Spring is just around the corner, and that means baseball. Little leaguers around the country are taking to the field to practice, and major league players have reported for spring training.

On Saturday, Sacramento State’s own Donte and Dominic Morris got the season started off early with their second annual Negro League Tribute Game. The Morris’ two teams dressed in the uniforms of two 1940s-era West Coast Negro League teams, the San Francisco Sea Lions and the Oakland Larks. They also brought former Negro League players to the game and honored them with plaques.

This year, I would like to thank Donte and Dominic for giving me the opportunity to have an experience I will cherish until my dying day.

I got to meet a man who played catcher for Hall of Fame pitcher and Negro League legend Satchel Paige.

At 97 years old, Elmer Carter is the oldest living former Negro League player. Mr. Carter played “black ball” in the early 1930s for the Kansas City Monarchs, one of the most storied and successful Negro League franchises.

For one game in 1932, Mr. Carter crouched behind the plate and caught for Paige.

Satchel Paige – the greatest pitcher to ever take the mound. Paige regularly shut down the greatest white players of his day in barnstorming exhibition games. Before Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball in 1947, the only way black and white players could take the field against each other was in exhibition games.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I walked down to the first row of the grandstand where Mr. Carter was sitting and introduced myself .

“I just want to shake the hand of a man who once caught the great Satchel Paige,” I said.

Mr. Carter took my hand in both of his and pulled me down on the bench next to him. Mr. Carter continued to grasp my hand in his throughout the conversation. Even though the years have completely taken his sight, his eyes never left mine; I was transfixed.

“I only caught Satchel once, because he was hard-headed,” Mr. Carter said.

My 10- and 12-year-old sons quietly sidled up next to me as Mr. Carter began his story. Their usual barrage of questions was held at bay by Mr. Carter’s quiet and detailed manner.

“Satchel was playing a different game than the rest of us. You understand me?”

Of course, Mr. Carter, Satchel was in a league of his own.

“A batter came into the box that liked to slap to the outside for the long ball. You get what I’m saying, Todd?”

Yes, the batter liked to swing at outside pitches and send them sailing over the fence.

“I knew that about this batter and I wanted Satchel to pitch it tight and inside to pull in his swing. Satchel knew about this batter too, and threw it high and outside. See, Satchel liked to throw where batters liked it to show them he could take them down even throwing to their sweet spot.”

Classic Satch.

“Satchel threw his second pitch so far outside I had to stand from my crouch and cross over way to the right to catch the ball. You get me?”

Sure, you never want a catcher to have to chase pitches like that.

“I walked out to the mound and told him, ‘Hey, man, you’re not playing this game by yourself. We’re playing this game together. If you don’t like a pitch I signal, then wave me off. Don’t just ignore me and throw it wherever you like to amuse yourself.’ I was the catcher and it was my job to control the game. You understand?”

It’s the way the game is supposed to be played, Mr. Carter.

“He told me, ‘Boy, you get back behind the plate and catch what I throw.’ Satchel was seven years older than me. At the time that seemed like a lot of years, so I went back and did what he said. You getting me?”

At 20 years old, seven years does seem like a lot of age and experience.

“But I didn’t like the way he treated me. I didn’t ever want to catch him again, and I never did.”

At this point other people were waiting to talk to Mr. Carter, so I stood, put my hand on his shoulder and thanked him for taking the time to tell me his story.

As I walked back to where my father was sitting, I put my arms around my children’s shoulders and pulled them in close. I looked down at my 10-year-old, who was staring up at me with his long wild hair sticking out in every direction from under his New York Black Yankees cap. A child I had unsuccessfully tried to convince my ex-wife to name Satchel.

My son’s wide, sparkling eyes and toothy grin told me this was a story he would tell his grandchildren someday.

I stopped walking for a second as my chest tightened and I felt a hitch in my throat that let me know I wouldn’t be able to speak for several moments. I realized in that moment my hand had just been held in the firm clutch of history.

Like I wrote in a recent editorial, it really is as simple as just having a conversation.

Todd Wilson can be reached at [email protected]