Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson's 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

"I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world."

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese's iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell's shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump's fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It's nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was "liberal fake news," and that "John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that."

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray's death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn't made their way to MLB because "baseball is a white man's sport."

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn't include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to "the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players" in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents' native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell's youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don't see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn't believe they're black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in "race" chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who've traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick's protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it's important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, "Why do you have to be different?" Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There's the crappy .220 hitter and there's the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he's being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don't sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick's unemployment.

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A's were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell's 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell's path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A's were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB's season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday's historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was "hazed" by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what's happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don't want to be labeled a "distraction" by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The "distraction" is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about "the flag" or "the troops," instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it's not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez's background could have thrown that purpose pitch "for America" after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: "What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn't be surprised if more guys start to follow suit."