In 1953, Gene Baker and Ernie Banks became the first two African American players on the Cubs. Banks, a slender shortstop who had played for the Kansas City Monarchs, made his major league debut on September 17 and stayed in the lineup for 424 games, a record start-up. In 1955, he was the first major league shortstop to hit 40 home runs, and in ’58, Banks led the league in homers with 47. He won the Most Valuable Player Award that year—the first time it was presented to someone from a losing team—and repeated as Most Valuable Player in ’59 with 45 homers and 143 runs batted in. Banks would hit the ball over the fences with relative ease, using his strong forearms and a relatively light, thin-handled, 31-ounce bat. Leo Durocher arrived in ’66, and Banks’s teammates said the manager was jealous of the popular first baseman. But Banks compliments Durocher’s style. In 1970, Banks hit his 500th home run, and he entered the Hall of Fame in 1977. He is Mr. Cub.

Gene and I didn’t talk very much about things when we arrived here. We just introduced ourselves and then introduced ourselves to other players. We just came out on the field and went about our business and started taking ground balls. Talking was not a big part of our lives when I first came here. I got that from Jackie Robinson. First time I walked on the field, he came across over to third base, and he said, “I’m glad to see you here, and I know you can make it. You’ve got a lot of ability. Just listen.” And that’s what I did.

I was a listening person and that’s all I knew when I first came here, just to listen to people and what they’re talking about. Lot of interviews, you know—Milo Hamilton and Jack Brickhouse—and many pregame shows and postgame shows. I didn’t know what to say. I always felt embarrassed about the questions. “How do you feel today?” “What did you hit yesterday?” “What do you think about this?” I didn’t know how to deal with that. It was a learning process for me. Jackie prepared me for what it would be like. It’s not that I was afraid of it. I just didn’t understand the communication of the people who followed the game. I came from the Kansas City Monarchs, and all I knew was just to go play.

Gene was the same way. We came out of the same background, although he was a little bit older. We got on the field and we learned by just watching other people. Watching Monte Irvin, watching Willie Mays, watching some of your own players—Hank Sauer, Ralph Kiner. Just by watching. I didn’t play in the minor leagues. If I had to sum it all up, it was just beautiful to learn as much as you could by listening and learn how to play the game.

I would see a few people in the stands at the time I started here. I had an interesting career because at the beginning of my career, very few people came. Toward the end of my career, more people came. Then we had several systems of managers here that didn’t affect me at all because I was just listening to them talk about things and philosophies.

Phil Cavarretta was my first manager and he was a playing manager and he said very little. When I played my first game, he said, “You’re playing shortstop today.” We were standing around the batting cage, and I just shook my head and that was it.

Then we went to Stan Hack and we had Bob Scheffing, we had the rotating coaches system, we had Bob Kennedy, we had Lou Boudreau, Charlie Grimm. Then Leo came in 1966, so that’s when the excitement and the energy began to develop. At that time I was 38, 39, and toward the end of my career, and it was really exciting to see more people in the stands, to see more energy, to see the media who had kind of backed away from the Cubs in the early days, how they got more involved to cover the Cubs and interview Leo. At that time, the manager was the key person and they interviewed the manager rather than the players.

My career here has been two sides. The two sides of playing before small crowds, playing in a park where Pat Peiper just said, “Play ball.” There was no music. The national anthem only played on special days because Mr. Wrigley believed in that. [Then later in my career the Cubs introduced] music and singing the national anthem every day and Pat Peiper on the P.A. giving the announcements and the lineups. It was like going from the beginning of time to the modern times. The modern times were when the lights came and a lot of other changes came in the promotional and marketing stuff. Mr. Wrigley didn’t believe in a lot of the promotional days because he felt, in just listening to him, that you were creating situations where you were actually paying people to come to see you play. That’s how he figured it.

It’s been an education. I look at Wrigley Field as really a university for me, learning about different kinds of people, different cultures, different philosophies, and all of the above. Now, getting back to Leo. He brought the energy to the organization in many ways, by excitement and creativity and fear. Most people kind of belabor the fact that he didn’t like me or I didn’t like him. It’s a normal thing—I’ve learned this from my own family, and I come from a family of 12—it’s a normal thing to kind of create discord between people. But I never allowed it because I learned many years ago that whoever was the boss is in charge, and I respected that. Most people thought Leo didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. I never met a person I disliked. That’s my philosophy. The players didn’t know it, some of the fans didn’t know it, the media didn’t know it. It didn’t matter to me. He was the boss, he was the manager. That was his job. My message to players is whoever is in charge is the boss.

