The cheers continued when number forty-two, Jackie Robinson, finally stepped up to the plate for the first time. Overhead, he could hear the local sportscaster, Red Barber, announcing, “One out in the bottom of the first. Headed toward the plate for his first big-league at bat is Dodger rookie Jackie Robinson. Jackie is very definitely brunette.” That got a few laughs and a lot more cheers, and Jackie smiled.
He settled into his stance at home plate, bat raised high, and studied the Boston Braves pitcher, Johnny Sain. “Sain looking in,” he heard Barber report. “When he’s got that fastball working, he can toss a lamb chop past a hungry wolf.”
Sain threw him a fastball — and Jackie slammed it down the third base line. Crack!
The Braves’ third baseman snagged the ball after its first bounce, but Jackie was already flying toward first. His foot hit the bag right before the ball smacked into the first baseman’s mitt. He was happily slowing down and struggling to catch his breath when he heard the umpire clearly say, “You’re out!”
What? Jackie glared at him, but the umpire stared back, daring him to complain. Jackie just shook his head, fighting back his anger. He’d been safe and he knew it. But what could he do? It was a bad call, and that sort of thing happened to everybody, no matter what color. But did it have to be on his very first at bat in the majors?
“It’s a game of inches, Jackie!” a voice called down, and Jackie glanced up to see Rickey smiling at him from a seat just above the dugout. The general manager didn’t look upset at all — at least, not at Jackie.
Next to him, however, Parrott was hollering toward the field, “Get some glasses, ump!”
A few days later, Rickey sat waiting in his office as he listened to footsteps and voices coming down the hall.
“How’s Florida, Burt?” he heard Parrott ask.
“Roses need pruning,” Burt Shotton answered, “but it was fine when I left it last night. Branch said it was important and I heard about Leo. Any idea what this is about?”
Rickey held his breath, but all Parrott said was, “You’d better just talk to him.” Good man!
There was a knock at the door, and Rickey straightened his glasses. “Come in!” He smiled at the two men as they entered, but directed his words toward Shotton. “Baseball has returned to Brooklyn, Burt. Another season is underway.”
Shotton nodded. “Yeah, it’s a shame about Leo.”
Rickey leaned back in his chair. “Inevitable, I suppose. I asked him if she was worth it and he said yes. How’s the retirement?” Shotton had been an outfielder for the Cardinals back in the day, and had started filling in as temporary manager back in the twenties, covering Sundays only. Rickey had been the coach then, and he’d needed Sundays so he could attend church. Shotton had become the Cardinals coach himself in 1923, and had then coached the Phillies, the Reds, and several farm clubs before retiring in 1946. But Rickey wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.
“It’s fine,” Shotton started. “The roses —”
“It’s a wonderful thing when a man has good health and enough money and absolutely nothing to do,” Rickey commented.
Shotton rose to the bait. “I’m perfectly happy.”
“Is that so?” Rickey shot back.
His old friend peered down at him. “When I took off that Cleveland uniform two years ago, I promised the missus I’d never put on another uniform again. Roses look great and I sleep a whole lot better.”
“Roses and sleep are two wonderful things, Burt,” Rickey agreed. “But sleep you can get inside your casket and flowers look good on top of it. You don’t look like a dead man to me.”
Shotton sighed. “What’s this about, Branch?” All the telegram had said was “Be in Brooklyn in the morning. Call nobody, see no one.” A little dramatic, maybe, but clearly it had worked.
Now, however, Rickey saw no reason to beat around the bush. “I want you to manage the Dodgers,” he told Shotton. “We’re a ship without a captain, and there’s a typhoon ahead.”
But Shotton shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
Rickey studied him. “Do you miss the game, Burt? Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t.”
Shotton considered Rickey’s words for a second — though he couldn’t meet his gaze — but still shook his head. “Baseball’s the only life for an old pepper pot like me, but I promised my wife, Branch.”
