagonally across the field from his left-end position. Eighteen yards down field, Burke was running like a sprinting wraith, stealing behind the Chicago team and into the open on the dead run. Stepping forward and knowing the consequences of an incomplete pass (fifteen penalty yards from the point of the pass), Wee launched the water-soaked leather downfield. Burke, also aware of the consequences of catching a pass more than twenty yards downfield (another fifteen-yard penalty) caught the ball in full stride and slipped momentarily as he changed direction at the sideline. Coach Frost was directly in front of him and his voice was barely audible over the roar of the crowd, but his wind-milling arms left no doubt as to his intent. “Run!” he screamed, gesturing downfield. Lefty gained traction and lit out for the goal line, thirty yards away. (#) [See the rules for passing below.] ------------------ (*) Background: Born in 1835 in Washington D.C. William Grose was a black pioneer of Seattle. He was the city’s second black resident and the wealthiest nineteenth-century member of Seattle’s black community. His former ranch on the outskirts of town, just south of East Madison Street between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-seventh Avenues, eventually became the center of Seattle’s black middle class. Bought from Henry Yesler for $1000, Grose paid for the land with gold coin. He gradually sold off house lots to other successful blacks in Seattle's small community, and this area became the northern anchor of what eventually became Seattle’s Central District. At eighteen he had enlisted in the U.S. Navy and travelled the seas as a ship’s steward. After being honorably discharged, he made his way to Seattle in 1861 where he quickly found work as a cook. At the time, Seattle was a small village of 300 people, and the primary source of employment was Henry Yesler's sawmill. When Grose arrived in Seattle, he was followed shortly after by his wife, Sarah, and two children. Sarah Grose and their daughter Rebecca were Seattle's first female black residents. In 1876 Grose opened a restaurant and hotel on Yesler Way called "Our House,” which was popular with Seattle's largely white population, and he later added a barbershop. Grose's hotel provided lodging for many of Seattle's earliest black residents, who arrived as transient laborers in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Grose was a very impressive person, standing 6-foot-4 and weighing over 400 pounds; he was well-known as a generous man who extended credit and friendship to those in need. He was a Mason and along with his son, George H. Grose, was one of the founders of the AME Church in Seattle. Known as a reliable supporter of the black community, he was a friendly and respected neighbor in pioneer Seattle. He traveled to distant shores, was a good family man, settled in Seattle and became a successful businessman and landowner. Grose died on July 27, 1898 and is buried in Lake View Cemetery on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Author’s note: Although the man with whom Wee and Charlie had the “run in“ with during the summer of 1902 sounds like he could have been William Grose, Mr. Grose in fact had already passed on four years earlier. ---- (#) Rules for passing: Consequences of the forward pass in the 1906-1907 season: 1. A pass can only be attempted within five yards to the right or left of center, 2. A fifteen-yard penalty from the point of the pass attempt if there is an incompletion, 3. A pass cannot be completed more than twenty yards past the line of scrimmage. For the football rules in 1907, click on Wikipedia. Also, click on this link. (Click here to read Chapter IV) Will Lomen can be reached at malamute@4malamute.com |
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