Dad looked curiously at me. “What lesson is that, son?”
“That I have to be responsible for my behavior and follow the rules,” I told him.
“That’s an important lesson, Stephen.”
“So can I go back to school?”
“You really missed it, didn’t you?”
“It’s been a long ten days,” I admitted.
“You can go back to school tomorrow,” Dad said.
“What about at home . . . am I still on punishment?”
“No, Stephen, you’re not. Your mother and I have been pleased with your willingness to help out at home and your positive attitude. We expect you to keep it up. Same with your school performance. Miss Maliken will give us daily reports. Your schoolwork is to be done before you go out to play. And you must hand it in on time. Stephen, it’s more than just following rules. You must learn to control your impulses or you’ll continue to get into trouble. Do you understand me?” Dad asked.
“Sure. I’ve got to stop acting without thinking about the consequences.”
“That’s correct,” Dad replied.
“I got it, Dad.”
“Okay, let’s go get some breakfast. Your mother saves making pancakes for special days. I think this qualifies. Don’t you?”
“One of the best days . . . next to Dodgers opening day, of course,” I replied. “I missed you reading the sports pages to me. Can we talk about the Dodgers while we eat?”
Dad chuckled and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “You bet. I’ve missed sharing the news with you.”
In between bites of pancakes and slurps of chocolate milk, I peppered Dad with questions. “How’s Jackie’s weight?”
“It’s down,” Dad told me. “He still has a way to go.”
“Jackie’ll do it, Dad. I know he will,” I said.
“There’s other news . . . Eddie Stanky was traded to Boston. Pete Reiser’s looking healthy for the time being, so he’s at first base now and Jackie’s playing second, where he belongs.”
“Gee, Dad . . . did I miss all of spring training?”
“No, but the Dodgers will be finishing up spring training and exhibition games in Vero Beach. After that, they’ll barnstorm through some Southern towns.”
“Barnstorm? That’s when the team travels to a bunch of towns to play practice games, right?”
“That’s right. It’s a great way for a team to get into shape, playing exhibition games.”
“When are they coming home?”
“Late April, son. So we’ve got time,” Dad replied.
“Think we can go to opening day at Ebbets Field?” I asked.
Dad laughed. “Let’s see how the next few weeks go before we make any big plans. The Dodgers season is nine months. Certainly we’ll make a game or two,” Dad said.
“Gotcha,” I replied, feeling hopeful. “Can I call Sena and see if she wants to play stickball?”
“If it’s okay with your mother,” Dad replied.
An hour later, Sena and I, armed with sticks and a Spalding ball, rode our bikes to the school yard. The courts were filled with other boys and girls. We joined a bunch of kids from our school and started up a game. It felt good to be outside playing with friends. We didn’t mind the cold air. Actually, it felt good to run around in. I proudly batted with my toes pointed inward like my pigeon-toed hero, Jackie Robinson.
I wasn’t the best hitter and I didn’t run very fast. So the other kids held out little hope that I’d score. Still, I swung that wooden stick so hard that it grazed the ball and I got on base. The rest was easier. When I got a chance to run, I’d race around the bases, mustering enough body warmth to keep me going. I was all heart.
Afterward, when we were riding our bikes home, Sena told me that she had heard a black family planned on buying the two-family house at 5224 Tilden Avenue.
“Big deal,” I told her.
“My mom said that only Jews should live in our neighborhood,” Sena insisted.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Maybe so we can all go to the same temple?” she suggested. “Or so the neighborhood stays the way it already is?”
I slammed on the brakes and stared back at my friend in disbelief. “I’m going home.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Sena asked.
“This whole talk makes me mad!” I yelled as I sped away.
“What about a quick game of stoopball?” Sena called.
“Not today,” I yelled back at her. I didn’t understand my sudden anger, but I knew it had to do with what my friend had said. All I could think of was how hard Jackie had fought his first season with the Dodgers just because his skin was black. Players and fans tried to make Jackie quit so they could keep baseball a white man’s game. Jackie fought back with a well-timed base steal and a mighty swing.
I reached home, hot and frustrated. I stomped through the kitchen and grabbed a quick snack on my way into my room. Trying to make sense of my feelings, I pulled out the tin can that held my most precious baseball cards. I separated them so the Dodgers starting lineup was on top. Jackie was in the mix. Could Brooklyn win the World Series without him? Could they even get back there if he wasn’t on the team? I wondered. I skimmed Jackie’s statistics for his rookie year. He’d batted .297, scored 125 runs, and stole 29 bases. His great play was a big part of the Dodgers making it last year. “Pretty impressive,” I muttered. I studied his rookie card before slipping it back on top of the heap—he was the Rookie of the Year, that doesn’t come easy.
Over dinner, I told my father what Sena had said.
Dad leaned in toward me until our foreheads touched. “Son, that’s nonsense and flat-out prejudice,” he said.
Mom walked into the dining room as we were talking. She set the platter of baked chicken and boiled potatoes mixed with carrots in the middle of the table and joined the conversation.
“Some of those same neighbors brought a petition by for your dad and me to sign. It said that they objected to the sale of 5224 Tilden Avenue to a Negro family. I started to tear it up, but ripped into the lady instead,” Mom said.
