Did you recognize Earth Day? Did you recycle? Walk instead of ride? Pick up a piece of trash off of the sidewalk and put it into the receptacle? I know that sounds kind of gross, but alternatively, how many of us stopped someone who we saw about to drop a piece of trash on the street and ask him or her to drop it in the trashcan on the corner? As Gil Scott Heron would say, “Now you’re cutting deep.”
Also cutting deep, well deep into history, that is, is Mykalai Kontilai, founder of the Collector’s Café, a universal site for collectors of all kinds to share and sell their collectible items, much of which is worth thousands. What once was a hobby has become a business for Kontilai, who is now in command of some of history’s most important documents. Kontilai held a press conference in the heart of Times Square, where he announced the launch of the Collector’s Café, and unveiled the 1945 Montreal Royals contract and the 1947 contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers signed by legendary baseball great Jackie Robinson. According to Kontilai, “These are documents that have not been on display for almost seven decades, documents that really changed the world.” Kontilai expressed that he feels he has a responsibility to share history with the world because these documents and many more collectibles like the Robinson contract symbolically broke barriers.
By signing the 1945 and 1947 contracts, Robinson changed baseball forever, making a huge impact on the world. “To see the actual contracts that paved the way for history to be made, the signatures that made it real … in a time of such division, it’s so powerful to see documents that broke the color barriers and brought people together,” Kontilai added. The Robinson documents will go on tour, traveling to Robinson’s hometown, stadiums where he played and to other important stops along the way.
What would an event so important as this one be without a top-class reception to celebrate? After the afternoon press conference, collectors, enthusiasts, celebrities and friends gathered at the Rainbow Room for dinner, dancing and a toast to the future. Where else would you celebrate when you’re on top of the world? The view is spectacular, the service excellent and the speeches short, and the band was superb, having everyone out on the floor dancing while still playing at a level where you could have a conversation at the table.
So how was Kontilai able to come across such precious documents? Having been a collector from a very tender age, and once the owner of the “Nightly Business Report” after the program was acquired from PBS by his company NBR Worldwide, he has his ways. It seems as though Robinson himself parted with the contracts more than 50 years ago. The documents have been estimated to be worth more than $35 million dollars, whereas Robinson was paid $5000 for the season. Should there ever be a sale of either of the documents, 10 percent of the proceeds will go to the Jackie Robinson Foundation.
After a two-year battle, the corner of West 155th Street and Riverside Drive West has been co-named, Robert O. Lowery Way, in honor of Robert O. Lowery, the first African-American commissioner of the FDNY. Gathered for the unveiling and co-naming ceremony were former Attorney General Eric Holder, City Council Member Mark Levine and other elected officials. Lowery lived in the nearby River Terrace on 157th Street at Riverside Drive West for many years. So it was very appropriate to co-name this particular intersection after him, and in recognition of his 100th birthday.
Lowery was appointed the first African-American to lead the FDNY by Mayor John Lindsay in 1965. When Lowery first joined the FDNY as a firefighter in 1941, Blacks were prohibited from using kitchen utensils and slept in separate areas of firehouses. Lowery is known for his dedication to and efforts towards the improvement of race relations within the department. After his retirement, he remained active in civil rights causes.
I have a personal Lowery story. It was a freezing cold day in February. As I left Church of the Master, on 122nd Street at Morningside Avenue, twilight was descending. My memory fails me as to whether I had taken my daily dance class in ballet with Arthur Mitchell or African Dance with Chuck Davis. What I do remember is reaching the corner of 125th Street and standing motionless as I saw heavy black smoke billowing into the air from a fairly close distance. While switching gears from the rhythms still in my head back into reality, I was mesmerized as I walked towards the east, trying to comprehend whether the situation was serious.
My pace quickly picked up when I crossed 8th Avenue because the smoke became more intense. Running as fast as I could towards 7th Avenue, I was so fearful that my father’s record shop, then housed on the ground floor in the Theresa Hotel building, was on fire. I was only partially relieved to see the store next door all in flames. I ran inside the shop, and there by the door, huddled on the floor was my father and his friend, Tamu. Although the smoke all by itself was life-threatening, they were going to stay inside and ride out the storm, to protect the valuable collection of records, stereo equipment and tapes. Not a smart move, Dad. Close on my heels was a fireman. He ordered us all immediately out.
As I stood across the street, fixated on the flames that literally roared, my gaze was broken by a fireman standing nearby. He looked incredibly strong and he was Black, a rare sight in those days. Instinctively I approached him and, remembering my manners, introduced myself. With tears streaming down my face I only had to tell him it was my father’s store next door to the burning building. Without a moment of hesitation, he ordered the men to go to the top of the Teresa Hotel, and run water from their hoses down the side of the building. They did so all night long.
By the next morning, the fire was completely extinguished. The store next door, where the fire began, was completely demolished. But there we still stood, intact, covered in layers of thick ice. Once we were able to make our way inside, we could hardly breath through the lingering smell of the smoke. Somehow managing to turn on a light, we heaved a sigh of relief that everything stood right where it was left, safe and sound. I never saw the commissioner after that and regret that in my ignorance, I never sent him a letter of thanks.
I would like to take the time to acknowledge you now, Robert O. Lowery, for your perseverance, who you were, what you stood for and taking the time to listen to a poor soul like me.
Until next week … kisses.