“You promised her you wouldn’t put on another uniform,” Rickey corrected with a smile. “You didn’t promise her you wouldn’t manage. Wear a suit and tie — Connie Mack still does.” Shotton didn’t reply, so Rickey pressed his advantage. “You remember how to get to the Polo Grounds, Burt?” That was where the Dodgers had their practices.
“Branch, I —” Shotton started, but Rickey cut him off.
“You remember what the peanuts smell like roasting, how the crack of the bat sounds, the roar of the crowd?” Rickey knew he wasn’t being entirely fair, but he was desperate. The Dodgers needed a coach, and he needed it to be someone he could trust.
Finally, Shotton nodded. “Sure.”
Rickey tossed him a set of car keys. “My car’s parked right out front. Harold will show you where. Now, what do you say?”
And, just as he’d hoped, his old friend nodded. “Okay.” And Rickey knew Shotton wasn’t just talking about getting to go see the Dodgers play.
That afternoon, Shotton addressed the Dodgers in the locker room.
“Men,” he announced, “I don’t have much to say. Just — don’t be afraid of old Burt Shotton as a manager. You can win the pennant in spite of me. I cannot possibly hurt you.”
The players looked at one another, Jackie right along with the rest. What kind of a speech was that? Was that just the way Shotton talked? He was certainly calm and laid-back, not like Durocher with his temper. But was this a good thing or a bad thing?
As Shotton turned to go, he spotted Jackie, who was right in his path.
“Are you Robinson?” he asked as he approached. Jackie nodded. “I thought so.” Shotton patted him on the shoulder, then continued on his way. Jackie wasn’t sure what to make of that, either, but at least the new coach didn’t seem to have a problem with him being there.
“Mark my words,” Rickey overheard Herald Tribune reporter Bob Cooke say that afternoon. The reporters were all in the press box, of course, watching the game and getting ready to tell their listeners and readers all about it. “Mark my words and circle this date. Negroes are going to run the white man straight out of baseball. I’m not prejudiced; it’s physiological. They have a longer heel bone. Gives ’em an unfair speed advantage.”
The reason for this speech, of course, was that Jackie had just been announced. Rickey peered down at the field and saw Jackie standing at the plate, his bat cocked and ready.
“Here’s Robinson,” Barber reported. “Jackie holds that club down by the end. Rear foot on the back line of the box. Slight open stance, bent at the knees —” Just then the Giants pitcher, Dave Koslo, went into his windup and released. Jackie swung — crack! The ball went soaring out over left field. A home run! The crowd went crazy as Jackie started his way around the bases.
In the press box, Rickey heard the sound of rapid typing. Then one of the reporters called out, “Was that because his heels are longer, Bob?” The press box erupted with laughter. Rickey turned away, smiling, and made his way back to his own seat. Things were starting to shape up nicely.
“I’m not complaining,” Jackie told Rachel. “I just — I don’t know what they want.”
He had taken her out to dinner, something they didn’t get to do nearly often enough. Jackie loved his son, of course, but it was nice to have an evening out, just the two of them. It was a good thing they’d found Alice, their new babysitter! They were at Lawson Bowman’s Café, a classy new steakhouse and nightclub. But Jackie hadn’t gotten a chance to even try his steak yet. Every time he tried to take a bite, someone asked him for his autograph, or took his picture, or just came ov
er to shake his hand and tell him how happy they were to see him on the Dodgers. It was the strangest thing.
Rachel apparently didn’t think so. “They want to see if Jackie Robinson is real,” she told him happily. “They want to see your pride, your dignity. Because then they’ll see it in themselves.”
Jackie stared at her. Would he ever stop being astounded by how smart she was, how insightful? And how lovely?
“And me?” she added, almost shyly. “I’m just young and scared and amazed at how brave you are.”
He grinned at her, and raised his fork to his mouth — but just before it got there, a man appeared beside him, pulled up a chair, and dropped into it. He had his hand out already, and Jackie shook it automatically.
“I’m Lawson Bowman, Jack,” the man told him proudly. “The owner of this joint. How’s the steak?”
Jackie shook his head. “I’m not sure yet,” he replied. “It looks good.”
