The Black Honus Wagner
By Jim Waltzer for the Atlantic City Weekly

The school lawn sloped down to the Indiana Avenue sidewalk, the grass gangly and uneven and begging for a trim. An old man was pushing a mower, and the lumps he negotiated reminded him of some of the balky infields he'd mastered. He tugged the brim of his cap a notch lower on his forehead to seal off the late-day sun and chugged forward, severed strips of grass flying out through the churning blades. He could close his eyes and not lose his way - so sure his balance even now - and when he did, he saw chalked lines bordering a larger expanse, and grandstands that rose from the dirt beyond. The street noise vanished and he heard only the whoosh of sliding spikes and the pop of a thrown baseball speared by a leather mitt.

When an embedded rock brought the mower to a rude halt, the old man woke from his reverie. He removed his cap and used the back of his hand to chase sweat from his forehead. A large hand well suited to gripping a pale yellow bat or pegging clothesline throws across the diamond. And at this moment, something rare happened to John Henry “Pop” Lloyd. He was taken out of the lineup. The school principal tapped Pop's shoulder and grabbed the handlebars. He would finish the job.

The principal's act was a tribute not just to a great ballplayer, but a great man. Pop Lloyd had been a beloved elder statesman both on and off the field for so long, it was easy to forget that he once had been young and lithe and powerful and perhaps the greatest shortstop ever - “the black Honus Wagner,“ said the baseball cognoscenti. Why, then wasn't this man in the Hall of Fame?

A half-century earlier, he is playing winter ball in the warmth of a Havana winter. His black all-stars are facing the Detroit Tigers and the 26 year-old Lloyd has fit cast-iron shin guards below his baseball stockings. When the Tigers' Ty Cobb comes hurtling into second base, teeth and spikes bared, the shortstop takes the throw, stands his ground, and applies the tag. There will be no intimidation this day.

He was born in 1884 in Palatka, Florida and came north in 1906 to play professional baseball. In the Negro Leagues, of course. He patrolled the left side of the infield as if it was his backyard, and his bat knew nothing but line drives. The New York Giants' pugnacious manager, John McGraw, tried to recruit Lloyd to play for his club in the Polo Grounds, but his fellow big league barons would have none of it.

So Lloyd just kept playing his peerless brand of baseball and eventually joined another team of Giants: the Eastern Colored League's Atlantic City Bacharach Giants, owned by Mayor Harry Bacharach. Their home park, at South Carolina and Caspian Avenues, often yielded planks of its outfield fence for firewood during tough winters. It was there in the summer of 1924 that Giants' player-manager Pop Lloyd, now 40, completed an unequaled string of 11 consecutive base hits and cemented his legend.

He continued to suit up and play top-flight baseball despite age and nagging injuries, remaining in the Negro Leagues (he moved from the Bacharachs to the Lincoln Giants) until he was 48. Then he returned to Atlantic City and played, remarkably, another 10 years with the semipro Stars back by political boss Nucky Johnson and then successor Hap Farley. Team manager Pop Lloyd could still take that smooth, level left-handed cut and tattoo the tin fence in right field. And the joy he still took in playing - a smile that lit up New York Avenue Playground field - inspired young charges.

Pop Lloyd's example played even better outside the white lines, where he counseled both youth and big leaguers about matters beyond baseball. The Stars moved to a field at Indiana and Huron Avenues and, in 1949 the city dedicated it to Pop Lloyd. But additional rewards were scarce for baseball's unique ambassador. He served as a Little League commissioner. He pushed brooms and cut grass. And never lost his smile.

He must have wondered though why the Hall of Fame could not seem to locate his name. It took a lobbying effort by local leaders and sportswriters to open Cooperstown's eyes. Finally, in 1977, a dozen years after Pop Lloyd's death, the doors opened for him. The inscription on his plaque tells visitors that he “personified the best qualities of an athlete,” an ironic reminder for a tarnished age - both his and ours.