Jack Madison (eBook)

Chapter 1

It is an early summer morning in Southern Illinois, where the sun shines down on a new baseball field. The smell of newly mowed grass follows a gentle breeze. A young boy with blond curly hair and an older man lay motionless in the outfield grass.

“Pa, do you think I will ever be as good a baseball player as you were?”

The older man repositions himself to face his grandson. “If you work hard, listen to your coaches and love the game like I did, Andrew, you sure will be.”

“I hope so! You were the best!”

“Well, fun’s over.” Pa says. “We should be heading home so you can change into your uniform for today’s special game. Your grandmother is probably wondering where we are.”

Andrew jumps up and begins running toward the parking lot. “Race you to the truck” Andrew shouts over his shoulder.

Pa follows suit, catches Andrew, but slows to assure Andrew wins the race.

A tarpaulin is covering what appears to be a large statue that sits directly behind the back stop of the ballpark in front of home plate.

Andrew pauses just a moment as he runs past the statue, “I touched the statue for good luck Pa.”

The same way thousands of baseball players of all ages would also touch the statue for good luck, year after year.

My name is Jack Madison.

I was born and raised in Fairmont, Illinois, a small farming community of 10,000 residents located in the southern part of the state in the center of huge deposits of oil and coal. I remember as a young boy there was an oil derrick in my grandparent’s backyard sitting fenced in the middle of their vegetable garden next to the one car garage where my grandfather kept his always new Ford coupe. I was forever scheming to secretly enter the fenced area and mount the moving end of the derrick and ride it like a rodeo bull rider as it pumped black gold into a holding tank. Fortunately for me, the event remained a fantasy.

You probably have never heard of Fairmont. It is like most small towns in Southern Illinois. Families have lived there for generations enjoying a peaceful life where nothing of any consequence normally happens; however, their small-town life was shattered on March 25, 1947 when an explosion at the Fairmont Coal Mine Company destroyed the town’s major employer killing 111 people.

On that fateful day, the explosion ripped through Mine #5 as the night shift stood waiting to enter the mine for another night’s work. In those days, mine safety was not paramount to the owners of mines or the workers. The country had survived a depression and the Second World War. Work was precious, especially in a small town. Generations of families worked in the mine. Those soldiers lucky enough to survive the war returned home to their old mining jobs. Throughout the history of Fairmont, Mine #5 sons followed fathers, brothers followed brothers, cousins followed cousins and neighbors followed neighbors down into the mine for a steady paycheck. The work was grueling and dangerous. Everyone accepted the danger, but no one who worked in the mine knew just how dangerous until that horrible day.

Over the years the mine had become exceedingly dry and dusty with heavy deposits of coal dust present along the roadways and on the roof, ribs and timbers inviting disaster. None of today’s safety systems were in place in 1947. Coal dust was just something that accumulated throughout the mine over time. It had become part of the landscape.

The incredible explosion came without warning caused by under burdened shot or blown out shot that ignited the coal dust. Only twenty-four men escaped with their lives to tell their horrifying story and to mourn for their lost brothers.

I was ten and vividly remember the wail of the miner’s emergency siren reverberating across my small town causing instant dread among all its citizens. The emergency horn only sounded for one reason, mine disaster! People literally stopped their automobiles in the middle of the street, exited and started walking in the direction of the mine as if staring would make the siren go away. Stores emptied as shoppers began moving in the direction of the mine. Everyone who lived in Fairmont either had family or knew someone who worked in #5, but no one expected the horror that would unfold over the next several days.

My father, George, had barely returned from working the day shift at the East Central Railroad facility in Wilton, a small community attached to Fairmont. Like everyone else, my father quickly changed back into his work clothes, jumped into the family car headed for the mine entrance. I begged him to take me and followed him into the car before he could say no. My brother Phil, who was seven, also wanted to tag along, but my father said no having me along was enough to keep up with in such potentially dangerous circumstances.

Dad and I spent hours that night and the next day aiding in any way we could; as one by one friends and families came to the grim reality that someone, they loved, did not make it. Those two days permanently changed this ten-year-old. For months after the explosion I would wake up at night from nightmares of bodies being extracted from the mine.

The explosion in Mine #5 would also change the face of the community forever as the mine closed bringing temporary unemployment until the East Central Railroad opened a new engine repair center located in a massive roundhouse on the same grounds as the railcar manufacturing facility.

Over the next few years life slowly returned to normal with the town growing slightly as new people moved to Fairmont to work at the rail car shops.

Sports at all levels began to shape Fairmont. The local high school was noted statewide for its football, basketball and baseball teams and local teams of all types for all ages were abundant.

My passion was baseball. At a young age I could throw a baseball harder and farther than boys twice my age and catch balls thrown from high school pitchers. I could hit fastballs and curveballs with authority. I would sleep with my favorite Louisville Slugger bat to protect it from evil spirits whose main goal was to steal hits right out of the hard maple.

I was never thin nor quick, but I was an excellent hitter and receiver with an outstanding arm. Not too many base runners were successful attempting to steal second base. However, I was an extraordinarily slow runner. My father recognized I needed more speed to play at a high level. He believed going to a baseball camp organized by the Fairmont Recreation Department might help with my running ability, so he signed me up.

The baseball camp ran for two weeks in August in 1951 and was led by Fred Jenkins, Assistant Recreation Director and the town’s baseball guy.

Throughout Fred’s first spring and summer in 1951, I was his constant tag along absorbing his every word and doing my best to imitate his actions. My parents never feared for my safety. They always knew where to find me as well as several other boys my age. Mr. Jenkins (as he became known to all of us) drove an old wood paneled Buick station wagon close to giving up the ghost. It was filled with baseball equipment in the back and kids in the seats. If you were one of the fortunate ones, it was baseball at Morris Field during the day and a Little League game in the evening.

I never knew growing up that there were people in Fairmont who were outspoken about a black man always associating with young white boys. To us, Mr. Jenkins was like the pied piper. He loved baseball and teaching us the finer points of the game.

The two-week baseball camp improved my baseball skills, but not my running. God made me slow of foot and I do not believe he ever had any interest in changing that fact.

As I grew and continued to improve my other skills, Mr. Jenkins began to ignore my foot speed and began to believe I did have enough talent to become a star player with an opportunity to play professional baseball.

Summer would eventually arrive, and baseball season would be in full bloom. I was the starting catcher on a Little League team sponsored by the local Morris Lodge. Little League games were broadcast over WNCT, the local AM radio station, for those who could not attend the games in person. In most small towns in the fifties Little League baseball was the most popular kid sport in the town. The NFL and NBA had not yet become the dominating sport they are today. Attendance at Little League games overflowed into the grass surrounding the ball field as we played neighboring towns for supremacy and temporary bragging rights.

I had used my catcher’s glove for three hard seasons, and I knew it was on its last leg. Not only was the glove worn from constant use, but my hand had grown as well. It was time for a new one. Most of my teammates had newer gloves and I was somewhat embarrassed I was still using my old one.

I thought if I played my cards right maybe I could convince my parents a glove would be a perfect gift for my birthday or Christmas.

It was November. Corey Wilson, my best friend whose grandmother also happened to live next door, was sick with pneumonia. Corey’s father was the Plant Manager of the local Thomas Manufacturing plant. Corey and his parents lived in a big...