Toni Stone was once the "special" child of the Rondo neighborhood in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Born the third daughter of Boykin and Willa Stone, a respectable black pair, who owned a barber shop that catered exclusively to whites, Marcenia Lyle Stone was anything but the child her parents wanted her to be. She did bad at school, got into fights, and was about as feminine as a bear. No one but her parents called her Marcenia; to everyone else she was Tomboy Stone, the best athlete around and the girl who was laughed at for not being girly. Her short attention span and her inability to keep still caused problems in the classroom. The teachers labeled her a "special" child — a word that, as she realized, was an euphemism for intelectually slow and made her feel patronized. “I was in a category of my own,” she remembered sarcastically.
To Boykin and Willa's great dismay, their daughter fell in love with baseball — an exclusively boys' game. “It was like a drug,” Stone said. “Whenever summer would come around [and] the bats would start popping, I’d go crazy.” Her parents could not understand her obsession; they thought it was unnatural for a girl to be involved in a male sport. The Stones appealed to Father Keefe, the family’s parish priest, to dissuade Tomboy from playing baseball with neighborhood boys. But she could not and would not give up the sport, so Father Keefe decided to channel Tomboy's ability into a Catholic activity. He spoke to the Stones and suggested their daughter try the Catholic boys’ league, assuring them that he would look out for her. Boykin and Willa relented.
For such an unrefined and misunderstood girl as Tomboy, Father Keefe’s help with playing baseball was more than welcome. Not only did she finally receive neighborhood recognition for the victories she brought the team, but she also attracted citywide attention as the one of Saint Paul’s outstanding girl athletes. In playing baseball, Tomboy Stone had crossed a line. But it wasn’t sin that she was embracing by playing a male sport, as her parents had feared. It was salvation. Catholic baseball affected Tomboy positively. She attended school regularly and read more — although not necessarily school textbooks.
Hungry for inspiration, Tomboy rummaged the local library for stories about athletes who made names for themselves. The absence of women athletes troubled her; it seemed to underscore the opinion that a girl playing ball was a disgrace. Yet, Tomboy kept reading and dreaming. When the Catholic team's coaches ignored her, always pulling the boys aside to teach them the finer points of play, she did not grumble; she continued to devour books that helped her improve her athletic skills and learn game strategy. “I got a rule book and studied it,” she remembered. “I knew it more than the boys.”
The Rondo neighborhood was heaven for a kid who loved baseball. Nearby was Lexington Park — the field Charlie Comiskey built before he took his team to Chicago. It was home to the Saint Paul Saints. Although they were a white team and were never affiliated with the Negro League teams she admired, Tomboy believed she could learn something from them, so she hung around the Park to watch them practice. Soon the persistent girl struck up a friendship with the Saints manager, Gabby Street, under whom the team had won more games than they lost. Although at first Street, who was a member of the Ku Klux Klan, ignored the strange black girl or even told her to go away, she came back over and over again, and he began to smile at her determination. The burning passion for the game he saw in her overshadowed her race and her gender — he gave Tomboy a chance. And when she took to the field, her ability astonished him.
For her fifteenth birthday he gave her a valuable gift — her first professional baseball shoes. For Tomboy they meant much more than desired equipment. They were an important gift of validation — a stranger's belief that one day she, a black girl, might go forward in an exclusively male sport. When Street's baseball camp ended with the summer, Tomboy carefully placed the shoes in their original box. Now she felt her career in professional baseball was just beginning.
Emboldened by Street's interest in herself, Tomboy approached her mother with a new unconventional idea. She wanted to start traveling with a barnstorming baseball team of black men on weekends. Willa reluctantly agreed, and Tomboy joined the Twin City Colored Giants. The team took her seriously because she was a legitimate player who helped them win games and because she attracted curious crowds. Playing on the Twin City Colored Giants showed Tomboy a world outside Saint Paul. She witnessed subtle signs of racism that older teammates tried to shield from her. But this new world also confirmed that she could make a living without becoming a nurse or a teacher, or a secretary — the only professions her family and school envisioned for young women.
