He didn’t say any of that, however. He’d never been much of a talker, except sometimes with Rae. Instead he just grumbled, “Come on,” and stepped around Smith to toss his luggage into the backseat.
“Yes, suh!” Smith replied. He saluted Jackie, and the pair took off.
As they drove through the Manhattan traffic — heavy even at this late hour — Jackie could feel Smith glancing over at him every so often. Finally, the reporter spoke:
“They can’t keep you on Montreal for long. After these exhibition games, they’ve got to bring you up.” He let that hang in the air for a second, but Jackie didn’t much feel like talking. “You don’t have two words to rub together, do you?”
“Do I have to entertain you?” Jackie snapped. He regretted it immediately, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Instead he folded his arms over his chest and glared out the window.
Next to him, Smith sighed. “You ever wonder why I sit out in right field with my typewriter on my knees?” he asked. “Does that ever cross your mind?”
Jackie just stared at the skyscrapers as they slid past.
That didn’t slow Smith down one bit, though. “It’s because Negro reporters aren’t allowed in the press box.”
That hadn’t occurred to Jackie, and now he felt horrible for never asking. Of course Smith had to type on his lap. Why hadn’t he realized that? And now he was too embarrassed to apologize.
After a few minutes, Smith shook his head. Then, in a deep, gravelly voice Jackie guessed was supposed to be him, Smith declared, “You know, Wendell, I never asked you where you were from?”
“Why, I’m from Detroit, Jack,” Smith answered in his own voice.
He switched back to his Jackie impersonation. “You don’t say? Tell me more.”
Jackie shook his head and tried to block it all out, all the chatter, but he could still hear Smith’s explanation loud and clear:
“My daddy used to work at Fair Lane. That was Mr. Ford’s estate. My daddy was Mr. Henry Ford’s cook.”
As “Jackie,” he frowned. “I did not know that.”
“Oh, yes.” Smith nodded. “Cooked for him for years, but never once broke bread with him. I’d go to work with Daddy sometimes. Play baseball out on the lawn with Mr. Ford’s grandchildren. We all had a real good time. But it was understood, if they got tired of playing ball and moved inside to the bowling alley or swimming pool, I was not invited or allowed. The grass was as far as I got. So, guess what? You’re not the only one with something at stake here.”
Jackie thought about that. “If I start talking, will you stop?” he asked.
Smith laughed. “I’d be happy to.”
He stopped at a red light, and Jackie turned to face him more fully. “I apologize,” he told Smith. “You’ve supported me through this more than anyone besides Rae and Mr. Rickey. But I guess that’s what bothers me.”
He could hear the other man’s uncertainty, so like his own. “How do you mean?”
Jackie braced himself for the truth. “I don’t like needing help. I don’t like needing anyone but myself. I never have.”
Smith sighed. “You are a hard case, Jack Robinson. Is it okay if I keep driving you, or should I let you out so you can walk?”
Startled, Jackie glanced around, taking in the hordes of people still up at this hour, running this way and that. He had absolutely no idea where anything outside this car was, how to get anywhere, whom to ask for directions.
Finally, he started laughing. After a minute, so did Smith. They both sat there for a minute chuckling, the tension between them finally swept away.
“Hey,” Jackie said suddenly. “You remember the last time we were at a red light? Down in Florida?”
Smith laughed. “New York City now, baby. We’ve come a long way.”
Jackie just nodded and craned his neck to peer up at the stars and the tall, gleaming buildings shutting them out. “And we got a long way to go.”
Smith smiled and gave the Buick a little more gas, and they shot off into the night.
The next morning, Rickey sat in his office, clutching that morning’s edition of the New York Sun. Parrott listened as Rickey read aloud from an article that had incensed him.
“ ‘Branch Rickey cannot afford to upset team chemistry, and so the only thing keeping Robinson off the Dodgers now, plainly, is the attitude of the players. If it softens at the sight of Jackie’s skills, he’ll join the club sometime between April tenth and April fifteenth. Otherwise, Robinson will spend the year back in Montreal.’ ”
Rickey hurled the paper down onto his desk. “For the love of Pete,” he shouted. “He batted six twenty-five in the exhibition games against them . . . us . . . them — against us! Judas Priest!”
