by Jonathan Eig
The Yanks had an experienced pitching staff, with Allie Reynolds their top starter and the brilliant Joe Page working in relief. Though their pitchers tended to walk batters and give up a few home runs, on the whole they were not easily unnerved. The thing that worried them most was the man to whom they threw: Yogi Berra, the sweet, daffy catcher. Berra was a short, barrel-shaped kid of twenty-two years, who swung at pitches way out of the strike zone and somehow banged them with gigantic force. He was a St. Louis native who had grown up with Joe Garagiola, his best friend. While the Yanks expected Berra to be a star, they were still trying to figure out where to play him. Catching seemed too complicated for him. They tried him in the outfield, but he showed an almost laughably poor ability to chase down fly balls. Berra knew it, too. He also knew that he had the great DiMaggio, who covered more ground than Rand McNally, next to him in center field. DiMaggio sensed the rookie’s reluctance and took command, ranging farther and farther into the rookie’s turf, until Berra learned that the most important part of his job was to stay out of DiMaggio’s way lest the team’s star trip over him and break a leg. But Berra’s outfield adventures had come when one or another of the Yanks’ regular outfielders had been hurt. Now, Tommy Henrich and Johnny Lindell were healthy, which meant Berra would have to catch if he hoped to play. Robinson intended to test him immediately.
• • •
It was a cool, sunny day that looked every bit like summer and yet felt unmistakably like fall. A sharp wind blew, forcing turned collars and tucked chins. When the first pitch of the World Series was thrown at one-thirty in the afternoon on September 30—a called strike from Spec Shea to Eddie Stanky—it was seen by more people than any event in history. There were 73,365 fans packed into Yankee Stadium, the biggest paying crowd ever to see a World Series game, and another 25,000 or so watching from nearby rooftops. But even that enormous audience was minuscule compared to the one watching on television. In 1946, NBC had run coaxial cables between New York, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and Schenectady, New York, thus establishing the nation’s first primitive television network. The network was now getting its first important test. There were an estimated fifty thousand television sets in use in metropolitan New York on September 1, 1947, about 15 percent of them in bars. Across the four wired cities, broadcasters estimated that 3.9 million people would watch the Series on television. That number may have been exaggerated by officials trying to show television’s growing grip on the nation. An RCA 630 TS, with a ten-inch screen, was priced at about $375, putting it off-limits to many. Even so, there was no question that this World Series marked a momentous event in the industry’s evolution.
For weeks leading up to the first game, newspaper ads trumpeted new model television sets—big wooden boxes with gray screens no bigger than a lunch box—as the best way to witness the world’s most important events. “Thousands will see the World Series by PHILCO TELEVISION,” boasted a big advertisement in the New York Times. “Winston Television Guarantees: A Front Row Seat at The World Series . . . with the new 1947 DuMont Teleset,” read another ad. Bars all over New York hurriedly installed new sets. One watering hole in Flatbush made headlines by installing two—one for Dodger fans, one for Yankee fans. At the Park Avenue Theatre, where Frieda was showing on the big screen, a little screen was set up in the lobby so fans could step out during the movie to check the baseball action. When Judge Samuel S. Liebowitz heard that jurors in his Kings County courtroom were threatening to walk out on the trial of a cabdriver accused of rape because they didn’t want to miss the first game, he called a recess, sent a member of his staff to buy a television set, and set it up in his library for all but the defendant to watch. When President Truman was asked by reporters if he’d have time to attend a game, he said no, but he would try to catch a few innings on television. A few days later, Truman issued the first televised presidential address from the White House, asking Americans to give up eating meat on Tuesdays and to eliminate eggs and poultry on Thursdays in order to conserve the world’s food supply and help save the starving millions in Europe. The president said nothing about whether World Series hot dog sales should be curtailed.
So the big event began with a called strike from Shea to Stanky, then a routine fly ball to left, followed by another first: the sight of a black man stepping to the plate in a World Series game. Twenty-two men worked the cameras, microphones, and cables around Yankee Stadium, and now the entire crew turned its attention to capturing Robinson’s image. New, more powerful camera lenses brought the game closer to television viewers than ever—closer even than the view afforded from box seats. For the first time, personalities and emotions went on electronic display. For the first time, a player’s intensity, his anxiety, or his glee could be discerned by viewers. It was, unquestionably, the start of something big.
