A life spent on the front lines

The distinguished gentleman stood in a Beverly Hills hotel lobby, wearing a suit and a baseball cap, sharing his stories late into the evening.

He spoke of pride and prejudice. He spoke of Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente. He spoke with humility, not bitterness, about serving a country that denied him the opportunity to pursue his career at the highest levels.

He spoke so late into this Saturday evening that he finally excused himself. He had to catch a plane at sunrise, the only way he could return home to Alabama in time for Sunday evening services.

He leads them. He’s 82.

He’s the Rev. Bill Greason of Bethel Baptist Church of Birmingham, a veteran of Iwo Jima and the Negro leagues. He got a standing ovation in Beverly Hills recently, in a ballroom packed with baseball insiders, many of whom had no idea who Greason was.

In Southern California, this is the grandest of baseball evenings, the annual gala that raises money for scouts who have fallen upon hard times. Dennis Gilbert, the former agent and current Chicago White Sox executive, stages the event each winter.

Cal Ripken and Bud Selig spoke this year, and so did Tom Lasorda and Mike Scioscia.

And so did Mays, who used the occasion to pay tribute to four of his teammates on the 1948 Birmingham Black Barons. Mays got to the major leagues at 20, and eventually to the Hall of Fame, but he got to the Barons at 17, as baseball’s color barrier slowly started to crumble.

He’s 75 now, but he hasn’t forgotten. He welcomed his Negro leagues teammates and mentors to the stage. Artie Wilson was there, at 86. Sam Williams, at 84. Jim Zapp, at 82, and Greason too.

“I don’t know if I would be here if it wasn’t for these guys,” Mays told the crowd. “When I got to Birmingham, I was a very wild kid. These guys ... made it possible for me to come to the majors.

“I could play baseball very well. I’m talking about night life. I couldn’t bring any girls into the hotel. They made sure I was in by 10 or 11 o’clock.

“I was wondering, ‘Why? Why me?’ They said, ‘You will be a major league baseball player.’ ”

Greason was born a little too soon. He had to leave his country to play a season with the best, in winter ball in Latin America. He had to serve his country, in World War II.

“Then I had to go back for the Korean War,” he said. “I don’t have a scratch on me.”

He could have died at Iwo Jima, but he could not have played in the major leagues the year he got back. By the time he got his chance -- pitching in three games for the St. Louis Cardinals in 1954, at 30 -- he had decided to stay in Birmingham and devote his life to the ministry.

He’s still there and still devoted, half a century later.

“I believe God had something to do with it,” Greason said. “Had I stayed in the majors, I probably wouldn’t be where I am now. I’m happy.”

If you’ve never heard of him, he does not take offense. He reaches into a pocket and retrieves a handmade baseball card, laminated, with a black-and-white picture of him in the windup and a three-sentence summary of his career.

“William Greason, Pitcher,” the introductory lines read. “A Negro League Legend.”

Said Greason: “We didn’t have relief pitchers. We didn’t have setup men or stoppers. When we walked out there, they expected us to pitch nine innings. Most often, we did.”

He tells one story, and then another, and then a woman stops him to say thank you, right there in the middle of the hotel lobby. She introduces herself as Zelia Watson. Four months ago, the Dodgers hired her son, De Jon, as director of player development.

“It’s the first time they’ve had a black in that position,” she told Greason. “It’s men like you that have opened the doors for him.”

Greason would love to share his stories forever, even after he is gone. He wants desperately to open a Negro leagues museum in Birmingham, to display the uniforms and caps and rings and other memorabilia that made his hometown such a vibrant place for black players.

“We don’t want to sell stuff,” he said. “We want to leave it for somebody.”

If Major League Baseball closed its door to him 60 years ago, perhaps it could open a door for him today. Greason said he has not approached MLB for help because he has no idea where to start. He did not speak with Selig, the commissioner, during the event in Beverly Hills.

But Selig, contacted later, said he would be happy to discuss how MLB might support Greason’s dream of a museum.

“Of course we would listen,” Selig said. “We certainly would like to be helpful.”

Greason speaks softly and slowly, but there is no mistaking the urgency in his voice. If he’s going to round up memorabilia from Mays and the other Black Barons, he needs to move now, before all the players are gone.

“Our time is limited,” Greason said. “When you are 82, you don’t have 82 more.”

There also is no mistaking the love in his voice, the stunning absence of bitterness or resentment at the segregation that deprived him and so many other Black Barons of equal opportunity on the diamond.

“I’ve had a great life. I’ve been blessed,” he said. “Each of us had our time. We represented baseball. We represented Birmingham. We represented our people. We represented ourselves.

“We knew we could play. All we needed was the opportunity. But we didn’t feel bad. I have no regrets. I’m grateful I was part of it.”

bill.shaikin@latimes.com