Compton Bound

From catching the film bug in Paris and chasing the dream of making movies to a strange adventure that begins at a batting cage in Culver City which culminates in the the battle for the fate of the Compton Baseball Academy Teams (CBATS)…

by: Alan Swyer

From the time, at age nineteen, I talked my way into a job writing the Paris section of a travel guide for the youth market, my life has been a series of accidents, some fortuitous, others less so. Because I was living in a place without a shower, I hustled a spot on the Paris University boxing team, which meant that instead of knowing no one, I suddenly had fifteen friends, as well as an incentive to improve my French so as not to get hurt. On top of that, a post-workout swim and a shower six days a week. From that point on, practically everything I’ve done, professionally and otherwise, has been ad hoc, and sometimes in hock.

It was in Paris, where cinema reigns supreme, that my parents’ hope that I would bring respectably to a family known for relatives who fled New Jersey in the dead of night due to gangland ties, gambling debts, and other sources of shame, finally crashed and burned. Falling in love with film ended any chance that someday I would stop my bad boy behavior and anti-authority attitude and become a doctor, lawyer, or orthodontist.

With a newfound dream of making films — plus an offer to teach French at Pepperdine University — I set off for Los Angeles, where once again I initially knew no one.

With zero connections but a fair amount of Jersey street smarts, I wangled a job as the one person working for Jerry Lewis who could read without his lips moving, which led in a circuitous way to a position as film critic for a trade paper called the Hollywood Reporter. From there, in two-steps-forward-one-step-back fashion, I progressed from an aspiring to a credited screenwriter (initially on the first rock & roll biopic, next on one about a Harlem playground basketball legend), then to producer (on a series set at the beach that I hoped would not be my defining work), before at last making the leap to director (on an indie thriller).

I did not have any clue that I would end up spending time moonlighting as a columnist for a local weekly. Or leap into directing music videos and commercials. Or teach screenwriting and directing workshops in Singapore and Brittany. Or slide laterally into the music business, where I would produce both new music and reissues (including a collection of Ray Charles love songs), while also being involved with the likes of Solomon Burke and the justly infamous Ike Turner.

Each additional path brought new challenges and satisfactions. But as unlikely as each of them would have seemed when I was growing up in a blue-collar world devoid of such exotic dreams, the strangest adventure began at a batting cage in Culver City.

The spark was a friendship between two kids determined to master switch-hitting: my son Jonas (at that point 11) and a guy named Covelli, who was three years older.

Covelli, who later would be known as Coco Crisp while playing Major League baseball for fifteen years, called one evening, which led to Jonas turning to me and asking, “Okay if I try out for a team that Covelli’s on?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied. “Just find out when and where.”

The “when” turned out to be Saturday morning, while the “where’” turned out to be a shocker: Compton.

Though aware of Compton’s place — celebrated or otherwise — in gangsta rap, it seemed wrong, since I’d already said yes, to come up with excuses about distance, or worse, potential danger.

So Saturday morning, we were Compton bound as we drove to what for us, living in Santa Monica, had largely been terra incognita.

Whatever uncertainty Jonas was experiencing owed more to being the new kid than to race or to Compton’s reputation. But I could see him smile when Covelli, after a high-five, led him onto the field, where he was greeted by the founder of Compton Baseball Academy Teams (CBATS), a local legend named Gerald Pickens.

The Pied Piper of Inner City baseball in LA, Pickens — known as G to decades of CBATS youth — wore many hats: head coach, mentor, councilor, advisor, and father figure. Almost single-handedly his combination of warmth, drive, and persistence got generations of at-risk kids off the streets and onto the baseball and softball diamonds.

Such was the esteem in which he and his program were held that Jackie Robinson Stadium became Compton’s demilitarized zone — a singular place where hostilities between Bloods and Crips ended.

As I took a seat as the only white face in the stands, there was no way for me to know that over the weeks, months, and years that followed Gonzales Park would become a home-away-from-home: a go-to place for my son’s practices and games.