If I was on the bench, I’d always sit by him because I’d learn from him. When I was on the plane, I’d always sit by him. I’d always sit by him on the bus. To me, it was a learning experience just being around him. I went to his wedding, and it was just wonderful to see the joy in his life when he married Lynn Goldblatt.

I spent time with him in California, I was with him at times when he went to see the Dean Martin show and all that. My life, that most people didn’t see on a day-to-day basis, was a learning experience with him. Then when he retired and I retired, Marvin Davis asked me to bring an All-Star team to Denver of the best players who’d played in the major leagues. I got all these players together—Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Sandy Koufax, all of them—for an exhibition game in Denver. I wanted Leo and Gene Mauch to manage. I called Leo in Palm Springs, woke him up. He said, “What are you calling me for?”

I said, “Well, I need a favor, Leo. I’ve got this team together in Denver and I’d like for you to be the manager.”

He said, “I don’t want to come up there, Ernie. C’mon. The writers will be on me. I’ve had enough of that stuff.”

I said, “Leo, it’s going to be a nice thing, it’s going to help to get baseball in Denver.”

He said OK.

I said, “We’ll make all the arrangements.”

And he came. I got Gene Mauch, and they came and they had the greatest time of their lives. They had 50,000 people at the stadium. I still remember that. It was a real joy.

Many of the players didn’t quite understand my own philosophy. I believe in forgive and forget, and keep your mouth shut and listen to whatever somebody is trying to tell you and you can learn something. I tell my children that. But it was just misinterpreted that Leo disliked me. He made my life better, he made me a better player.

I remember, in St. Louis, I hit two home runs and drove in seven runs one time against Steve Carlton. I mean, there’s many things I was proud of. I was the oldest player on the team at 39 years old. Most people wouldn’t even have been on the team at that time. But [Leo] inspired me to reach inside of myself and do more. And that’s what I did. I had over 100 RBI and 20 and 30 home runs. Most people said, “Well, he has enough.” It was just inspiration to let somebody know that somebody in your life—it could be a wife, it could be a manager, it could be a coach—could light your fire, that would stimulate your life and that’s what happened to me when Leo came here from ’66 to ’72.

One of the more famous things—for the players, not me—was a fly ball hit up between first and second in St. Louis. The ball dropped and we lost the game, so Leo had a meeting afterward and I was the culprit of that whole thing. He kept us in the locker room about an hour or so, and he was just talking about the way I played and everything he said was right. He said, “You’re a veteran player, you’ve got to go catch the ball. I mean, c’mon, my momma could’ve caught that ball” and, you know, different things. All the players were there listening. When we were released to go, many of the players were inspired in many ways. They said, “If he can get on Ernie Banks, who’s a veteran player, he can get on anybody. Me, too.” That was the purpose of it. I just figured there are certain motivations that people have, especially if they’re leaders, to get people to do more and Leo did that for me. I don’t think anybody mentions this, but we had a Randy Hundley fantasy camp. I was there the first year and Leo came one year. And he said, “Ernie was a guy who really helped. I want to apologize for all the things maybe you guys have heard about.” All of them were real shocked.

Sometimes people like to see others persecuted in some way. It’s just human nature, you know. They like to see somebody get beat down by somebody else. I always felt in my life and my experiences with people that I got better just by listening and being around people like Buck O’Neil, and Satchel Paige, and Josh Gibson, and Gene Baker, and Monte Irvin, and Jackie Robinson—guys who were older than me—saying, “This is where you have to go. You have to listen and learn and go do your job. Just do your job. Not a whole lot of talking.” That’s what I’ve always believed in in my own life and my own career. Just do my job. That’s all I thought of. But Leo was surely a big influence toward the end of my career. I can think of so many incidents where he put life into it. We’re playing in New York. John Bocabella was playing at first base—Leo had just made that announcement—and the first play of the game, John hurt his arm tagging a runner out. Everybody went out, and I just got up and started throwing. When Leo turned around to look, I was the only one there that he could see, so I went in the game and hit a home run.

Another time—one of the most touching things that ever happened to me—again in New York, we were losing the game and Leo sent up Jim Hickman to pinch-hit for me. As we were passing, Jim said, “Ernie, I’m sorry I’m doing this.” He apologized for pinch-hitting for me. Leo didn’t hear it, nobody else heard it. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just looked up and said, “You can do it.” And I went on back to the dugout. It didn’t bother me. What I’m saying is, embarrassment and unkind things that we all must learn from really can make us better—better people, better individuals.

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