For 15 years with the Tigers, he was Willie the Wonder, the hometown guy from the Detroit projects who made it big in the major leagues. Eight times during his career — seven with Detroit — he hit 20 or more home runs. Horton had a powerful swing, but he also could play defense. His laser-like throw to the plate to catch Lou Brock in Game 5 of the 1968 World Series was arguably the turning point in Detroit’s comeback victory in the Fall Classic.
Willie Horton: 23: Detroit’s Own Willie the Wonder, the Tigers’ First Black Great (Triumph Books; hardback; $30; 219 pages) is an engaging look at Horton’s career, which was productive despite the racial barriers he faced as a young player trying to break into the major leagues. He collaborates with sportswriter Kevin Allen, who wrote the 2004 book, The People’s Champion: Willie Horton.
Horton, now 79, is a gentleman and a gentle man. Always has been. That says a lot, given the discrimination he endured while trying to break in with the Tigers. Horton could not believe, for example, that he needed to call a Black taxi company to get a ride to Tiger Town from downtown Lakeland, Florida. It was no joke, although he believed the name of the cab company (Wigs) was a gag being played by veterans. Horton walked the seven miles to camp instead.
These stories are not new to a generation of Black baseball players, but they are still telling. Sometimes the racism was blatant, but other times it was more subtle, Horton writes.
It took longer than that. And I am not really sure we are all the way there yet.
Horton had other issues to contend with. His parents were killed in an automobile accident while Horton was playing winter ball in Puerto Rico. In 1967, Horton stood in uniform on a car in downtown Detroit while riots raged in the city, trying desperately to talk to looters while attempting to bring down the temperature while homes and vehicles burned around him.
Born in Arno, Virginia, Horton grew up in the Jeffries Projects of Detroit, the youngest of 21 children. He tells a charming story about the age gap between himself and his older siblings. One of them once offered him a ride home while Horton was playing ball in Appalachia, but Horton refused, not realizing he was an older brother.
“Suit yourself,” the man said. “I have to stop by to get some fish for mom.”
It later occurred to Horton “that his mom was my mom,” he writes.
Horton had a good network of support from family, friends and teammates.
And even from strangers. As youths, Horton and a friend had sneaked into Tiger Stadium but were caught by a security guard. Cleveland outfielder Rocky Colavito saw what was going on and intervened, taking the youths from the guard’s custody and asked the visiting clubhouse man to give them jobs.
“Years later, when Rocky and I were teammates, I discovered his big heart wasn’t just a one-day event,” Horton writes. “That’s just Rocky’s way.”
It is not surprising that both Wood and Stanley wrote forewords to Horton’s autobiography.
Readers will learn how Horton got his nickname, “Boozie.” They will discover how Tigers General Manager Jim Campbell wrote him a $20,000 check to cover his parents’ funeral expenses when they died as a result of an auto accident in January 1965. The check also covered the medical expenses of other family members who were injured in the crash east of Battle Creek, Michigan.
Horton would come to call Campbell “my surrogate father,” who had “a heart of gold” for his friends. But Campbell was also a businessman, so particularly at contract time, “he ruled with an iron fist.”
Horton speaks warmly of his teammates and tells funny stories about men like Denny McLain, Al Kaline, Brown and Stanley. He praises Ray Oyler, a good-field, no-hit shortstop, for his ability to bunt even when batting ahead of the pitcher. And the Tigers had some good-hitting pitchers.
“Heck, Earl Wilson probably hit more homers in one season than Oyler hit in his whole career,” Horton writes.
I couldn’t resist and had to look. Oyler hit 15 career homers. Wilson, who hit seven home runs twice in a season (1966 and 1968), had 35 home runs during his career.
Even though Horton said his teammates were like family — “I never felt a hint of racism with my Tiger teammates,” he writes — it still rankled him that for many years he was the only Black starter on the team outside of the pitching staff. And at one point, there were only three Blacks on the entire roster.
Horton’s recollections of the 1968 Detroit Tigers — a team that won the franchise’s first pennant in 23 seasons and then rallied from a 3-1 deficit to beat the Cardinals in the World Series — are fun to read.
St. Louis ace Bob Gibson struck out a record 17 batters in Game 1, and Horton was victim No. 17. But Horton would hit a home run in Game 2, and his defensive gem in Game 5 shifted the momentum to Detroit. Horton called the throw that nailed Brock at the plate “the most important moment in my professional career.”
It helped that the Tigers’ scouting report noted that Brock did not slide into home, and catcher Bill Freehan caught Horton’s throw, blocked the plate and tagged out Brock, who was standing up.
“Frankly, I think Brock was shocked that I even tried to throw him out at the plate,” Horton writes. “He was definitely shocked that he was out.”
When the Tigers went on to sweep the last three games of the Series, beating Gibson in Game 7, Horton, who batted .304 in the postseason with three extra-base hits, saw the championship as a way to return harmony to Detroit, which had been battered by riots and unrest the previous year. Horton noted after the Series-clinching win that the Tigers “were put here by God to heal this city.”
He believes that to this day.
“My spirituality just tells me that there was a connection,” Horton writes.
Horton speaks favorably of many of his managers, including Chuck Dressen, Mayo Smith and Billy Martin. He was not enamored with Ralph Houk in Detroit, or with Bob Swift, Dressen’s interim replacement in 1965. But Martin “extended my career by six or seven years,” Horton writes, because of the manager’s insistence about conditioning and approach to the game.
Horton would take a turn managing, piloting the Valencia Magallanes in the Venezuelan League.
There are more interesting anecdotes. Horton opened a nightclub in Detroit. He once punched a horse — seriously. Horton’s sons had words with some fans in Toronto during the 1978 season, and when the player attempted to intervene he was hit in the head with a billy club by a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The horse came down on Horton’s son, breaking his foot. Horton, reacting to the swat against the head, turned and punched the horse.
“For the next month, people all around baseball were talking about how Willie Horton knocked out a horse,” Horton writes.
Playing for Seattle in 1979, Horton had his greatest power season, slugging 29 home runs and driving in 106 runs. One of his big moments for the Mariners came when he connected for his 300th career home run on June 6 against the Tigers, of all teams.
It was a bittersweet moment, since Horton had spent 15 of his 18 seasons with Detroit.
“I didn’t know whether I was happy or sad,” Horton writes. “Mostly, I was confused. Playing against the Tigers was the most difficult part of my career.”
Horton’s love affair with Detroit would return. The four-time All-Star had his uniform number retired in 2000. Since 2003, he has worked with the Tigers’ front office.
“I still have much I want to do in the world of baseball,” Horton said.
Baseball is better because of men like Horton, who endured tough times but never wavered from his goal of making a difference in the game — on and off the field. His role models cut across racial lines, and he humbly gives credit to those who paved his way to success.
This is an uplifting autobiography. One does not need to be a fan of the Tigers to enjoy Horton’s take on his career and life.
Just like a comfortable pair of shoes.