In the outer office, he heard the phone ring, but he ignored it. His secretary, Jane Ann, would handle it. That was what he paid her for, after all.
“Maybe you could have Durocher hold a press conference,” Parrott suggested. “Demand that he get Robinson on his team.”
Rickey calmed down a little. “Durocher. Of course; he’s my ace in the hole. Very good, Harold.” He knew there’d been a reason he’d stolen Harold away from the newspapers to be the Dodgers’ traveling secretary. He was a good man, and a sharp one. And he was right. Durocher could handle this for them.
The phone was still ringing, Rickey realized, and he glanced toward his door. “Jane Ann!” he called. “Are you out there?” No one answered — perhaps she’d taken a bathroom break or run out to get a coffee. Well, the ringing was driving him mad, so there was nothing for it — Rickey leaned over and grabbed up the phone on his desk. “Branch Rickey,” he announced into the receiver. “You’re speaking to him . . . the commissioner of what? Oh, yes, put him on.” He dropped back into his chair and looked over at Parrott. “The commissioner of baseball.”
“Branch, how are you?” Rickey could almost see Happy Chandler through the phone — the commissioner was a big, cheerful man with a large, flat head, hair carefully parted in the middle, and an ever-present jovial smile. But behind that smile he was all business, and Rickey could already guess he wasn’t calling with good news.
Still, it was important to mind his manners, so he answered, “Fine. What can I do for you, Happy?”
“Branch,” Happy said, as casually as if he were calling to talk about the weather, “how would you feel about losing Durocher for a year?”
What? Rickey frowned and switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I’m sorry, Happy, I thought you said ‘lose Durocher for a year.’ ”
“I did,” the commissioner replied. “He was seen in Havana with known gamblers.”
Rickey laughed. “Anyone who sets foot in Havana is seen with known gamblers.” Which was true, though he knew Durocher was worse about it than most. He was a great coach, but he did like his card games. Among other amusements.
“It’s not just one thing,” Happy explained, “it’s an accumulation. I received notice today from the Catholic Youth Organization, vowing a ban on baseball unless Durocher is punished for his moral looseness.”
“You’re joking.” But Rickey could tell he wasn’t. And he had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.
Sure enough, Happy continued, “It’s this business with the actress in California. She’s recently divorced and Durocher is the cause. They may even be illegally married.”
Rickey shook his head. “Now I’m sure you’re joking.” What was Durocher thinking? He’d tried to warn the man about seeing that actress, but did Leo listen? Of course not!
“I wish I were,” Happy said. He sounded as insincere as ever, though. Rickey knew that the commissioner had never been one of Durocher’s biggest fans. It didn’t help that Happy was a good friend of Larry MacPhail, the new Yankees owner — and that MacPhail and Durocher had been trading insults ever since the Yankees had stolen away two of their coaches. Leo had some pretty choice words for MacPhail, and now it looked like MacPhail may have called on his buddy to
help him even the score. Though it apparently wasn’t just about that feud, as Happy was quick to point out. “The CYO buy a lot of tickets, Branch. They draw a lot of water, and I can’t afford to ruffle their feathers. Am I mixing metaphors there?”
Rickey sighed. “You know very well my organization is about to enter a tempest,” he admitted to Happy. “I need Durocher at the rudder. He’s the only man who can handle this much trouble — who loves it, in fact. You’re chopping off my right hand!”
But his plea fell on deaf ears. “I have no choice,” Happy claimed. “I’m going to have to sit your manager, Branch. Leo Durocher is suspended from baseball for a year.”
“You can’t do that!” Rickey hollered into the phone, finally losing his temper. “Happy, you —” But he was talking to a dial tone. Rickey steadied himself, then glanced up at Parrott. “Trouble ahead, Harold,” he told his employee. “Trouble.”
Still, Rickey wasn’t about to let losing Durocher derail his plans. That was why, the following morning, the ring of a phone woke Jackie in his hotel room.
