He Went Down Swinging

Illness had diluted his mind, but not his indignation, which still covered him like a cologne used in quarts instead of drops.

Decades after golf tournaments threw him out because he was black, Spiller would jolt awake, sit up in his bed, shout the names of the long-deceased people who ran those tournaments.

Sometimes he would grab his gun, stalk into the living room, wave the pistol, promise 3 a.m. revenge.

"I'll get them for this, you'll see! I'll get them!"

Bill Spiller fought them night after night, front door to back.

His wife was so worried he might mistake her for a golf official and shoot her, she ordered him moved to a convalescent home.

He died there two years later, in 1988, at 75. His oldest son immediately phoned numerous media outlets--including this one--with the news.

Gone was the man many feel was most responsible for blacks being admitted to the Professional Golfers' Assn.

Gone was the pioneer who pestered the PGA for nearly 15 years until it finally dropped its "Caucasians-only" clause in 1961.

Contrary to popular belief, Tiger Woods' appearance in this week's Nissan Open is not due to a shoe company, but to Spiller.

The son figured somebody might want to give his death a headline.

Nobody was willing to give it even a sentence.

"Either they didn't know him, or weren't interested in him or both," said the son.

There was no obituary, so there were no friends at his memorial service. There were no calls from the PGA, no condolences from the organization he fought so intensely.

In the end, even Bill Spiller's demons won.

"Man died with a broken heart," said Maggie Hathaway, a local NAACP activist and former Los Angeles Sentinel columnist who chronicled Spiller. "He should have been the hero. But they made him the scapegoat."

*

The history of racial equality in sports is not always as clearly defined as a Jackie Robinson slide or an Arthur Ashe serve.

Sometimes that history is as cluttered as those ordinary neighborhoods from which it springs, as forgotten as those ordinary people who create it.

In the 1940s, South-Central Los Angeles was one of those neighborhoods. Bill Spiller was one of those people.

He was a porter at Union Station, a postal clerk, the owner of a doughnut shop, a resident of 122nd Street, a tidy beige house with a manicured front lawn. He was a father, a neighbor, a fixture.

He was also a golfer, one of many who hung around what is now known as the Chester Washington Golf Course, an unassuming spot of freshness on a blighted block of Western Avenue.

It is there that the only formal tribute to Bill Spiller remains.

It is a simple plaque, leaning back in a glass trophy case overlooking the 10th tee, crowded by haphazardly hung newspaper articles about, ironically, the likes of Tiger Woods.

"To William 'Bill' Spiller," begins the inscription, "In recognition of your achievement as a professional black golfer. . . ."

That's all he ever wanted to do. Make a living playing golf.

He was good enough to shoot a 68 and tie Ben Hogan for second place after the first round of the 1948 L.A. Open, a tournament that consistently ignored the PGA's ban on blacks.

He won many national tournaments held by blacks during that time.

"He was a great golfer, one of the best ever, black or white," said Charlie Sifford, the first black regular on the PGA Tour.

But Spiller had a problem with patience. While many other black golfers quietly accepted the PGA's assurances that they would soon be allowed to join the tour, Spiller bought nothing.

While others remained quiet for fear of hurting their chances, Spiller howled.

He broke whites-only rules in clubhouses everywhere. He filed a landmark suit against the PGA. And in 1952, he stood in front of a player's swing and stopped an entire tournament in San Diego. That protest helped lead to the rules change that opened the door for the inclusion of blacks on the tour. Many black golfers call it the single most important event in their fight.

Each step brought Spiller closer to his goal, but took him further from the world he so desperately wanted to join.

Typical was that time in Bakersfield in the early 1950s when Spiller and several friends had played well in a tournament, but were denied access to the clubhouse afterward.

"Spiller just walked inside and asked the wife of the club president to dance," said Frank Snow, a former playing partner. "He said that when he came back out, all the other blacks had left him because they were afraid."

Another playing partner, Ed Satchell, remembers having a drink with a PGA official after they had played a round with Spiller and been hassled the entire time about not allowing blacks in tournaments.

"He said, 'Ed, you're a nice guy, you shouldn't be messing around with Spiller,' " Satchell said.