All ambitious black ballplayers during the Jim Crow era aspired to one goal: the Negro League. It offered them the highest level of play, equivalent to the white major leagues. However, although baseball players had moved from playing for regional teams such as the Twin City Colored Giants to the Negro League, Boykin Stone was not pleased with what he saw as his daughter’s floundering in baseball. He believed that everyone should have a clear purpose in life, and as she moved into her twenties, Tomboy was still drifting. Her barnstorming earned her a pittance. So when her sister Bernous — "Bunny" — who had joined the army, sent letters home saying she could use company in San Francisco, Willa gave Tomboy some money and hastily dispatched her with little more than a vague plan to meet her sister “somewhere."
Tomboy reached the Bay Area with fifty-three cents in her pocket, without the slightest notion about Bunny's whereabouts, and with no prospects for employment. Yet, ever resourceful and determined, she soon found a job at Foster's Cafeteria and — with the help of the priest at St. Benedict's church in nearby Oakland — a place to stay. Even more incredible, Tomboy was walking down a street when Bunny just happened to look out a nearby window, so the two sisters found each other. Soon Tomboy secured a job as a welder in the South docks. She knew nothing about welding, but when her good-natured boss found out, he had already been disarmed by her eagerness and sincerity and let her drive army trucks instead. She also joined black, and sometimes white, boys for baseball games on Sundays.
It was in Jack's Tavern, one of the many night clubs in San Francisco's integrated Western Addition, that Tomboy would find her luck again. Jack’s was considered an elite establishment, nothing like the usual rowdy nightclubs where drugs abounded and women were harassed. Conversation there was sophisticated. Some said the first place a black person would go in San Francisco was Jack’s Tavern. Tomboy was no exception. There she felt "taken in," and it offered her a great opportunity to transform herself. "Tomboy" — that nickname reminiscent of her "special"-child days — became the sassy "Toni." Even better, at Jack's Stone met Aurelious Pescia Alberga, the son of a Jamaican seafarer, who was active in politics and loved telling stories as much as Toni did. When they heard her stories about barnstorming with the Colored Giants, Alberga and Jack's Tavern owner, Al Love, were thrilled and began thinking how to help Toni join a local team.
They called upon their connections with the local American Legion, and soon Toni joined the American Legion A. H. Wall Post 435 baseball team. Since players in Junior League teams were required to be seventeen or younger, she lopped off a decade of her actual age. Toni also broke the "girl rule," which had been established in 1928 when a young woman from Indiana had tried to play with an American Legion team. However, not everybody in the Legion followed the rules, and some coaches did not consider women baseball players fragile if they could help a team win. Fans loved the amusing stories of eager players out to prove themselves and tended to excuse some irregularities — such as a 26-year-old woman playing a boys' game.
Toni's decision to play American Legion was a smart move for someone who wanted to be taken seriously in baseball. Major league scouts looked closely at Legion players.
Playing Legion ball brought Toni to the attention of area teams, and she joined a local semi-pro team in the Peninsula Baseball League, becoming the only young woman to play Bay Area baseball with men.
Always looking for opportunities to make baseball more than a pastime for herself, Stone talked with the manager of her Legion team — another man she had won over with her determination — and he encouraged her to consider the possibility of West Coast professional baseball. This was a farfetched proposition, but Toni liked it.
As the only woman player on male teams, Toni had long ago realized odds against her were always formidable and skill alone would not persuade a manager. So instead of telling Harold "Yellowstone" Morris, who had won fame as a pitcher for the Negro League’s Kansas City Monarchs, the Chicago American Giants, and the Detroit Stars and now owned the San Francisco Sea Lions, that she was a skillful player, she told him a woman on a team could bring in crowds. In fact, she needed to mention a single name to make her case with Yellowhorse: Jackie Robinson.
On April 15, 1947, Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball’s major leagues when he trotted out to first base at Ebbet’s Field. Toni followed his every move in the pages of her beloved Chicago Defender. She knew he was the only black man among 399 players in the major leagues, and some of the prejudice he had experienced was familiar to her. Like Robinson, she knew what it was like to be the outcast: to be regarded as a barely tolerable experiment. When Brooklyn Dodger general manager Branch Rickey told Robinson that he wanted “a ball player with guts enough not to fight back,” Toni knew what he meant. Just like Jackie, she took the jeers because she wanted to play.
