Opening Day

by Jonathan Eig

  • • •

  The following year, while writing the preface for yet another autobiography, Robinson looked back one last time on the summer of 1947, and in particular to the first game of the World Series. He remained unsatisfied.

  “There I was the black grandson of a slave, the son of a black sharecropper, part of a historic occasion, a symbolic hero to my people. The air was sparkling. The sunlight was warm. The band struck up the national anthem. The flag billowed in the wind. It should have been a glorious moment for me as the stirring words of the national anthem poured from the stands. Perhaps it was, but then again perhaps the anthem could be called the theme song for a drama called The Noble Experiment. Today as I look back on the opening game of my first World Series, I must tell you that it was Mr. Rickey’s drama and that I was only a principal actor. As I write this twenty years later, I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag. I know that I am a black man in a white world. In 1972, in 1947, at my birth in 1919, I know that I never had it made.”

  Robinson was bitter over his son’s death and in poor health when he wrote those words. The turmoil of the 1960s had been hard on him. He suddenly felt uncertain of his place in the world. He worried that his son David would suffer for having grown up in a mostly white, affluent part of Connecticut. He wrote to Rachel saying that it was important for his son to learn to “talk like he’s colored,” and to dance the way black men and women danced.

  In the summer of 1972, Robinson flew to Los Angeles to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the 1947 team. He was fifty-three years old and looked older, heavy around the middle, his hair shockingly white, nearly blind from diabetes, survivor of a heart attack. He had long been estranged from the Dodgers, avoiding old-timers’ games and banquets. All over the country, honors were pouring in, in part because of the anniversary and in part because it was clear Robinson was seriously ill. This time, he agreed to attend.

  The day before the ceremony, on a whim, Los Angeles Times reporter Ron Rapoport called the hotel where Robinson was staying. Robinson answered the phone in his room and invited the reporter to drop by for an interview. Rapoport hurried over. He found the former ballplayer lying in his bed, under the covers, the room around him dark. Robinson turned on a table lamp as the reporter pulled up a chair. “The light hurts my eyes,” he said. Doctors expected he would soon need his legs amputated. Robinson and the reporter spoke for more than an hour, until Rapoport sensed it was time to go, time to let Robinson turn out the light. He asked one more question:

  “Have you ever thought about your place in history?”

  “I honestly believe that baseball did set the stage for many things that are happening today,” he said, “and I’m proud to have played a part in it.”

  At Dodgers Stadium the next day, a fan called Robinson’s name, waited for him to turn around, and then gently lobbed a baseball his way. Robinson never saw it. The ball struck him painfully in the head. A few months later, before the second game of the 1972 World Series, baseball honored Robinson once again. And once again, he refused to go quietly. By 1972, roughly one in four players were black. A year earlier, the Pirates had won the World Series with a starting lineup consisting almost entirely of black and Hispanic players. Yet Robinson said he would not be satisfied until black men got the chance to manage in the majors, too. “I wish Branch Rickey could be here,” he said, as he accepted a plaque in honor of his rookie season. He continued: “I am extremely proud and pleased, but I am going to be more pleased the day I . . . see a black man as manager.”

  Nine days later he was dead of a heart attack.

  “His courage, his sense of brotherhood and his brilliance on the playing field brought a new human dimension not only to the game of baseball but to every area of American life where black and white people work side by side,” President Nixon said. Civil rights leader Vernon Jordan called Robinson “a trailblazer for all black people and a great spokesman for justice.” The sportswriter Red Smith remembered him as “the unconquerable doing the impossible.”

  “I’m as sad as could possibly be,” Dixie Walker told a reporter.

  Sixty years after his debut in major-league baseball, Robinson’s stature as an American hero has never been greater. His story has been told countless times—in poems, movies, songs, short stories, sermons, novels, comic books, term papers, plays, and children’s books. Ballparks, baseball fields, streets, schools, playgrounds, and scholarships have been named in his honor. His image adorns postage stamps, collectible dolls, T-shirts, coins, and at least four statues. His name is attached to a nonprofit foundation, overseen by his wife, which provides college scholarships and mentoring for minority youths. Robinson is the only player in the history of major-league baseball to have had his uniform number, 42, retired by every team in both leagues. Each year on April 15, in memory of his first game, fans celebrate Jackie Robinson Day wherever big-league ball is played, and the story of his rookie season is told again, handed down like folklore.