Nor was I informed until several weekends later that for Jonas’s new teammates — mostly Black, plus a handful of Latinos — he was not merely the first white friend, but also in some cases the first white kid they’d ever known. For that, Gerald Pickens, G, thanked me.                                                     

Over time, instead of remaining an anomalous figure, I became part of the flora and fauna at the stadium, greeted with smiles, waves, and handshakes.

That changed on a Sunday morning when I was suddenly greeted like a visiting celebrity. Why? Because Rebound, the film about the Harlem playground basketball legend, had aired on HBO the night before, and the word spread that I was credited as both writer and producer.

Aware that many of the ballplayers came from fatherless homes, I was careful not to allow my newly acquired cred to influence what position Jonas got to play, or what spot was his in the batting order. To my son’s surprise, I chose not to accompany the team that August to a tournament to Alaska. First, I didn’t want to stand out as one of the few fathers on the trip. More importantly, I didn’t want Jonas to have divided loyalties between his teammates and me.

It wasn’t until the next April that I added another hyphen to my role as dad-chauffeur-fan. Learning that a July trip to a tournament in Arizona was imperiled because of insufficient funds, without informing Pickens I approached the head of a record company. Known as an advocate of social causes, Richard Foos was the recipient of my pitch about the amazing success CBATs was having not just helping ballplayers get signed by the pros, but also creating opportunities for baseball and softball players to be the first in their families to get college scholarships.

Now known as the CBATs Rhinos, the team proudly went off to Arizona, where their self-esteem got a much-needed boost when they emerged victorious.

As the years went on, while teammates like Covelli, Marquis Jackson, and Miguel Mendoza moved on, Jonas rose in the ranks until he, like them, was recruited to supplement his high school participation with an involvement in Scout Ball: weekend wood bat games subsidized by Major League teams and coached by their local scouts.

Though I assumed my affiliation with CBATs had come to an end, due to a seemingly never-ending series of crises, that was not the case.

The first hurdle came when Gerald Pickens received a letter from the newly-appointed Compton Park Commissioner, stating that CBATs had been using Jackie Robinson Stadium without proper authorization, and would therefore no longer be welcome.

Calling me in a panic, I listened to him read the letter, then said that we needed action rather than panic. “How many mothers and grandmothers of kids who’ve played for you can you get together on short notice?” I asked.

“How many do you need?” he wondered.

“Five would be great. Ten would be better. Twenty best of all.”

“When do you need ’em? And where?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Immediately, I phoned the mayor’s office, and was told that he would likely be in meetings all day.

“Please let him know,” I told the assistant, “that I’ll be arriving with a whole bunch of unhappy moms and grandmas who will stay as long as necessary, even if that means camping out overnight until we see him. And the LA Times will likely be with us.”

“J-just a second,” said the startled assistant.

Almost instantly, the mayor picked up. “What’s all this I’m hearing?” he asked.

“Do you really want unhappy constituents?”

“Unhappy why?”

“How about you and I talk face-to-face?”

“With the mamas and grannies?”

“You tell me.”

“Let’s start with you and me?”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“Really?”

“More or less,” said the mayor with a rueful chuckle.

“So,” I began once I was alone with the mayor, “what’s the most important thing you get when you make an appearance every year at the CBATs award ceremony?”

“Immense satisfaction.”

“And votes,” I added, which the mayor acknowledged with a shrug. “So let me ask you, how on top of everything in the community are you?”

The mayor eyed me strangely. “What’s your point?”

“Did you approve the letter sent to Gerald Pickens and CBATs?”

“W-what letter?”

“The one informing him that CBATs has been using Jackie Robinson Stadium without authorization and would no longer be welcome.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” screamed the mayor. “Who wrote that?”

“Your new Park Commissioner.”

Without hesitation, the mayor stormed out to where his assistant was sitting. “Call that fucking Park Commissioner and tell him to get his ass here right now.”

“I-I think he’s out in the field,” mumbled the assistant.

