Jackie gave her a smile. “When did I ever not write?” he asked gently.
But Rachel wasn’t about to let him blow her off. “I want you to know I’m there for you,” she explained. “Even if it’s words on paper.”
Jackie took her in his arms, holding her tight against his chest. “Rae, you’re in my heart.” She could hear it thudding, as if confirming that was true.
Even so, she sighed. “You’re getting close now,” she warned him. “The closer you get, the worse they’ll be. Don’t let them get to you.”
“I will not,” he promised. “God built me to last.”
He pulled back just far enough to kiss her, and she returned the kiss fiercely.
“See you in Brooklyn in eight weeks,” Rachel said when they finally broke for air.
Jackie frowned. “It might be Montreal.”
But Rachel didn’t believe that, not for a second. “It’s going to be Brooklyn,” she told him. “I know it is.”
Jackie nodded, though he didn’t seem convinced. The taxi honked, and he glanced toward it, then back at her. “I’ve got to go, Rae.”
She nodded and hugged him one last time, then stood back and watched him head toward the waiting car. But she just couldn’t let him go that easily. When after a second Jackie stopped and looked back at her, she flew toward him, and soon he was catching her in his arms, squeezing her tight. She didn’t want to see him go, and she knew he didn’t want to leave her. But he had to, at least for now.
“Go,” she told him. “I’ll be right here for you. Go, and hit one out of the park for me.”
He smiled at her again, and it showered a warm glow of light upon her heart. “Rae, I’ll hit every one out of the park for you.”
It’s a pipe dream, Mr. Rickey.” Durocher and his boss were eating at the Tivoli Hotel in Panama City. At least, Durocher was eating. Rickey had barely touched his food. It was March 18, 1947. Spring training was just about to start, and they were talking about the most distinctive and controversial player in their organization. Sometimes Rickey thought Jackie was all he ever talked about anymore.
Right now he was staring at his top coach. “Is that your attitude toward Jackie Robinson?”
Durocher groaned. “I don’t got an attitude toward him. I’ll play an elephant if he can help us win. To make room for him, I’ll send my own brother home if he’s not as good. We’re playing for money, Mr. Rickey,” Durocher said. “Winning’s the only thing that matters. Is he a nice guy?”
Rickey chuckled. “If by ‘nice’ you mean soft, no, not particularly.”
Durocher nodded. “Good. He can’t afford to be. Nice guys finish last.”
“So, you have no objections to him?” Rickey asked.
“None whatsoever,” Durocher managed to reply.
“So, why do you think this is a pipe dream?” Rickey liked Durocher, even if he had an eye for the ladies. He admired the man’s willingness to stand up and speak his mind, but sometimes that forthrightness got on his nerves.
“I mean it ain’t gonna happen,” Durocher explained. “The Dodgers are never gonna demand Robinson be brought up from Montreal. Ballplayers are conservative.”
Rickey shook his head. “A team full of tough war veterans? Immigrants’ sons? Boys from impoverished corners of the country?” If any team was likely to accept a black player among them, it would be his Dodgers!
But Durocher just shrugged. “It. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.”
“You really believe they won’t accept him?” Rickey asked. “Once they see how he plays, how he can help them win?”
The coach laughed. “I’m not saying they won’t accept him: I’m saying they won’t ask for him. I’m saying Robinson’s good medicine, but they’re not gonna like the taste.” He shoved another forkful of food into his mouth. “Boy, this is good fish.”
Rickey just sat and watched him eat. He had a sinking suspicion Durocher might be right.
In another room at the hotel, a few of Durocher’s Dodgers were gathered around a small desk. One of them, Higbe, was writing something on a piece of hotel stationery while his teammates Bragan, Walker, and Hugh Casey looked on. All of them were veterans of the team, and what’s more, all of them originally hailed from the South.
“Why do you think Rickey’s got us playing spring games in Panama?” Alabama-born Bragan asked the others. “He wants to get us used to Negro crowds. He wants more of them than us. He’s hoping it’ll get us more comfortable being around Robinson.”