“To the individual before a television screen,” wrote R. W. Stewart of The New York Times that fall, “a beaten pitcher is more than a stooped figure trudging off the mound; a base-line coach is something other than a gesticulating shape; no matter what player is being televised, he takes on a character beyond that visible from the stands. The added keenness of the cameras brings a viewer as far ‘inside’ baseball as a spectator can go.” Long shadows cast by Yankee Stadium’s walls and light stanchions bisected the infield, however, making much of the action difficult to discern on the small screen, despite the new camera lenses. Stewart, sensing the new medium’s potential, wrote that “it would not be too far-fetched to believe that television might be brought into consideration in the construction of any future ball parks.” But if the cameramen had difficulty working on this bright day of long shadows, they seemed to have no problem picking up Robinson, whose dark skin made him the most immediately recognizable man on the screen, even in the shade.
Seated in the grandstand for the game were Leo Durocher, Laraine Day, Johnny Mize, Ted Williams, Ty Cobb, Happy Chandler, Ford Frick, Danny Kaye, Herbert Hoover, New York governor Thomas E. Dewey, U.S. senator Irving Ives (who, as a member of the New York State Assembly, coauthored the Quinn-Ives Act, which helped push Branch Rickey to integrate the Dodgers), Mayor William O’Dwyer, John Foster Dulles, and Secretary of State George C. Marshall. But it was Babe Ruth, heavy coat buttoned to his neck, coughing into his hand between puffs on a big cigar, who drew the most attention.
Robinson had a smile on his face as he stepped to bat for the first time. Mallie Robinson strained to see her son, her view blocked partially by latecomers still settling into their seats. Robinson was an anxious hitter at times, swinging at so-so pitches, confident in his ability at least to foul them off. But today, despite the added pressure, he was patient. Five pitches went by, and he waved at none of them. On the sixth pitch, finally, he swung and hit a foul ball. On the seventh pitch, a chin-high fastball, he drew a walk, the first man on base in the ’47 Series. As Robinson jogged to first, a reporter watching Mallie Robinson thought he saw her lips form the words, “Thank God.”
In the days before the Series, even as the Yankees plotted their strategy on how to handle Robinson, Berra had repeatedly told reporters he wasn’t worried. “I know all about Robinson from playing against him in 1946 when I was with the Newark club in the International League,” the rookie catcher said. “Robinson never stole a base against me. He tried twice but each time I nabbed him. We know all about him. We know when he’s going to run and when he’s going to bunt.”
To which Robinson had a response: “If I had an arm like that,” he said, “I wouldn’t talk about it.”
The Dodger book on the Yankees said they could run on Berra. His arm was decent, despite Robinson’s comment, but his mechanics were horrible. Some writers, half joking, said Berra hadn’t made an accurate toss to second since throwing a ball from home plate into a barrel set up on the bag during a midseason stunt. Now, on Shea’s second pitch, Robinson took off, kicking up clumps of dirt with every long, pigeon-toed stride. The pitch was high and outside, a good one for Berra to handl
e. He rose from his crouch, caught the ball, stepped, and threw, all with pretty good form and pretty good speed. Clearly, he’d been ready. But the throw from home to second is 127 feet and three and three-eighths inches. This time, Berra’s throw fell about two feet short. It skipped into shortstop Phil Rizzuto’s waiting glove a fraction of a second late. Robinson hooked his foot around the soft white bag as umpire Ed Rommel spread his arms to signal safe.
