They were called the Detroit Stars, and though history nearly left them behind, their legacy still flickers like a half-remembered summer evening.
Founded in 1919 by Black businessman Tenny Blount, the Stars were Detroit’s entry into the newly formed Negro National League, the first organized baseball league for African American players. The team was managed—and anchored—by the incomparable Rube Foster, often called the father of Black baseball. In truth, he was more than that. He was its Moses, its commissioner, its architect, and, in many ways, its heart.
The Stars played at Mack Park, a modest but passionate venue on the city’s east side, where Black fans filled the stands in Sunday best or work-stained overalls, cheering for men who weren’t just athletes—they were heroes in exile, barred from the Major Leagues by the color line but no less talented than their white counterparts.
Among them shone Turkey Stearnes, a name that should be etched in every Hall of Fame across the land. Stearnes was one of the greatest hitters of his era, with a quirky batting stance and a thunderous swing. He could hit for power, steal bases, and cover center field with elegance. He was, quite simply, a star among Stars.
From 1919 through the early 1930s, the Detroit Stars were a powerhouse. They never won a league title, but their rosters were loaded with talent—Bruce Petway, Andy Cooper, Edgar Wesley, Frank Warfield. They barnstormed, they battled, they believed. And their fans believed with them, packing Mack Park and later Hamtramck Stadium, one of the few surviving Negro League ballparks in the country today.
But like so many institutions of Black excellence, the Stars were never granted permanence. The original team folded in 1931, a casualty of the Great Depression and the systemic barriers that made financial sustainability nearly impossible for segregated teams. There were revivals—a 1933 team, a 1954 version—but none held the same magic, or endured the way the players had.
The legacy faded, slowly, as integration brought Jackie Robinson into the majors but erased the context that made his debut so powerful. By the time the Tigers took the field each spring, few remembered the Stars who once lit up Detroit’s east side.
But memory, like baseball, is a game of returns.
Today, you can still visit Hamtramck Stadium, a field slowly being restored by volunteers, historians, and true believers. There are plaques now. Murals. A Turkey Stearnes historical marker. There are youth games played where ghosts once ran. The city is beginning to remember what it forgot.
And in doing so, it recognizes something crucial:
That baseball didn’t just live in Briggs Stadium.
It thrived in Mack Park.
It soared in Hamtramck.
It shined in the players who played for dignity when fame was denied.
The Stars wore pinstripes.
They wore pride.
They played under the sun and under the burden of injustice.
And still—they played.
Detroit has always loved its baseball.
But the Detroit Stars remind us that love isn’t just for the champions.
It’s for those who played anyway.
Who ran hard.
Who dared to shine where no spotlight waited.