Higbe, who was from South Carolina, cleared his throat. The others stopped their chatter, and then he read them what he’d written: “We, the undersigned Brooklyn Dodgers, will not play ball on the same field as Jackie Robinson.”
He signed it and handed the pen to Bragan, who added his name. Georgia boy Casey signed it next, with a flourish. He offered the pen to Walker, who, like Bragan, was from Alabama, but Walker didn’t take it right away.
The others looked at one another. They knew the more names they had, the more power their petition would hold. And Walker was one of the mainstays of the team. His name carried weight.
Casey waved the pen. “If you wanna make your mark, Dixie,” he joked, “we can witness it.”
They all laughed, including Walker — and he took the pen and signed the paper.
Next, the quartet knocked on Eddie Stanky’s door.
“C’mon in!” he shouted.
They stepped inside and found their teammate soaking his right elbow in a bucket of ice. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Higbe answered. “Got a petition goin’ on, Stank.”
“To keep Robinson up in Montreal where he belongs,” Bragan added.
“Oh.” Stanky pondered that. “Did Pee Wee sign it?” he asked finally. Pee Wee Reese was the team captain.
Higbe shook his head. “Ain’t asked him yet. What difference does it make?”
Stanky shrugged. “None, just wonderin’.” He studied his teammates. Walker couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Finally, Stanky indicated his arm. “Can’t sign now. I’m indisposed. Could I catch up with you later?”
After him, they went to Pee Wee’s room, but he cut them off before they could get beyond the word petition.
“Look, it’s like this,” he told them bluntly. “I got a wife, a baby, and I got no money. I don’t want to step in anything.” He directed his next words straight at Walker, as the senior member of the foursome. “Skip me, Dix, I’m not interested.”
“What if they put him at shortstop?” Walker demanded.
But Pee Wee just shrugged. “If he’s man enough to take my job, I suppose he deserves it.”
Higbe snorted. “Not a chance!”
“He does not have the ice water in his veins for big league baseball,” Walker argued.
But Reese wouldn’t budge. “So let him show what he’s got,” he answered. “Robinson can play or he can’t. It’ll all take care of itself.”
They had better luck with Pennsylvania-bred Carl Furillo. Despite being the son of immigrants himself, Furillo had no qualms at all. “Give me the pen,” he said at once, and signed the second he had it in hand. Higbe grinned. One more to their roster.
Later that night, Durocher’s phone rang. He sighed and answered it.
“Yes, Mr. Rickey?” He didn’t even have to ask who it was. Who else would call him at this hour?
“Have our friends in the press gone to sleep yet?” Rickey asked.
Durocher peered at the clock. “We are the only people awake on this entire isthmus, Mr. Rickey.”
Rickey’s voice took on a sharper tone. “A deliberate violation of the law needs a little show of force. I leave it to you. Good night, Leo.”
“Yes, Mr. Rickey.” Durocher didn’t have to ask what his boss was talking about. They’d both heard the chatter earlier today. He knew what some of his players had been up to. And, as he levered himself up out of bed, he vowed that it would stop right now.
Twenty minutes later, Duroch
er stood in the hotel kitchen in his bathrobe, arms crossed, glaring as his players and coaches filed in. All of them were bleary-eyed, in various states of dress, wondering why he’d gotten them up so early and why he’d gathered them here, of all places.
But Durocher had picked the kitchen for four reasons: It was big, it was deserted, it was away from prying eyes, and it had things like the soup pot he grabbed now and heaved across the room. Wham! That got their attention!
“Wake up, ladies!” he bellowed at them. “Wake up!” He stared down any attempt to talk back. “It’s come to my attention that some of you fellas don’t want to play with Robinson. That you even got a petition drawn up that you’re all gonna sign. Well, boys, you know what you can do with your petition? You can eat it, for all I care!”
It was Walker who found his voice first. “C’mon, Leo . . .” he started.
Durocher hit him with the full force of his glare. “ ‘Come on’ what?”