Now, as Shea worked on Reiser, Robinson hopped off second, eager to make more mischief. Reiser slapped a hard grounder back through the middle of the infield. Robinson had a perfect view. He must have thought the ball would get past Shea, or else he was going on contact, because he bolted for third before he could see where the ball was going. Shea, falling to his right, made a great catch on one hop. He turned, saw Robinson headed for third, and cocked his arm to make the throw. Robinson, caught, slammed on the brakes, the entire weight of his body planted in his right foot. Without wasting a step, he reversed direction and began to head back toward second. Shea lowered his arm and ran right at Robinson, exactly as a pitcher is taught to do in a rundown such as this one. As Shea closed in, Robinson stopped again, and, like a halfback, faked with his head and shoulders, as if he were going to head for third again. Shea froze. Now Robinson had a little working room, and he used it to make a dash for second. Shea had seen enough. He tossed the ball to Rizzuto, who was standing on second base. As the ball flew over his head, Robinson reversed direction yet again, his lips spread, teeth clenched. As he caught the ball Rizzuto started chasing after Robinson. Robinson ran as fast as he could toward third. No time now for more trickery. Though momentum was in his favor, it took the shortstop seven full strides to catch up, and he slapped the tag on Robinson’s rear end. By the time Rizzuto managed to stop and turn around, Reiser had dashed safely into second. Robinson had made a mistake by breaking for third on the ground ball, but he had redeemed himself by keeping the Yankees so busy with his “hithering and thithering,” as one writer put it, that Reiser could advance into scoring position. When Dixie Walker punched a fly to short left and Johnny Lindell lost it in the sun, Reiser dashed home with the first run of the game. The Dodgers had the lead, and Robinson to thank for it.
In the top of the third, the score remained 1–0 in favor of the Dodgers when Robinson came to bat again, this time with two outs and none on. Shea was pitching well, but he wasn’t overpowering anyone, and the Dodgers thought it was only a matter of time before they cracked him. Though he had finished the regular season with a record of 14–5 and a 3.07 earned run average, Shea was just a rookie. He’d been inconsistent over the course of the season, starting strongly, tiring in the summer’s heat, as rookies so often do, and then finishing with a burst of strength. The right-hander threw a mean curve and a decent fastball, but Bucky Harris had probably chosen him to start the first game of the Series for another reason: The Dodgers had never seen him pitch. Once again, Robinson was patient. He worked the count full before drawing another walk, then jogged to first base and began dancing in the shadows. Four times Shea threw to first base, trying to keep Robinson from getting a big lead. At least one of his throws was close enough to make Robinson belly-flop back to the bag. With each throw, Dodger fans cheered more loudly and Yankee fans grew more tense. Shea, in at least one writer’s description, appeared to be flustered. As he stood atop the pitcher’s mound, trying to decide whether to go after Robinson one more time or pitch at last to Reiser, he dropped the ball and watched as it landed in front of his foot and rolled down the mound. The umpire called a balk and awarded Robinson second base. Shea picked up the ball and slammed it angrily in his mitt.
From second base, Robinson began his routine all over again, taking a huge lead and trying to draw a throw. Shea obliged and unleashed a terrible peg. If it hadn’t struck Robinson’s foot, it might have rolled into the outfield. By now, Robinson’s rooters at Yankee Stadium were delirious. Before a huge crowd, with millions watching on television and many millions more listening on the radio, he was putting on a dazzling show. “For the first time in my life,” wrote Willard Townsend, a black union leader, describing how he felt watching Robinson torment the Yankees at that moment, “I really understood what was meant by the much used expression ‘as American as apple pie and baseball.’ ” That wasn’t just a baseball player out there, he wrote, it was “democratic promise” running the bases.
Through four innings, Robinson electrified the crowd, and Branca, the starting pitcher, held the Yankees without a hit. His fastball was humming. His curveball was sweeping in big, fat arcs. He seemed entirely untouchable until the fifth inning, when DiMaggio hit a ground ball deep in the hole between short and third. Reese made a nice play but threw too late to get the out. Suddenly, Branca’s perfect game was gone, and so was his confidence. From the Yankee dugout, coach Charlie Dressen, formerly of the Dodgers, seized the opportunity and began heckling the pitcher. “You’ll go wild!” he shouted. “You’ll go wild!” Branca did. He walked the next batter on four pitches and hit the batter after him, loading the bases. Then, facing Johnny Lindell, he threw a sloppy curve that drifted too far over the plate. Lindell bashed it for a two-run double. Rizzuto came up next and drew a walk on five pitches, loading the bases yet again. Now Bobby Brown came on to pinch hit for Shea. When Branca threw two pitches out of the strike zone, Shotton had seen enough. Branca was finished. In came Hank Behrman. As Branca walked off the field and Behrman walked on, Robinson stood with hands on hips and lips pursed, his face a picture of sheer disgust.