Rachel laughed at that, and so did Bowman. And Jackie couldn’t help joining in.
Rachel waited anxiously, Jackie Junior in her arms, her eyes on the clock. Where was Alice? Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” the young woman said breathlessly as Rachel ushered her inside. “Class ran long.”
Rachel smiled. “It’s okay.” She could hardly be mad about that, and besides, she liked Alice. She handed the baby over. “It’s so cold and raw out, I don’t want him getting sick at the game,” she explained.
“He’ll be nice and warm here,” the babysitter promised. Jackie Junior cooed — he liked Alice, too.
Rachel kissed him one last time, glanced at her watch, frowned, and headed out the door. She was going to be a little late, but she tried not to miss any of Jackie’s games. And this was the first game against the Phillies this season. It was a big one.
Jackie stepped up to bat in the bottom of the first. Stanky was already safe on first base. But just as Jackie reached the plate, he heard a voice behind him shout, “Hey! Hey, you black nigger!”
Jackie glanced up to see a man standing at the top of the visitors’ dugout. He wore the Phillies uniform, and with a start Jackie realized that it was the team manager himself, Ben Chapman.
“Why don’t you go back to the cotton fields where you belong?!” Chapman hollered. Jackie stared at him. He’d gotten insults before, of course, but this was the manager! Wasn’t he supposed to be the one keeping his players in line? “Or did you swing your way out of the jungle?” Chapman continued. “Bring me a banana!” He started hooting and making monkey faces.
“The Phillies manager Ben Chapman is up on the top step,” Barber announced over the speakers. “He seems to be chirping something out to Robinson. Of course, Chapman was a hothead during his playing days with the Yankees.”
Rickey leaned forward in his seat next to Parrott. “What’s he saying?” But Parrott shook his head. They weren’t close enough to hear.
Now two of the Phillies players stepped up beside their manager. But if Jackie had hoped they’d make him behave, he was dead wrong.
“Go home, nigger!” the first one yelled.
The second one added, “Go back to Africa!”
Jackie knew better than to respond, so he turned his attention toward the mound. Philly pitcher Dutch Leonard looked in, then threw a fastball, well inside. Jackie had to dive out of the way to avoid getting hit.
“Bojangles!” he heard Chapman shout. “You sure can dance, snowflake!”
Jackie saw Stanky standing on first, his mouth open. It was nice to know that even the prickly second baseman was shocked by Chapman’s behavior. There was nothing Jackie could do about it, though, so he focused on the ball again. Play the game, he reminded himself. Not their game.
It was another inside fastball, and again he had to jump back out of the way. He glared at the pitcher, who glared right back.
“Ball two!” the umpire called.
“Hey, black boy!” Chapman taunted. “Hey, shoe shine!”
Jackie didn’t want to look over, but something made him. The two Phillies players looked angry, which he was used to. But not Chapman. He was grinning ear to ear. He was enjoying this!
Jackie didn’t need to look to guess how his teammates were reacting. Their fury just made Chapman grin wider, though. “Oh, I think I got it,” he crowed. “Dixie, I believe I know!”
Jackie tried to tune him out again, watching Leonard and gripping his bat so tight his hands ached. He connected this time, but sent the ball arcing lazily out into left. He was only halfway to first when the left fielder picked it off. At least now he could go back to the dugout and escape Chapman’s ugly words.
No one stopped him as he entered. None of his teammates said anything to him. Bobby Bragan glanced over, but then looked away. A minute later they took the field, and Jackie refused to turn toward the visitors’ dugout. He did catch sight of Rachel up in the stands, though. She looked horrified and outraged on his behalf. He nodded, but he couldn’t smile and wave it off. Not this time.
In the bottom of the third, he got back on deck. Stanky was on first, Jorgensen on second. And just as Jackie stepped up, Chapman rose to his feet again, his two flunkies right beside him.
“Hey, nigger lips!” the first one called.
“Party’s over, jungle bunny!” the second added.