“Ballplayers gotta live together, shower together,” Walker argued. “It’s not right to force him on us. Besides, I own a hardware store back home, and I —”
“No one cares about your hardware store, Dix!” Durocher cut him off. “And if you don’t like it, leave! Mr. Rickey’ll be happy to make other arrangements for you.”
Studying them all, Durocher suddenly stalked toward Higbe. He’d heard that the pitcher had been the one to start all this. Higbe gulped as the coach approached, but Durocher didn’t flatten him, much as he wanted to. Instead, he turned so he could bellow at his whole team, Higbe most of all.
“I don’t care if he’s yellow or black or has stripes like a zebra,” he shouted, his words echoing off the sinks and shelves and stoves. “If Robinson can help us win — and everything I’ve seen says he can — then he’s gonna play for this ball club. Like it, lump it, make your mind up to it, because he’s coming! And think about this when your heads hit the pillow — he’s only the first, boys, only the first. More are coming right behind him. They have talent and they wanna play!” He let that sink in for a moment. “Yes, sir, they’re gonna come diving and scratching. So I’d forget your petition and worry about the field. Because unless you fellas pay a little more attention to your work, they are going to run you right out of the ballpark! A petition?” He glared at them. “Are you ballplayers or lawyers?”
Then he turned and marched past them through the kitchen doors. Behind him, his team muttered and grumbled, but Durocher knew he’d put the fear of God into them. And the fear of Leo Durocher and Branch Rickey. He hoped that would be enough.
Jackie didn’t have any trouble getting to practice this year, and when he stepped out onto the field in Panama in his Montreal uniform, he felt confident, in control. But that ended the second he saw Sukeforth heading toward him, decked out in a Dodgers uniform.
“Robinson!” the talent scout and coach called. Then he tossed something over. Jackie caught it reflexively, then glanced down, recognizing the feel of worn leather. It was a first baseman’s glove.
“What do you want me to do with this?” Jackie asked.
Sukeforth raised an eyebrow. “Play first base,” he answered, as if that were obvious.
Jackie shook his head. “I’ve never played first base in my life, Coach.”
“Well, it’s like this,” the coach explained. “Brooklyn’s got a solid second baseman. And they got Pee Wee Reese at short. But first base is up for grabs.” He broke into a big, warm, friendly smile. “Are you catching my drift?”
Jackie nodded. “Yeah. I don’t need a glove to do that.”
Sukeforth ambled over to the dugout and grabbed a bucket of baseballs and a bat. Then he returned to home plate and started hitting grounders out to Jackie. At first, Jackie had trouble catching the wicked little hops, and he fumbled his tosses to the little Panamanian kids who had appeared from nowhere and taken up residence at second and third. But after a few rounds, Jackie felt he was starting to get the hang of it.
“Mr. Rickey said he wants you playing conspicuous baseball!” Sukeforth explained as he hit ball after ball toward Jackie. “To be so good the Dodgers’ll demand you on the team! So I thought about it awhile and then I looked up conspicuous in the dictionary. It means ‘to attract notice or attention.’ ”
On that last hit, Jackie dove and snagged the ball, then fired it to second, almost knocking the kid off the bag from the force of his throw. That was more like it! He looked over at Sukeforth, who paused and tilted back his cap.
Then the coach grinned and gave him a big thumbs-up. “Conspicuous.”
“Bragan,” Rickey said, staring at the catcher across his desk at the Tivoli Hotel, “most of your teammates have recanted on this petition nonsense. Are you really here to tell me you don’t want to play with Robinson?”
“Yes, sir,” Bragan answered. “My friends back in Birmingham would never forgive me.”
“And your friends here in Brooklyn?” Rickey asked. But Bragan just shrugged. “Then I will accommodate you.” He frowned and sharpened his tone. “If you give me your word that you will try your very best for this team until I can work out a trade.”
Apparently, Bragan didn’t much like the suggestion that he might slack off, because he jumped up from his chair and pounded both hands on the desk. “Do you think I would quit on anyone?” he demanded. “I don’t quit.”
Rickey stared him down, only the edge in his voice showing his anger — or his disgust. “Only on yourself, apparently,” he snapped. “You can go, Bragan.”
