My Village Mourns

On February 25, 1964, I was 15 years old. I had been sitting in the kitchen listening to the radio, and like many Americans, I was very disappointed because Sonny Liston did not come out to fight the 7^th round against the young, braggadocious loudmouth, Cassius Clay, when my dad handed me the telephone. He had been talking with long time family friend, Roy Kingsley Best. For the next ten minutes or so, Roy gave me an educated unvarnished perspective on why the overall American society was against the newly crowned young, brash, confident black champion. Cassius Clay was the kind of black man they never had to contend with. America had no love for Sonny Liston. They would have loved for any other heavyweight boxer to defeat Liston. They just did not want it to be Clay. He was someone they feared they could not control or quiet, and he now understood they had to come to him to get their title back. Cassius Clay now controlled something that was very important to them. Being on the phone, I could not see the expression on Roy’s face when he added some Clay like levity, “And he’s pretty!”

Three years, a religious conversion and name change later, Muhammad Ali’s controversial refusal to answer the draft became a well-debated subject of discussion as I was in the Air Force at the time. Thanks to Roy, my opposing position to the general citizenry was fearless, confident and unwavering.

I grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan at a time when it was a bastion of diversity with a wide array of Eastern European immigrants whose children I attended K-12 education with, and neighbors who I helped cart their groceries home to make money on the weekends. We played punch ball, stickball, touch football, tag on skates and had fierce and friendly differences of opinion about the better baseball players on our favorite teams, while mothers of different hues could be seen sitting on benches with baby carriages discussing their newest baby and soap operas.

I got to know Roy when he visited his brother Hugh Donald Best and his family who lived in our building. On any given spring or summer day, you might find Mr. Best (Hugh) out on the concrete getting his knees skinned with the rest of us boys because he wanted us to know that always doing your best was how to compete. Roy and his family lived in Queens so he was not around on a daily basis, but all the guys knew who he was. Also, on any given day, you might find one of the Best brothers with a crowd of us young guys just listening. They were great mentors.

My older brother, Haywood, was a physically light weight 6’2” hoops player with a very decent neighborhood, and high school reputation. He credits Roy, who was not at all tall, with teaching him how to match up against players that were taller and bulkier than him. He went on to win a Junior College Championship and captained the Oral Roberts University Titans to lead the nation in scoring in 1970.

I never forgot the time Roy came to pick up my parents as they were all going to someone’s party or dance. He told me that whatever you decide to do, be the best. “I don’t care if you sweep streets for a living, be the best.” He never put any racial overtones on the message, but I later realized that it mattered. I grew to learn that the world and the attitudes were not as I viewed them growing up on Avenue D in the 50s and early 60s. There would eventually be those that would try to dismiss me because of my skin color though they would not say so. Their go to excuse would almost always be your job performance. So you learn and strive to be better than everyone else.

I was fortunate that my stubborn father had great friends. I come by my stubbornness honestly. At times I could hear my dad and some of his buddies in verbal battles that seemed destined for trouble. It taught me the importance of making your point of view, but apologizing when you were wrong was just as important. I was fortunate and thankful that my dad always trusted that his friends would never teach me the wrong lesson. I never heard either of my parents say to any of their friends, “Don’t tell me how to raise my kids.”

It has been over 20 years since I got to enjoy watching a fight with Nathaniel “Rabbit” Little. I no longer get to talk baseball with Bennie Brown before his pinochle marathons with my dad and friends. The wit and friendly sarcasm of Roy’s brother Hugh is a long gone memory that I get to see on Facebook through his son, Darryl. Roy was the last living close friend of my dad who I consider to be an exceptional mentor. You always learned something in his presence. I am fortunate to be a recipient of that African proverb that “It takes a village to raise a child.” However, it has been my experience that the proverb does not go far enough and needs an update. If you knew Roy Best as I knew him, you would know that “You need a village to raise a child.”