Now Behrman, the pitcher who had been wanted by neither Brooklyn nor Pittsburgh and who had amassed a hideous earned run average of 6.25, found himself with a chance to make everyone forget about his dismal regular-season performance. In 1946, he’d come from nowhere to help pitch the Dodgers into playoff contention. But even with his terrific record that season, he’d never inspired much confidence among teammates or fans. Almost every player, even the marginal ones, was honored with a special day in that era. Fans would take up collections and buy cars and radios and watches for their heroes. But on Hank Behrman Day, fans came up with less than one hundred dollars. They bought him a savings bond, which Behrman dropped to the grass in disgust. Now, at last, he was being paid a compliment: With the opening game of the World Series on the line, he was Burt Shotton’s first choice out of the bullpen.
Behrman, however, did not drape himself in glory. He completed the walk to Brown, forcing in a run, and gave up a two-run single to the clutch-hitting Tommy Henrich. By the time the inning ended, the Yankees had a 5–1 lead. In the sixth, with Joe Page now pitching, Robinson reached on a fielder’s choice and later scored, but Page finished off the Dodgers by holding them scoreless over the final two innings.
After the game, Branca stormed around the locker room, cursing himself. “You don’t think I was scared out there, do you?” he asked at one point, sounding like a man who was trying hard to convince himself.
Robinson, however, remained defiant. It had been a sloppy game, with a lot of misplayed balls in the outfield on both sides. Stripping off his uniform, he declared the outcome a moral victory for the Dodgers. “This is one defeat that gave us confidence,” he told Dick Young. “We’ve heard so much about the ‘Mighty Yanks’ and they didn’t show us a thing. Not a thing. We handed them the game.”
• • •
The weather was cool again for game two, although the winds were less biting. Another big crowd filled Yankee Stadium. For the second day in a row, reporters noted that black fans were not out in great numbers, probably because tickets were so hard to come by, and because, at Yankee Stadium, so many tourists and business executives gobbled up seats with little concern over paying scalpers’ prices. Burt Shotton showed up for the game in a new suit and a bright new bowtie. When asked if he intended for the new duds to change his team’s luck, he responded with characteristic verbosity.
“Yes,” he said.
In the first inning Robinson went down sw
inging against Allie Reynolds. He singled to left and drove in a run in the third inning. He doubled in the eighth inning. He was, of course, the first black player ever to do each of these things. Otherwise, the Dodgers had nothing to brag about. In fact, they looked like real bums, not the lovable kind. Pete Reiser, never the same after hitting the wall earlier in the season, tripped, fumbled, stumbled, and fell all afternoon in the outfield. Eddie Stanky dropped an easy throw at second on what might have been a double play. Robinson let a bunted ball roll under his glove and into right field (the official scorer generously decided not to charge him with an error). Relief pitchers Behrman and Rex Barney each threw costly wild pitches. When it was all over, the Yankees walked off with a 10–3 win.
Only once in the history of the World Series had a team overcome a two-games-to-none deficit. Now, as the competition moved to Ebbets Field, gamblers put the odds at six-to-one in favor of the Yankees. The headline of Red Smith’s column read “Finis for Dodgers.”
TWENTY-ONE
“WE AREN’T AFRAID”
Ebbets Field held fewer than half as many fans as Yankee Stadium—roughly thirty-two thousand to seventy thousand. The celebrity lineup in the stands also fell off dramatically as the Series moved to Brooklyn. The actor Danny Kaye was on hand for game three, as was former heavyweight champ Gene Tunney, and the publisher Henry Luce. Ted Williams showed up at the ballpark, too, but he didn’t have a ticket and couldn’t talk his way past the turnstile boys so he repaired to a nearby tavern to watch the game on television. The Yankees got an even ruder reception upon arrival, their team bus pelted with eggs as it rolled down Flatbush Avenue. Bucky Harris announced that the mighty Yankees would henceforth travel by subway.