You fucking kids today may have heard a thing or two about Dick “Night Train” Lane, but trust me when I say you don’t know shit. Dick Lane was a bad, bad man. I’m no
coward—and I’ll put the pipe to anyone says otherwise—but I’m man enough to admit that I was scared of the Train. Me and every other ballplayer from those days. It wasn’t just the thought of catching a Night Train Necktie when playing the Lions—the league was full of tough, mean motherfuckers. But the Train was a different breed. He was brought up hard. Texas in the 30s and 40s was no Shangri-la for a black boy, especially one born in a dumpster and raised by a stranger. That kind of history can turn a man to stone. The Train was stone and then some, friend.Nowadays, a player bets on a dogfight and the FBI treats him like Al Fucking Capone. Well back then, everyone in the league knew about Night Train and the juke joint killings, but nobody so much as whispered a word about it. He had a slender little razor he kept stashed in his sock that he only took out on gamedays—Earl Morrall once told me he kept it tucked in there during
practice—and God have mercy on the men who ever saw him whip it out. Those poor souls are buried face down in shallow ditches from Birmingham to Port Lucie, some for nothing so much as a wayward look. Even George Wilson himself was scared of Lane. The Train might work the sleds and do the hitting drills—oh, he loved to hit—but while the rest of the defense ran sprints, he’d head back to the locker room, slip on his velvet robe and burn the day drinking peach brandy and throwing dice with the attendants.So, the long and short of it was I didn’t want jack shit to do with Night Train Lane. I’m just about to tell that exact thing to Big
Daddy when the front door jerks open. The suddenness of it makes us both jump. My raw nerves get another jolt right away when the Train slides into the front seat, smooth and silent as a wraith. He pulls the door closed, runs his hand through his hair and without even so much as turning his head to acknowledge us, hisses, “I told you to meet me at the Early Bird, motherfucker.”I don’t have to glance in the mirror to know Daddy has tensed up. I spent a lot of years knuckle to knuckle with other men and I know a thing or two about violence and fear. Ten minutes ago all I could smell in that Fairlane was the faint hint of that Braniff stewardess. Now it stank of fear—mine and Big Daddy’s.
“I was coming, Train. Ain’t no cabs ‘round here and I can’t see no bus.” Daddy’s voice was so high and pleading he sounded like a strung-out broad. There was no answer and we sat there in silence for what seemed like forever. Then Train turned his head slowly like a cat and eyed me.
“Drive, boy. We going to Mabel’s and you comin’.”
“Aww now come on, Train,” Daddy said leaning forward, a note of panic in his voice. “This boy don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Mabel’s. That’s not his bidness. And you said we could just take it easy—”
I never even saw Train move, but I heard the crack when the back of his hand
hit Big Daddy’s face. I mixed it up in a Tulsa ice house with Bobo Olson, just a few months before he fought Archie Moore. Bobo was fast, brother, but the Train could have thrown his left, stopped for a cup of coffee, thrown his right and landed both shots before Bobo even got his mitts up. I didn’t bother waiting for more directions. I put the car in gear and eased out of the lot.END PART II
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