It's tempting to say Reggie Whittemore's life has come full circle. A more appropriate analogy, however, would have to involve baseball: Now that he's safe at home, Whittemore's doing all he can to encourage Nashville kids into the batter's box.
Growing up in South Nashville's Tony Sudekum Homes, Whittemore learned to pick grounders by throwing a ball against the brick walls of his project apartment. "There never was any neighborhood baseball that was organized," says Whittemore. "We learned early on that as long as you had a ball you could play."
Every summer's night, Whittemore would lie down in front of the family radio, turning the knob till he hit 750 WTBS-AM, official home of the Atlanta Braves. There, along with his grandfather, a retired rail worker, Whittemore passed the evening in total silence, straining through the static to catch the at-bats of his idol, Hammerin' Hank Aaron.Bigger and stronger than the other kids, Whittemore caught the eyes of summer league coaches. His mom didn't have a car, so they happily chauffeured him to and from the manicured infields in Bellevue and Hermitage. At Lipscomb, Whittemore patrolled right field for a national champion. Then the Red Sox came calling in the 15th round of the 1979 draft. Whittemore played seven years in the minors, his closest brush with the bigs being a spring-training invite in 1983.
When his baseball career ended, Whittemore came home to Nashville. He passed a few years selling aluminum siding and grilling T-bones at a steakhouse off Broadway. Then he was offered a job at a local Boys & Girls club. In 1996, Whittemore heard about Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities (RBI).
In the years since he'd learned the game, Whittemore's story had become increasingly rare. Baseball had fallen out of favor with inner-city kids for a variety of reasons, not least because it's hard to field a game when grass is a foreign object.
Major League Baseball and a handful of former players started RBI in order to resurrect interest. Whittemore, the only Boys & Girls employee who'd ever successfully hit the cut-off man, was asked if he wanted to start a league in Music City.
In its first year, Nashville RBI fielded 60 kids, barely enough to fill five dugouts. Whittemore played the role of utility infielder: raking infields, shuttling kids to and from games, even running the concession stand. More than a dozen years later, Nashville RBI keeps over 1,300 boys and girls in mitts and ballcaps. Even though Whittemore remains the only full-time employee.
"Nashville RBI doesn't exist without Reggie," says volunteer coach Darryl Robertson, "because Reggie is Nashville RBI."
The growth hasn't gone unnoticed. Last year, Whittemore was one of five finalists for GQ's Man of the Year Award. A donation from Nissan meant he could retire his old jalopy in favor of a brand-new Titan pickup. And a partnership with an indoor batting cage has Whittemore one step closer to his ultimate goal: a Nashville baseball academy where RBI kids can take their cuts year-round.
"Baseball is not an easy game to play," Whittemore says. "Mitts are expensive, bats are expensive. You've got to have a desire to play or else you're never gonna do it. That's what we're trying to give 'em. We're just trying to give these kids the chance."
Photographed at Nashville RBI by Eric England with assistance from Sinclair Kelly