“I don’t care if he’s on Mars. I want him now!”

Taking a deep breath, the mayor walked toward me. “Happy?”

“I’m always happy to take time out of my day and drive through traffic to get here.”

The mayor again shrugged. “Did I tell you how much I liked your Harlem playground movie?”

“Somebody’s trying to get on my good side.”

“Who me? Please tell Mr. Pickens that I — make that we — appreciate all he does for the kids of this community.”

“So no need for moms and grandmas?”

“Not today anyway.”

Over lunch the next day, Gerald thanked me for coming to the rescue, then stated that he’d like to name me to CBATs Board of Directors.

“So as to jump in on the next problem?” I asked.

“And the one after that, and the one after that,” he answered with a laugh.

After a series of minor problems, a big one arose not quite three months later when Major League Baseball announced that they were planning to establish a baseball academy of their own, to be located at Compton College.

Having been summoned to meet with an emissary from MLB as well as the three people named to head the proposed academy, Gerald asked me to accompany him.

“Do they know I’m coming?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Keep it that way,” I insisted.

When we arrived the next afternoon and were directed to a building near the baseball field, the sequence of events was just what I hoped. Gerald knocked, then opened the door. Immediately, Jimmie Lee Solomon from MLB, Darrell Miller of the local academy, and a third guy whose name I never caught, broke into condescending smiles that took a sudden change when they saw me follow Pickens.

Trying to salvage the situation, Darrell held out his hand. “Your son plays for the Astros scout team,” he said, recognizing me. “So is he a switch-hitter who can pitch, or a pitcher who switch-hits?”

“To be determined,” I replied.

Then Darrell turned to the others. “He made that film about the Harlem playground basketball legend.”

Jimmie Lee Solomon frowned. “So what brings you here?”

“To make sure that Mr. Pickens is treated properly.”

“We love Gerald,” stated Darrell.

“So what position are you offering him at your proposed academy?”

“Not proposed,” said Jimmie Lee Solomon with what I took as a sneer. “It’s happening and it’ll be a showcase. The finest field, the finest equipment, the finest coaches. In other words, the finest everything.”

“Except needed.”

“Meaning?”

“Inner city ballplayers.”

“We’re sure they’ll flock to us,” interjected Darrell.

“Then why did you reach out to Mr. Pickens?” I asked. “Unless, that is, you’re ready to offer him a paid position with medical insurance and other benefits.”

The three guys exchanged furtive looks until Jimmie Lee Solomon spoke. “I’m sure we can come up with some sort of accommodation.”

“Do you folks have some sort of accommodation?” I asked. “Or do you get a weekly paycheck?”

“The bottom line,” said Darrell, “is that we’re here for the kids.”

“Except for one thing.”

“Namely?” asked Jimmie Lee Solomon.

“It’s Mr. Pickens who’s got the kids.”

“You were great,” said Gerald as we walked to our cars.

“So what’s your feeling?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

“Know why they want your kids?”

“Why?”

“For a goddamn photo op.”

Pickens winced.

The news about MLB’s arrival on the scene led to yet another crisis when several local business that had long served as CBATs’ donors started questioning their subsidies.

“I don’t know how we’re gonna make it,” Pickens informed me.

After racking my brain, I took a flier by reaching out to someone I’d worked with who had taken a position with local public access TV. Then I called Gerald, telling him that I needed him in his CBATs uniform along with three really cute kids dressed in theirs.

When I arrived Gonzales Park, Gerald was standing with three fifteen-year-olds. Quickly, I pulled him aside. “By cute, I mean kids who are eight, nine at most. Make it two boys and one girl.”

“Gimme ten minutes.”

Less than an hour later, Gerald and I pulled up to the studio with two eight-year-old Little Leaguers in uniform plus one nine-year-old softball player.

Once we’d passed through security, we were led to what served as the green room, where the kids spotted two rappers, covered with bling and copping serious attitudes.

