It was a brisk Saturday morning in 1969. I woke early feeling jittery because we were going to scrimmage the Sacred Heart Flyers, a Jersey City team we knew nothing about. I put on my shoulder and hip pads as I’d done many times before. It was a great day for football—cool, breezy; the crisp October air was energizing. I walked around the corner to call for Frankie. He’d lost half his left arm in a fall down the stairs as a little boy, but he was so tough no one called him one-arm to his face. I’d cut a nerve in my hand and had about half the use of it. We were best friends. On the way to the park we met up with other friends.
“Good morning, boys. Ready to play fu-fu-fu-fu-fu-football?” Coach Taylor said with his customary stutter.
“Yes, Coach,” we responded in unison.
“OK, then let’s go,” he squeaked in his high-pitched voice.
You could sense that something special was about to happen. There was excitement in the air. Many parents and adults had come to watch. Vito was practicing his place-kicking, Pete was warming up his arm, Darryl was running patterns, the linemen were practicing blocks, and Coach Taylor’s grandson, Keith, was running around the field with his arms straight out in the quirky way that had earned him the nickname “Fly.” The defensive linemen and I were warming up with Coach “Bundis.” His real name was Ray. No one knew how he got the nickname. He was huge and had real talent, having played high school and college ball. He moved incredibly well, despite the 300-plus pounds on his 6’5” frame. He was bow-legged and spoke in a voice like Mike Tyson’s. He worked us hard, but he was a gentleman.
The Visiting Team
A bus pulled up, the door opened, and the team filed out. Their uniforms were an elegant garnet and white, and the equipment was state of the art. Each succeeding player was bigger than the last. Most looked over 6 foot and 200 pounds. One wore a goatee, and these were supposed to be grammar-school kids. Watching them warm up was terrifying. They looked like pros. The Sacred Heart Flyers took the field.
From the opening kickoff, we were powerless as they ran plays right over us. The quarterback threw to his receivers at will, running backs ran freely, and the first, second, and third touchdowns occurred within minutes.
They were well-rehearsed and ran plays we’d never seen before. Each time we got the ball, our quarterback had to scramble for dear life and could not run forward or complete a pass; they hammered through our defensive line. When we attempted to punt, our kicker had to run back about 10 yards just to rush off a kick. Our linemen were thrown around the field. Each time we got hit, the sideline cringed, fearing that one of us would be seriously injured. I ran up and down the field, vainly trying to catch players. One pulled Frankie’s prosthetic arm, and it was hanging off, swinging in the breeze. He spun around, trying to grab it like a dog trying to catch its tail. We laughed, and soon he did too. They continued to shellac us until the game became absurd. The spectators were bewildered. Our overly optimistic coach had somehow gotten the notion that we were a match for these guys. He continued to cheer us on as the score widened.
“Come on, boys, don’t quit! You boys just keep on trying! You can do it!”
His cheering made us laugh until finally he, too, got the joke. The game ended with a 56-0 score. We were thankful that no one had gotten hurt. Coach Taylor assured us that we’d played a great game and that we would do better next time. Later, he admitted that he’d had no idea how good this team was. Several days later someone showed up at practice with a Bayonne Times clipping that read, “Taylor’s Tigers Slaughtered, 56-0.” The Sacred Heart Flyers were undefeated in the Catholic Youth League with a record of 19-0.
Star Coach
I first met John Taylor when I was 13. Some friends and I went down to 16th Street Park because we’d heard that someone was starting a football team. We were greeted by a thin, older black man about 5’7” with salt-and-pepper hair, holding a football and looking nothing like a football player. Legend had it that John Taylor had been a placekicker for Grambling College in the 1930s. J.T., as he was called, was hoping to start a team with neighborhood kids to keep them off the streets. There were many youth teams in town, but we were too poor to join. We all tried out for the team, but it wasn’t a tryout at all. You needed only the desire to play, and Coach Taylor would add you to his roster of ragtag players.
Soon we were practicing every afternoon, in our street clothes because we had no uniforms. The team was made up of kids from the 20th Street neighborhood. Each day new kids showed up, and J.T. found a position for them. One day, someone brought a friend who was a very fast runner whom he referred to as “that white boy over there.”
J.T. quickly retorted, “I don’t care what color he is; can he play fu-fu-fu-fu-fu football?”
He’d just given me one of my greatest lessons in life—long before I’d heard of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
Coach Taylor was a decent and honest man. The team loved him and took the name, “Taylor’s Tigers.”
His coaches joked with him, but you could tell they looked up to him. Even the local mob guys on the street corner acknowledged him when he sauntered by, waving to all.
Hidden Talents
Coach Taylor was a musician and the writer of the 1960s hit song “The Boy from New York City.” The coaches were the members of his singing group, The Ad Libs. J.T. had studied music, played with big bands, written a hit song, and gone to college when many African Americans had few educational opportunities. He taught us racial harmony and mutual respect, which promoted lifelong friendships. The team played local teams and usually got beaten badly, but he remained optimistic no matter the outcome. We got uniforms only because he begged business owners for money. Taylor’s Tigers lasted for several years until the Pop Warner league took the team on. J.T.’s dream had come true; the name was changed to the Centerville Warriors, and the less fortunate kids in our neighborhood got to play.
As an adult, I’d see J.T. from time to time, and he’d talk about his days playing saxophone in the 1930s and ’40s. He talked about a new project involving the reunification of The Ad Libs. In the early 1980s, a major group did a remake of “The Boy from New York City,” and it again became a big hit. That’s when I ran into J.T. in Veteran’s Park, and he showed me the new car he’d bought with the royalty money. I can still picture him smiling and posturing near his car.
I finally asked him, “J.T, who was the boy from New York City?”
He looked at me puzzled, laughed, and said, “Don’t you know, man? I’m the boy from New York City. That s-s-s-s-s-s-song is about me! I even wore a mohair suit,” as the lyrics said.
John Taylor died a few years later in his sleep. He was in his seventies.
Recently, I visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland with my son. I thought about J.T. when I saw the Oldies groups, and the memory of J.T. choked me up. I know he’ll never be inducted into the hall of fame; you will never hear his name on television or during Black History Month. But he will always be in my hall of fame. John Taylor taught me about equality, dedication, teamwork, and love for humanity. He was a visionary, a dreamer, and a hero. I was blessed to have known him.—BLP