“What’d you say to her, Ma?” I asked.
“I told her that no Jew should sign that petition.”
I folded my hands in my lap and played thumb wrestle. I was worried. If they didn’t want Negroes in the neighborhood, they wouldn’t want them to play baseball, either. Could this petition get Jackie kicked off the team?
“How come?” I asked.
“Let’s finish this conversation after dinner,” Mom suggested.
Dad led us in prayer and then we ate.
I was starving, so I dove into my meal, tearing the tender brown meat off the leg and thigh bones. A tense silence filled the air—my stack of baseball cards was all I could think about. I knew Jackie’s staying with the Dodgers and Negroes’ moving onto my block were connected. But how?
When my belly was full, I peered up at my dad. I wanted to lift the mood in our dining room. He smiled over at me and I sighed. Maybe the news wasn’t all bad.
I watched as Dad pushed his plate a few inches forward. He cleared his throat. “Prejudice, Steve, is when you judge a person based on the color of their skin or their religion and not by their character. Prejudice leads to discrimination.”
“Like what happened with Jackie during spring training when the Dodgers had to play in the Dominican Republic so that they could all stay in the same hotel?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Dad replied. “You won’t remember this, Steve, but in 1946, Jackie trained with a Dodgers farm team, the Montreal Royals, in Florida. The hotels refused to let Jackie stay with the team because he was a black man. Instead, he stayed in private homes in the black community.”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
“Exactly, son. That’s why Branch Rickey had the 1947 Dodgers train in Cuba and this year he brought them to the Dominican Republic. The color of their skin kept black and Latin players out of Major League Baseball for m
any years, until last year when Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. Still, there are a number of baseball teams that are hesitant to field a black and white team. Well, there is also discrimination in neighborhoods. Families who are a different race or come from foreign countries or are Jewish are not welcome and cannot buy or rent an apartment or a house in certain communities. Prejudice and discrimination are wrong, son. Our family will not discriminate against another person.”
I smiled, feeling proud of my Dodgers and my family. “So how come Sena’s mother wants to keep a black family out of our neighborhood?” I asked.
“Stevie”—my mother stepped in—“we don’t know that Sena’s mother is prejudiced. This neighborhood has been all Jewish for years. Sena’s mom may have been explaining to Sena why some of our neighbors were afraid of changing our neighborhood.”
“Your mother’s right. We can only speak for ourselves. This household remembers how horribly history has treated people of the Jewish faith. That knowledge makes us opposed to any kind of discrimination.”
“What do you mean?” I asked my dad.
“Do you remember that your bubbe and zayde, my parents, left Russia for America when they were in their twenties?”
“Sure,” I said. “They still talk with accents.”
“They fled Russia, along with two million other Jewish families, hoping to find freedom to practice their religion, live wherever they want, send their children to school, and get a job to support their families,” my father explained.
“In Russia, Jews were treated very badly,” my mother added. “There was a lot of violence against them, and many men, women, and children were hurt or killed simply because they were Jewish. They were forced to give up their homes, close down their synagogues, and live in overcrowded conditions in extreme poverty. Russian Jews could not get jobs and their children had limited access to education. So they escaped these terrible conditions in hopes of providing a better life for their families. This happened a long time ago. Long before you or your father and I were born. Your grandparents had the courage to immigrate to the United States.”
“That’s right, Steve,” my father said. “Because of their courage, we now have a better life, but not one that is free of prejudice or discrimination. Some of our neighbors are afraid that opening the neighborhood to people of different faiths, cultures, and races will somehow threaten their way of life. Your mother and I don’t feel this way. We believe in freedom for all people regardless of race, religion, or culture. We welcome families of different faiths and races into our community.”
“That’s why we didn’t sign the petition,” Mom said. “It could have prevented a Negro family from buying a house in this neighborhood. We didn’t agree.”
I sat for a minute trying to put their words together. I sort of understood but could only make sense of it in baseball terms. “Jackie Robinson is one of the best players the Dodgers have ever had, black or white. And now the Dodgers will finally win a World Series. Everyone will see what Jackie can do,” I stated firmly.
“That’s a good analogy, son. Some people wanted to keep baseball all white. But after Jackie’s rookie year and the Dodgers’ success, they’ve learned a lesson. We’re stronger and better when we don’t judge people by the color of their skin or their religion. And, together, we will make a winning team.”
I beamed.
As far as I could tell, Jackie Robinson was safe for now.
The next day, Sena pulled me aside. “Still mad at me?” she asked.
“Not really,” I replied.
“Good, because I took some money from my piggy bank so we can stop by the candy store and get milk shakes.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I can’t stay long, though.”
“Me either,” Sena replied.
We walked over to the Jenkins Candy Shoppe in silence.
“I wasn’t really mad at you. I was just mad,” I told Sena as we climbed up on leather-covered bar stools and ordered two vanilla shakes.