“Hello?” he said after grasping for the receiver and getting it somewhere near his mouth.
“Mr. Robinson,” a woman replied, sounding far too awake for this early in the morning. “It’s Jane Ann, in Mr. Rickey’s office. He needs to see you right away. He has a contract for you to sign.”
That woke Jackie up in a hurry!
An hour later, he was sitting in Rickey’s office, which looked the same as it had three years before. Even the goldfish were still there. He was staring at them when Rickey entered, carrying a contract in his hands. He set it down on the desk in front of Jackie and handed him a pen.
“I’m so sorry about the rush,” Rickey told him. “Events are unfolding too fast to keep up with. The burden has finally fallen to me, and so be it.”
Jackie didn’t know what Rickey was talking about, exactly — and he didn’t much care. All that mattered to him right now was the piece of paper in front of him, and the fact that it put together two very important names: “Jack Roosevelt Robinson” and “Brooklyn Dodgers.” He barely glanced at the rest before pointing near the bottom. “Sign here?”
Rickey nodded. “Yes, yes.” But as Jackie started lowering the pen to the page, the Dodgers general manager suddenly shouted, “Stop!”
Jackie froze.
“History,” Rickey announced out of nowhere. “And I’m blabbing, blabbing through history, rushing it along. What am I thinking?” He stuck his head out the door. “Jane Ann, come in here,” he called, then twisted to holler farther down the hall. “Harold!” Parrott stuck his head out from an office down the hall. “Gather some of our employees and get them up here!”
A few minutes later, Jackie was finally allowed to sign the contract. As he set the pen down, Rickey started clapping. So did Parrott, Jane Ann, and a janitor — the only employee Parrott had been able to find in the building this early.
“Excellent!” Rickey clapped Jackie on the shoulder. “Harold, telegram the press. Say this: ‘The Brooklyn Dodgers today purchased the contract of Jackie Robinson from the Montreal Royals. He will report immediately.’ ”
Parrott hurried off, Jane Ann returned to her desk, and the janitor went back to mopping floors. And Jackie sat there, still trying to take it all in.
The sun was just rising in Pasadena when the phone rang at the Isum house. Rachel answered it, already awake but still in her nightgown. “Hello?”
“Rae,” Jackie said over the phone, “I’m in Brooklyn.” The glee in his voice was clear.
Brooklyn! Rachel let out a whoop, then quieted, guiltily glancing down the hall to where Jackie Junior had just settled back to sleep. She waited a second but didn’t hear any crying. She hadn’t woken him again. Whew! She kept her voice quiet as she turned her attention back to her husband. Which was fine, since all she had to say was, “What did I tell you?”
Jackie’s laugh was music to her ears.
Cough syrup, tissues, cotton balls . . .” Jackie walked slowly down the aisle of Singer’s Drug Store, scanning the products on each side. At last he spotted the small pink bottle he’d been looking for. “Ah, there you are!” He claimed some Pepto-Bismol off the shelf just as someone in the next aisle over took a bottle from that side, and Jackie glanced up — to find himself staring into the face of Pee Wee Reese.
“Opening-day nerves,” Reese commented as they left the store together, hefting the bottle in his hand. “Doing my stomach something awful.”
Jackie nodded. He was having the same problem, which was why he’d come here. The first game of the season — his first game in the major leagues — was starting soon, and his stomach was tied completely in knots.
As they stood there, neither one saying anything, a garbage truck rumbled past, its odor wafting along ahead of it and lingering behind.
Reese chuckled. “There goes another one,” he said, gesturing toward the truck. “Every time I see a garbage truck go by, I still can’t figure why the guy driving isn’t me.”
Jackie smiled at that. He didn’t know the Dodgers shortstop well, but so far he liked the man. “We’d both better get on base.”
Reese nodded, and they started walking toward the stadium together. “Know when I first heard of you?” he said after a minute.
Jackie shook his head.