  Occasionally, some have questioned his legacy. A handful of historians and sociologists have blamed Robinson, along with Branch Rickey, for killing off Negro-league baseball. Others, noting the declining number of American black players in the game today, not to mention the low number of black spectators at big-league ballparks, have suggested that Robinson’s impact may have been fleeting. But the Negro leagues were doomed with or without Robinson, like the black-owned hospitals and taxi companies that prospered in the heyday of Jim Crow. And no one could have foreseen the way professional football and basketball have drawn young black athletes away from baseball.

  In 1947, when integration was new and the barriers to democracy for black Americans were concrete, Robinson presented a solution that would soon become a template in the fight for racial equality. Over one spectacular summer, he proved that black Americans had been held back not by their inferiority but by systematic discrimination. And he proved it not with printed words or arguments declaimed before a judge. He proved it with deeds.

  That was Jackie Robinson’s true legacy. Given a chance to change the world, he never hesitated. He played hard and won. After that, it was a whole new ballgame.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In telling the story of Jackie Robinson’s first season, I was fortunate to talk to many of the participants and observers who figured in these events sixty years ago. With a few exceptions, all of them agreed to be interviewed, giving generously of their time and recollections. I am especially grateful to Rachel Robinson, who met with me three times and answered additional questions by telephone and email. She’s a hero in her own right, and Jackie was a lucky man to have had her by his side.

  I am grateful for interviews to Marty Adler, Jack Banta, Dottie Banta, Buzzie Bavasi, Bobby Bragan, Ralph Branca, Bobby Brown, Roy Campanella, Jr., Hilton Clark, William P. Coleman, Mimi Connelly, Jack Courson, George Crowe, Bob Dillinger, Chris Durocher, Eddie Erautt, Carl Erskine, William “Benny” Felder, Henry Foner, Bernard Fradkin, Joe Frazier, Lonny Frey, Joe Garagiola, Margot Hayward, Ernie Harwell, Gene Hermanski, Tot Holmes, Ralph Houk, George Houser, Dan Hurley, Monte Irvin, Clarence L. Irving, Gilbert Jonas, Ralph Kiner, Clyde King, Norma King, Clem Labine, Jack Lang, Joe Laurice, Buddy Lively, Don Lund, Bill Mallory, Edwina Gaiser-Marchev, Marty Marion, Len Merullo, John Miley, Ox Miller, Orestes “Minnie” Minoso, Les Moss, Juanita Nelson, Bill Nunn, Jr., Buck O’Neil, Andy Pafko, Freddie Palmisano, Dave Parker, Sidney Poitier, Colin Powell, Charles Rich, Branch Rickey III, Phil Rizzuto, Eddie Robinson, Sharon Robinson, Will Robinson, Lester Rodney, Al Rosen, Esther Roth, Michael Roth, Mary Ann Sain, Freddy Schmidt, Johnny Schmitz, Howie Schultz, Joe B. Scott, Bud Selig, George “Shotgun” Shuba, Seymour Siwoff, Wyonella Smith, Marian and Donald Spencer, Delores Squires, Gerry Staley, Jerry Stern, Ed Stevens, Stan Strull, William Taylor, Bobby Thomson, Bob Usher, Johnny Van Cuyk, Jimmy Wilkes, and Leonard Zegans.

  Thanks to the friends and research assistants who helped pan for gold in libraries
and archives around the country: Lori Azim, Andrew Bentley, Joe DeMartino, Dalia Naamani-Goldman, Sam Goldsmith, Steve Johnson, Bob Kazel, David King, Irving Matus, Clarissa del Pilar, Scott Schleifer, and Diane Wright.