Jackie was getting better and better at playing first base, but he was still the second baseman for Montreal. And second was where he played that afternoon when they practiced against the Dodgers. Dixie Walker was on first when the batter hit the ball straight toward short. Their shortstop snagged it on the hop, then tossed it to Jackie as Walker barreled toward him.
His feet solidly on second, Jackie knew Walker was done. He fired the ball to first, aiming to beat the runner there. He was so focused on that, he didn’t even realize that Walker hadn’t stopped until the other man slammed into him just as the ball left his hand. They went down together in a tangle, but Jackie didn’t care. He glanced up, as did Walker, both of them looking to first — where the Montreal player was standing pretty and grinning. The Dodgers player, on the other hand, was walking away, cursing up a blue streak.
Jackie smiled at that. Beside him, Walker scowled. But so what? That was the game. Jackie didn’t hold it against Walker. The Dodger had tried to rattle him, make him throw wild so the runner could get safely to first even if he himself was already out at second. It hadn’t worked, but Jackie didn’t fault him for trying. He’d have done the same.
“I received your letter, Dixie,” Rickey told Walker as they sat in his office. He lifted it from his desk and read aloud: “ ‘Recently, the thought has occurred to me that a change of ball clubs would benefit both the Brooklyn Baseball Club and myself.’ ”
Setting the letter down, Rickey asked bluntly, “This is about Robinson?”
But Walker wasn’t a hothead like Bragan. “I’m keeping my reasons private,” he answered slowly. “Hope you can respect that, sir.”
Rickey sighed. “I realize, Dixie, that you have a Southern upbringing, that you would have to subordinate your feelings for the welfare of this venture. I, for one, would deeply appreciate it. I think we can all learn something.” He liked Walker, always had — the man was a solid hitter, a good fielder, and a team player. He didn’t want to lose him.
But Walker shook his head. “What I have, Mr. Rickey, is a hardware store back home. It’s called Dixie Walker’s. Folks don’t come because I have the lowest prices, they come because it’s called Dixie Walker’s. Understand? And I make as much money owning that store as I do playing for you.”
Rickey studied him. “Is that what you’re afraid of?” Walker didn’t respond. “Bragan’s a third-stringer,” Rickey tried again, “but you bat cleanup. You’re popular in Brooklyn. Children look up to
you!”
Walker didn’t say anything to that. Instead he said simply, “You got my letter. Can I go?”
Rickey sighed, but nodded. “I’ll start looking for a trade or a sale. But it won’t happen until I get value in return. Until then I expect you to drive in runs.”
The other man rose to his feet. “I always have,” he replied with quiet dignity. “That’s my job.”
Rickey watched him go. That was a shame. But if Walker was the only good player he lost over this, he’d count himself lucky. And if he got Robinson in return, he knew he would still come out on top.
It was late at night on April 8 when Jackie exited Penn Station. He was tired, grumpy, and more than a little confused. Coach Sukeforth had told him that he was wanted up here in New York, that Mr. Rickey wanted to talk to him in person, but hadn’t said what it was about. A part of Jackie wondered if he was getting cut, but that didn’t make much sense — they could have told him that down in Panama! Coach had refused to say any more, and Jackie had traveled all the way up here worrying over it and trying to puzzle it out, with no success.
Now he stepped out of the station, his suitcases in hand, and looked around. He didn’t know New York City at all, wasn’t sure where to find a good hotel, but figured he could hail a cab and ask the driver to take him someplace decent and not too pricey. Yet as he took in the people bustling about and the tall buildings everywhere, he spotted a very familiar Buick.
And there, leaning against it, was Wendell Smith.
“You again,” Jackie muttered, stomping toward the reporter.
Smith blinked at him. “That’s right, me again. Something wrong with that, Jack?”
Jackie shrugged. Truth to tell, he had no real reason to dislike Smith — the man had only ever been kind and polite to him. But Jackie hated having to rely on somebody else. At least with a cab he’d be paying the driver, so he wasn’t getting help, he was getting service. But Smith giving him a ride? That was different.
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