“Hey, Pee Wee! Dixie!” Chapman hollered at the other Dodgers. “What’s this nigger doing for you all to let him drink from the same water fountain as you? I hope it’s worth it!”
Jackie waited on the pitch. When it came, he swung hard — crack! But the ball popped up, not even getting as far as the pitcher’s mound. The Phillies catcher, Seminick, moved under it and waited.
“Hey, is that a home run?” Leonard asked no one in particular.
The catcher laughed as the ball plopped into his glove. “Yeah — if you’re playing in an elevator shaft!”
As Jackie headed back to the dugout, Chapman started in on him again.
“You don’t belong!” he hollered. “Look in a mirror! This is a white man’s game. Get it through your thick monkey skull!”
That was it. Jackie stopped short and turned, slowly, to glare at Chapman. The manager stood his ground.
Jackie wanted nothing more than to beat that smug look off the man’s face. But he remembered what Rickey had said, and what he’d promised. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t sink to their level.
Instead he turned and walked away.
He headed down into the dugout, and then beyond that into the tunnel toward the locker room. Before he reached the locker room, however, he finally exploded. Twisting around, he began beating his bat against the wall. Wham! Wham! His bat splintered and shattered, the polished wood unable to withstand his fury. But it wasn’t enough. Jackie dropped the bat and pounded his fists together. He wanted to break something, to destroy something, to tear it apart. Something — or someone.
Footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Breathing heavily, hands still clenched, he turned and saw Rickey approaching. The general manager stopped when he saw the devastation. Jackie thought he saw fear in the older man’s eyes.
“I’m done with this,” Jackie snarled at him. “The next white idiot who opens his mouth, I’ll smash his teeth in.”
Rickey didn’t say anything for a minute. When he did, he didn’t sound angry. Just disappointed. “You can’t, Jackie. You know it.”
Jackie glared at him. “I’m supposed to let this go on?”
“These men have to live with themselves —” Rickey started, but Jackie cut him off.
“I have to live with myself, too! And right now I’m living a sermon out there. I’m through with it!” He kicked bits of bat away from him.
But Rickey wasn’t giving up. “You don’t matter right now, Jackie,” he warned, his voice serious. “You’re in this thing. You don’t have the right to pull out from the backing of people who believe in you, respect you, and need you.”
“Is that
so?” Jackie demanded.
Rickey nodded. “If you fight, they won’t say Chapman forced you to; they’ll just say that you’re in over your head. That you don’t belong where you are. That every downtrodden man who wants more from life is in over his head.”
Jackie took a step toward him. “Do you know what it’s like, having someone do this to you?”
“No,” Rickey admitted. “You do. You’re the one living the sermon. In the wilderness. Forty days. All of it. Only you.”
“And not a thing I can do about it,” Jackie said, though it came out as a grumble, almost a whine. He knew how childish he sounded.
“Of course there is!” Rickey assured him. “You can stand up and hit! You can get on base, and you can score! You can win this game for us! We need you! Everyone needs you. You’re medicine, Jack.” He leaned against the wall, panting as if he’d been the one to slam a bat into the wall over and over again. Jackie just watched him for a minute.
Then he heard other sounds from back on the field. Sounds he recognized.
“They’re taking the field,” he said aloud.
Rickey smiled. “Who’s playing first?”
Jackie thought about that for a minute. Who would cover first base if he didn’t go out there, and would they do as good a job as he could? How much was he prepared to take to keep what he’d already won, and to try to build something more? To be the example Rickey was making him into?
Finally, he nodded. “I’m gonna need a new bat.” Then he turned and headed back toward the field.
His next at bat didn’t come around until the bottom of the eighth. It was still a scoreless game.
As expected, just as he got close to home plate Chapman started in again. “Hey, black nigger! I know you can hear me! If you were a white boy, you know where you’d be right now? On a bus headed down to Newport News, ’cause you can’t play at all!”
Really? Jackie knew one thing he did well — very well. When the pitch came, he sent the ball looping out past second. A single, nothing more, but at least now he was standing on first. He didn’t expect to be there very long.
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