  Thanks to the writers who shared their memories and expertise: Kevin Baker, Martha Biondi, Jimmy Breslin, Paul Dickson, Eric Foner, Harvey Frommer, Pete Golenbock, Jerome Holtzman, Jane Leavy, Michael G. Long, Leonard Lopate, Bill Madden, William Marshall, Jeffrey Marx, Leigh Montville, Michael Penn, Joshua Prager, Ron Rapoport, Christopher Renino, Jeremy Schaap, and Studs Terkel. Special thanks to the writer Jules Tygiel, who shared notes and hundreds of pages of transcribed interviews collected in preparing his marvelous book Baseball’s Great Experiment. In donating his research materials to the National Baseball Hall of Fame, he has done a service to all the writers who follow in his footsteps. I was also fortunate to have access to the papers of Carl T. Rowan, who worked with Robinson on the book Wait Till Next Year. Rowan’s papers, at the Library of Congress and Oberlin College, contained transcripts of taped interviews with Robinson, his mother, and many other characters central to this story.

  Thanks to the librarians and archivists who helped me along the way: at the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Claudette Burke, Jim Gates, Pat Kelly, Sue MacKay, Tim Wiles, and everyone else who pitched in; at the Birmingham News, Amber Long; at the New York Public Library, David Smith; at the Pittsburgh Courier archives, E. Gaines; at the Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame, Greg Rhodes; at the Library of Congress, David Kelly and Jeff Flannery; at the Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, Dwight Strandberg; at the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library, Randy Sowell; at the National Archives, John Vernon; at the Virginia Historical Society, Katherine Wilkins; at Oberlin College, Ken Grossi; at the Carnegie Museum of Art, Kerin Shellenbarger.

  Also, thanks to Dave Smith of Retrosheet; Barbara Sawyer at the Jackie Robinson Foundation; Bill Guilfoile, formerly of the Hall of Fame; and the invisible forces who maintain www.baseball-reference.com, www.sabr.org, www.baseballlibrary.com, www.paperofrecord.com, and www.baseball-almanac.com. Thanks to Eric Enders and Joseph Dorinson for their expert fact-checking. The mistakes in the book are all mine, but some of the great, Gionfriddo-esque catches are theirs.

  I am also grateful to my brother, Matt Eig, and to my friends Richard Babcock, Joseph Epstein, and Ron Jackson, who all read the manuscript with care. I owe a tremendous debt to Robert Kurson, a great writer and friend, who helped with the idea for the book, and to my friend and Wall Street Journal editor Bryan Gruley, for reading many drafts of many chapters along the way and making every one of them better.

  Thanks to my editor at Simon & Schuster, Bob Bender, who shepherded this book with a steady hand, good humor, and great intelligence. Also at Simon & Schuster, thanks to Brianne Halverson, Johanna Li, Victoria Meyer, David Rosenthal, Kelly Welsh, and everyone else who helped. Thanks to David Black, a fantastic agent and friend, who brings a Robinson-like zeal to his work. At Black Inc., thanks also to David Larabell.

  To all my family, and especially to Ben, Jake, Matt, Penny, Hayden, Lewis, Judy, Gail, Don, SuAnn, and Jonathan, I offer my thanks and love. My paternal grandparents, Louis Eig and Ida Eig, were regulars at Ebbets Field back in the 1940s and 1950s. My maternal grandparents, Frank and Betty Weiner, were regulars at Joe’s Restaurant, which also happened to be Branch Rickey’s favorite spot. To this day, my parents, Phyllis and David Eig, remain devoted to the Dodgers—the Brooklyn Dodgers, that is. For a long time growing up, I don’t think it dawned on me that the team had moved to L.A., such was their commitment. My parents taught me a lot about loyalty in those days. They’re still teaching me—about loyalty and a whole lot more. Their enthusiasm and support is a source of constant joy. This book is dedicated to them. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

  Finally, I owe far more than I can ever recount to my children, Jeffery and Lillian, and to my wife, Jennifer Tescher, who talked with me about this book for untold hours, read countless revisions of the manuscript, and gave me infinite support, always with a beautiful smile. She’s certainly the hero of my own story.