“On a troop transport, coming back from Guam,” Reese told him. “A sailor heard it on the radio, told me the Dodgers had signed a Negro player. I said that was fine by me. Then he said the guy was a shortstop. Least you were then. That got me thinking. Thinking gets me scared.”
Jackie smiled and lifted his bottle of Pepto in mock salute. “Black, white — we’re both pink today, huh?”
Reese nodded.
They walked a few more blocks before Jackie broke the silence by asking the question he couldn’t get out of his mind: “You still scared, Pee Wee?”
His teammate looked around. And then he smiled. “Of garbage trucks?” he answered. “Terrified.”
And both of them laughed.
They reached Ebbets Field, and as they entered the Dodgers locker room, everyone there stopped to look at Jackie. He did his best to ignore them as he searched for his locker.
Not every face was unfriendly, though. Two players came right over to him.
“I’m Hermanski,” one of them offered, along with his hand. “Welcome to Brooklyn.”
“Hey, man,” the other said, also shaking with Jackie. “Ralph Branca.” Jackie remembered Branca waving at him, that time down in Daytona Beach.
Then a familiar face joined them and slapped Jackie on the back. It was Spider Jorgensen, who had been on the Royals with him.
“We made it, huh, Jack, huh?” Jorgensen told him. “Good luck.”
“You, too, man,” Jackie said, thumping him back. He’d always gotten along with Jorgensen, right from that first day of spring training.
As the others drifted away to get ready, Jackie continued looking for his locker. He was starting to get concerned, and maybe a little annoyed, when an older guy came over to him.
“You’re looking for your locker, kid?” he asked, and Jackie guessed he was Babe Hamburger, the clubhouse manager. “Follow me.”
Hamburger led Jackie over to the corner, where there was a uniform hanging from an exposed hook. A folding chair had been placed below that.
“I just got the word,” Hamburger explained. “Best I could do. I’ll get you straightened out tomorrow though, huh?”
Jackie stared at him for a second, wondering if this was a prank, but the older man looked genuinely sorry, and it had been short notice. So he just nodded and started unbuttoning his shirt. What did it matter if he didn’t have a regular locker yet, he decided. He was a Dodger, his uniform was here, and he was going to play. That was all he needed.
He’d just started getting ready, however, when Jackie felt somebody else standing in his space. He glanced up to see a little guy in a Dodger uniform glaring at him. He
recognized the player as Eddie Stanky, the second baseman.
“You putting on that uniform,” Stanky told Jackie sharply, getting in his face, “means you’re on my team. But before I play with you I want you to know how I feel about it. I want you to know I don’t like it. I want you to know I don’t like you.”
Jackie stared at him for a minute. He had more than a few inches over Stanky, and at least twenty pounds, but the little guy didn’t flinch or back away. And he wasn’t spitting curses or insults. Jackie had to give him credit for that.
“That’s fine,” he told Stanky. “That’s how I prefer it. Right out in the open.”
Stanky nodded back and walked away, and Jackie went back to suiting up. If that was the worst he’d get on this team, he was doing pretty well.
“C’mon, Brooklyn!” a hot-dog vendor shouted from behind his stand. “Get your Harry M. Stevens special here!” He handed one over to a customer, accepting a pair of dimes in return. Then he turned and searched for someone in the seats nearby. “Hey, lady!” Rachel looked over, baby Jackie in her arms, as the grizzled old vendor took a baby bottle out of the hot water in his steamer and offered it to her with a smile. “I think it’s ready.”
Rachel smiled and thanked him, and turned to get her son situated. There was a commotion on the field, and she glanced up to see the Dodgers making their way out of the tunnel from their locker room. And there, number forty-two, was her man. A cheer broke out all around her as he came into view, and Rachel held Jackie Junior up so he could see his father. “There’s Daddy,” she whispered to him. “That’s who they’re all cheering for, you know.” Jackie was looking around, scanning the stands, and finally their eyes met. He smiled and waved, and Rachel felt her heart burst with pride. He looked so fine in his Dodgers uniform!
After a moment, she took her seat and watched as they sang the national anthem. And then it was time to play some ball!
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