Sensing that something was not right, one of the Little Leaguers, Elijah, approached the rappers. “Where you brothas from?”

Eyeing Elijah with disdain, one of rappers took a moment before deigning to speak. “Compton.”

“Yeah?” asked a suspicious Elijah. “What part?”

“Whatcha mean, what part?”

“Where?” uttered Elijah, studying him carefully. “Know what I think?” he then announced. “You ain’t Compton.” With that, Elijah turned to the other kids. “Omar! La Quita! These mothafuckas claim they Compton.”

Immediately the two other kids came closer, studying the rappers. “They don’t look Compton to me,” said La Quita.

“Me either,” added Omar.

“Think I’ll call my brother Butchie,” said Elijah, pulling out his phone. “Let him and his boys decide if you Compton.”

“Yeah!” said La Quita.

“And they’re badass mothafuckas!” stated Omar.

Suddenly any attitude the rappers were copping disappeared..

“W-we ain’t really Compton,” said one of them.

“Our crib’s in the Valley,” added the other.

Victorious, Elijah and his friends let go of their gangsta side and again became kids.

On camera a few minutes later, they were beyond adorable.

As Pickens talked with the host about the importance of getting kids like them off the street and onto the playing fields, donations started pouring in.

In show biz, there’s always the fear of being overlooked, forgotten, or yesterday’s news. Three weeks without an overture or inquiry about potential work can feel like six months. Six weeks of silence can feel like forever. So I was not displeased when out of nowhere I got a call from my agent, who asked if I was aware of a comic who went by the name of Sinbad.

“Yes,” I said.  “He’s funny.”

“Glad you think so, because he loves your playground basketball movie and wants to meet. Maybe you two can hatch something.”

“Not many guys write Black as well as you,” Sinbad said when we got together at a coffee place in West LA.

“You mean white guys?” I asked.

“Actually, any guys. But since there’s differences between New York and Cali, one of these days I should take you down to the Hood.”

“Where’s the Hood?”

“Compton.”

“You live there?”

Sinbad shook his head.

“Want to bet,” I began, “that I spend more time in Compton than you?”

“You joking?”

This time I was the one who shook his head.

“Why?” asked Sinbad.

“I’m on the Board of something called CBATs.”

“Run by?”

“Gerald Pickens.”

“You know G?” Sinbad asked, giving me a hug.

Though the conversations I had with Sinbad never led to a film project, my involvement in youth baseball did.  In fact, not once, but twice.

The first time came when an aspiring producer who’d been one of Jonas’s travel team coaches asked me to read a screenplay he termed a psychological thriller, which turned out to be neither psychological nor thrilling. 

With a gulp John Torosian asked what could be done to salvage it. Off the top of my head, I gave him some ideas that he really liked. Lo and behold, I wound up not merely doing a rewrite, but directing the film as well.

That in turn led to a second directing assignment, which wound up on hold when Hollywood production was stifled by a six-month strike.

Asked by a producer what could be done legally — and on a modest budget — I suggested a documentary. Pressed about subject matter, off the top of my head I proposed a look at the Latinization of baseball, both on the field and in the stands. Thanks to the scouts I’d met who followed Jonas’s career, doors galore were opened. That led to trips not merely to Spring Training in Florida and Arizona, but also to the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, plus excursions to Puerto Rico, Panama, and even Cuba.

So rewarding was the experience that from then on I’ve focused almost entirely on documentaries, making films about the criminal justice system, Eastern spirituality, the breakthroughs in the treatment in diabetes, and above all Black music.

Still, never during the years that followed has CBATs not been a part of my life. I’ve attended graduations and marriages, negotiated with Major League teams when alumni were drafted, and sadly attended funerals.

But my proudest moment came from something I never could have imagined on that day long ago when Jonas and I were first Compton bound. After his dream of a professional career was derailed by shoulder surgery, both he and his lifelong friend Covelli were inducted together into the Compton Baseball Hall of Fame.

Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera, plus a new one, When Houston Had The Blues. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.