Sena looked embarrassed. “My dad was pretty mad, too. Especially when Mom told him that some of the neighbors sent around a paper asking people to sign up saying that they didn’t want Negroes in our neighborhood. Mom told me that some of our neighbors were afraid of change. She admitted that was her first reaction, too, but she understands now that we can’t be afraid of change or judge someone else based on their differences from us.”
“We had the same talk at my house,” I said. “My parents refused to sign that paper. I’d hate for the Dodgers to go back to an all-white team.”
“Yeah. Jackie’s brought so much excitement to Brooklyn,” Sena agreed.
“True. Since Jackie’s joined the Dodgers, two other teams have signed Negro players. Cleveland brought Larry Doby to the Indians. Hank Thompson plays for the St. Louis Browns. And now Mr. Rickey’s talking about moving their top catcher prospect, Roy Campanella, up from the Minors.”
“Think he’ll make it in time for opening day?” Sena asked.
“I sure hope so,” I said.
“Will you be there?”
“I heard Dad tell my mother that he had to work,” I muttered.
“My father has opening day tickets taped to the refrigerator. It’s all he talks about,” Sena said.
“Is he taking you?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? I’m the only one in the family who’s a Yankees fan. Dad wouldn’t waste his money taking me to a Dodgers game.”
I laughed. “Maybe you’ll get to go when the Dodgers beat the Yankees in the World Series.”
“Keep dreaming,” Sena replied.
We finished our milk shakes and raced each other to my front porch. Sena won by a foot. Embarrassed, I challenged her to a do-over and beat her! I was glad we could put our fight behind us.
Later, I was upstairs in my room finishing math homework when my father peeked in the doorway. “Hi, son,” he greeted me. His face had a wide grin plastered across it as if he had a secret.
“Hey, Dad,” I called out, studying a man who usually wasn’t so cheerful after work.
“I have good news,” Dad said, venturing inside my room.
“You got us opening day tickets?”
“No, Stephen. I do not have opening day tickets,” Dad replied.
Maybe we really weren’t going to the Dodgers opener, I thought. My father sat on the edge of my bed.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but my news may cheer you up. You remember we talked about a black family buying 5224 Tilden Avenue?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well, the sale went through. The Palin family will move in soon.”
“What about that piece of paper and the neighbors not wanting a Negro family to move in?”
“Turns out that only a couple of people signed the petition,” Dad explained. “Most of our neighbors feel as your mother and I do. The Palins should not have any trouble from the neighbors. They will be welcome.”
“Is that the good news?” I asked.
“Part of it,” Dad replied. “The real estate agent who sold the house to the Palins is a customer of mine at the shoe store. He came in today and told me that the Palins have rented the top floor of their house to a player from the Dodgers!”
I jumped up from my desk chair and faced my father. “Are you kidding?” I’d heard that players lived in regular Brooklyn neighborhoods, but I’d never dreamed I’d be so lucky to have one live near me. “Who is it, Dad?”
“That’s the thing,” my father said. “My friend said he wasn’t at liberty to share that information. I think they’re waiting until the lease is signed. So I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Aw,” I sighed. “Gee, Dad . . . do you think it’s Pee Wee?”
Dad stood up. “I don’t know.”
“Jackie?”
“Stephen, stop guessing. We’ll know soon.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. I stayed awake thinking about my new neighbors. I knew that when th
e baseball season was over, players usually returned to their home communities so they could work. At the start of the season, they had to find a new place to rent closer to their teams. Some players shared rooms in private homes and walked to work at Ebbets Field. So it could be any of the players.
At breakfast, I pressed Dad for more details. “Since the Palins are Negroes, it makes sense that they’d rent to a black family. So it’s either the Robinsons or maybe Roy Campanella.”
“That’s a possibility, but just because the Palins are Negroes doesn’t mean their tenant will be black,” Dad reminded me.
“True, but you have to admit it’s likely,” I pressed.
“The Dodgers have forty players on their roster. It could be any of those men.”
“I bet you it’s Jackie,” I announced, jumping up from the table and dancing around the kitchen, shouting, “Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!”
“Sit down, Stephen,” Dad commanded. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. And don’t go to school bragging that Jackie Robinson is moving to Tilden Avenue.”
“Really . . . Dad? A Dodgers player two doors down. I don’t care who it is,” I said. “This is a dream come true.”
He chuckled. “I understand, son.”
The next couple of weeks were absolute torture. In late March, a moving van pulled up in front of 5224. I ran out of the house without a jacket and plopped down on the top step. I watched as the Palin family’s furniture was unloaded from the truck and hauled into the bottom floor. As evening set in, Mom called me inside for dinner.
“The new family has moved in,” I reported.
“Yes, I saw the van. Did you see any children?”
“A boy and girl, but they look like teenagers,” I told her.
“Is that why you look so disappointed?” Mom asked.
“I was hoping it was the ballplayer’s moving van.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer, Steve. I’m planning on cooking a pot roast and taking it over to Mrs. Palin tomorrow. Want to come with me?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Think Mrs. Palin will tell us who’s going to be living on the top floor?”
“I don’t know, Stephen. And you are not to bring it up. We’re going over there to welcome the Palins to the neighborhood, not pry into their private business,” Mom scolded.
The Hero Two Doors Down Page 2