Yellowhorse hired Stone, and by the spring of 1949 she was headed to Missouri, Arkansas, and Texas as the female second baseman. One reporter covering a game in Missouri was so impressed with her tenacity that he remembered her for years. “Let me tell you,” he wrote, “she’ll make your eyes pop out with the way she handles herself.” Gentry Jackson, the Sea Lions shortstop, argued that Toni was more than a curiosity. She played well, took rough language calmly, pushed meandering cows off the road together with the men, and quickly recovered from injuries. She also brought in good crowds at stadiums.
While she earned less than two hundred dollars a month playing, the money was secondary to doing what she loved. It was the tension between her and her teammate John Scroggins, who felt she had humiliated him when she outplayed him at a trash-talking game, and the realization that she was paid less than the men that compelled Toni to leave the Sea Lions and join the Creoles, whose owner, Alan Page, offered her a better deal. Her new team was playing mainly in the South, so she had not only to adjust to new teammates but also to steel herself against daily humiliations.
Toni had a good season with the Creoles, and the press was beginning to take note. She made new friends among her teammates, and they helped her dissect the game. She was batting nearly .300 and displayed "a technique on second that rivals many of the males." When Boykin Stone opened the Chicago Defender in Saint Paul, he was astonished to see his daughter’s photograph and a three-column headline: “New Orleans’ Lady Second Sacker Is Sensation of Southern League.” It came as great surprise that Tomboy, the family’s “special child,” had received national recognition.
Toni also kept the fib going about her age. Younger players were the ones making moves. Almost thirty, she knew she had a limited amount of time for advancing in baseball, and she found herself at a crossroads about her future. Should she keep barnstorming with the Creoles? Or should she quit baseball for good? Eventually, she decided to redouble her efforts and aim for the major leagues.
This decision sparked personal results: by midseason, she had raised her batting average to nearly .300. Neither the fact that she was a twenty-nine-year-old woman nor injuries daunted her. When an injury sent her to a local charity hospital, she barely waited to be "patched up" before riding back to the ballpark on a policeman's horse. No one had seen anything like it. Stone was an inspiration, especially for women, who now asked to shake her hands before and after games. But no recognition meant more to Toni than that of her childhood idol, Joe Louis, whom she called "the champion's champion." During a July game in Iowa, the legendary prizefighter strolled over to the Creoles dugout to congratulate her. Meeting him showed Toni that her goal — as foolish and imporbable it might have seemed — was not beyond reach.
As much as she loved the game, Stone put her dreams on hold in order to get married. It came as a shock to everyone, from her teammates to her family. Toni preferred the company of older men; perhaps that's why she enjoyed Alberga so much. She was grateful for their interesting conversations at Jack's, for his finding her a place on the American Legion, and for his admiration, so she accepted his marriage proposal. Having a husband “gave me respectability,” Toni said.
She did not expect Alberga not to give her his blessing to continue playing baseball, though. A follower of Booker T. Washington's philosophy of accommodation, he believed that by continuing to “force” her way further up the ladder of professional baseball Toni had been too assertive in her desire to open doors that whites had not cracked open yet. When he proposed, Alberga had been aware Toni wouldn't be a housekeeper and childrearer, but he still attempted to reign his wife's ambitions at least a little bit. Her response to Alberga's verdict was just as surprising: she agreed to take a year-long break from baseball. She might have considered her marriage the final test of her dedication.
After the twelve months were over, she got her answer, and it surprised no one. Her passion for the game had not diminished even a bit. Toni Stone's true love was baseball.
With the white major and minor leagues off-limits, Toni saw one viable option open to her: the Negro League. Born out of passion for the sport and a repudiation of racism, the Negro League had a proud tradition, but it had lost some of its luster since Jackie integrated the majors and a stream of younger players joined him.
At the same time when Stone was looking for a way to make it into the League, the Indianapolis Clowns, the current Negro League champions, were searching for someone to replace Henry Aaron — a seventeen-year-old prodigy who had left them after he was scouted by a major league team. As the Creoles’ Alan Page said, a team needed someone who could “hang a glittering star over his locker," a.k.a bring in crowds. Toni Stone seemed like an excellent choice. She accepted the offer of Syd Pollock, who had taken over the Clowns, to play second base for them and reported to spring training in Norfolk, Virginia, in early April 1953. Her dream was coming true.
As the Clowns routed through Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, Toni always held her own on the field, increased gate receipts, and kept the salaries from shrinking.
As the crowds continued to turn out to see Toni play, though, she began to receive not only praises but also scathing criticism. “It is indeed unfortunate that Negro baseball has collapsed to the extent it must tie itself to a woman’s apron strings in order to survive,” wrote one columnist. But Toni Stone paid no attention. She asked for no favors. She was ready to endure this and much more to stay in the game that meant the world for her.
She constantly had to persevere through challenges. On a daily basis, every member of the Indianapolis Clowns confronted humiliations as a black living in Jim Crow America. The stories from Southern restaurants were legion: service refused, contaminated food, smashed plates and cups. Toni struggled with an additional problem — finding safe accommodations. Sometimes rooming houses would offer her — but not the men — a place to stay. “I told [the proprietors] ‘thank you very much’ and got back on that old bus and went to sleep,” she said. Toni believed refusing a room under those conditions was an important show of respect toward her teammates, whom she considered brothers. At times it was the opposite. Seeing a lone woman arrive with a horde of men, hotel proprietors assumed Toni was a prostitute and refused to let her stay, brusquely directing her to the nearest brothel. Her teammates and managers often could not successfully defend her, so Toni discovered the underworld of prostitutes’ hospitality. She developed a network of brothels throughout the South where the "sporting girls" took care of her, sometimes washing her uniform during the night. After Toni complained of the discomfort of taking hard throws to the chest (some intentionally), the women sewed padding into her navy blue Clowns shirt.
As Pollock announced his decision to hire to other young women, Mamie Johnson and Connie Morgan — both inspired by Stone's example — and lower Toni's salary, she felt betrayed. This, coupled with her concern for her aging husband's health, compelled Toni to leave the Indianapolis Clowns.
She joined the Kansas City Monarchs for the 1954 season. This was the beginning of the end of her career. Toni Stone was not getting any younger. What she could do at seventeen and at twenty-seven was difficult to perform at thirty-three. She had a decidedly bad season — and so did the Monarchs overall. The season closed with increased grumblings and occasional flare-ups on the bus. When the end finally came, it occurred in the most mundane of circumstances. Toni had an argument with Monarchs manager Buck O'Neil. The moment staring face-to-face with Buck froze in Toni’s memory for the rest of her life. It was as if everything changed in that single instant. All she could say later was that “something was missing.” It was not that she had lost O’Neil’s support. In truth, she had lost something much deeper — her joy for the game.
Soon Toni turned in her uniform to the Monarchs bus driver, packed her baseball glove, and put the shoes Gabby Street had given her back in their worn box. “I got tired,” she said. “I got so tired.”
The "wave of mounting purposefulness" that fueled Rosa Parks and later the Little Rock Nine and the Greensboro Four did not embolden Toni Stone. Without baseball, she lost sight of her dream and watched from the sidelines as the Negro League community vanished. She would often retreat to the basement of her house amid boxes of baseball mementoes. It was the only way Toni could remember who she had been. “Just don’t forget who you are,” Toni would say to herself, her voice cracking. “Don’t forget, Toni, who you are.”
Toni Stone's favorite word was "scuffle." She used it to underscore the effort needed to work against the odds: resolve, persistence, sacrifice. It was the price people were willing to pay to do what they loved. If anyone suggested that playing black baseball was an easy road, she bristled. “They never was in it!” she argued. During a time when a black person could be lynched for smiling the “wrong way,” Toni faced double prejudice as an African American and a woman. But Fate had handed Tomboy Stone one imperfect chance to achieve her dream, and she made the most of it. She was a courageous pioneer — her memory should live on.