  At UCLA, where he ran track, starred at football, and dabbled in baseball, Robinson became known as one of the best all-around athletes in the nation. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  Though they were dressed for success, the Robinsons’ first trip to the South for spring training in 1946 proved disastrous. (Charles “Teenie” Harris, Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh; Heinz Family Fund)

  In 1947, in order to spare Robinson from southern segregation, the Brooklyn Dodgers and their top minor-league team, the Montreal Royals, trained in Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Panama. (Pittsburgh Courier Archives)

  Before an exhibition game on April 10, Robinson still wore a Royals uniform. After the game, the Dodgers announced his promotion to the major leagues. (Corbis)

  Branch Rickey, president of the Dodgers, faces questions from reporters after the suspension of the team’s manager, Leo Durocher. (Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library)

  Robinson signing his contract for the league’s minimum wage: $5,000. (Corbis)

  In a scene staged by photographers, Robinson enters the Dodger clubhouse for the first time. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  The uniform wouldn’t stay clean long. On his first day with the Dodgers, Robinson prepares to face the Yankees in an exhibition game. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  He’s out at third. Billy Johnson of the Yankees applies the tag. (Corbis)

  April 1947: Following a game at the beginning of the season, Robinson heads for home. (Corbis)

  All year long Jackie, Rachel, and Jack Jr. lived in close quarters, beginning with a room in the McAlpin Hotel in Manhattan. (Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library)

  The Robinsons moved to a two-bedroom apartment on MacDonough Street in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, but they shared the tiny place with a stranger. (Courtesy of Gilbert Jonas)

  Outside Ebbets Field, at least three varieties of Jackie Robinson pins were usually on sale. (Pittsburgh Courier Archives)

  Robinson gets a handshake from Tommy Tatum after his first home run. Catcher Walker Cooper of the Giants looks on. (Corbis)

  By 1947, Joe Louis was fading, and Robinson emerged as the nation’s most popular black sports hero. (Corbis)

  Robinson takes a swing at a Ewell Blackwell pitch. Critics called the Dodger rookie a “lunger” and said he would never hit well in the majors. (Corbis)

  After Philadelphia Phillies manager Ben Chapman led a brutal verbal assault by his team, Robinson said the name-calling didn’t bother him. Here, he poses with Chapman. (Corbis)

  Heroes and Bums: Hugh Casey, Pee Wee Reese, Joe Hatten, Eddie Stanky, and (seated) Dixie Walker. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  Wendell Smith of the Pittsburgh Courier roomed with Robinson on road trips and ghosted his newspaper columns. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  Baseball in Brooklyn had a southern accent, thanks in large measure to the wonderful radio broadcasts of Red Barber. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  Umpire Beans Reardon tries to calm Joe Garagiola of the Cardinals, but Robinson continues to goad the catcher. The spat between the ballplayers, immortalized in a popular children’s book, would haunt Garagiola for years. (Corbis)

  When Dan Bankhead joined the Dodgers late in the season, Robinson was no longer the team’s only black player. (Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library)

  After clinching the pennant, the Dodgers were mobbed by fans at Pennsylvania Station. Here, Pee Wee Reese gets a lift. Elsewhere, Robinson was trapped in a phone booth. (Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library)

  Jackie Robinson Day at Ebbets Field: Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (no relation) presents the keys to a new Cadillac. Rachel Robinson is at left. (Corbis)

  Burt Shotton, the soft-spoken manager of the Dodgers, greets Robinson after the
opening game of the World Series against the Yankees. (Corbis)

  Dodger fans wait through the night for World Series bleacher seats. (Brooklyn Collection, Brooklyn Public Library)

  At the United Nations, reporters skip out on the General Assembly to watch the World Series on television. (Corbis)

  In game one, the ever-aggressive Robinson gets trapped in a rundown. But as he draws the attention of four Yankees, he allows Pete Reiser to sneak into second base. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)

  In game six of the World Series, Robinson tries to break up a double play—and flattens Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto. (National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY)