Rickey and Robinson

by Harvey Frommer

  Rickey and Robinson

  The Men Who Broke

  Baseball’s Color Barrier

  Harvey Frommer

  TAYLOR TRADE PUBLISHING

  Lanham •New York •Oxford

  This Taylor Trade Publishing edition of Rickey and Robinson is an unabridged republication of the edition first published in New York in 1982. It is reprinted by arrangement with the author.

  Copyright © 1982 by Harvey Frommer

  First Taylor Trade paperback edition 2003

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book maybe reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission of the publisher.

  Designed by Jack Meserole

  Published by Taylor Trade Publishing

  A Member ofthe Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200

  Lanham, Maryland 20706

  Distributed by National Book Network

  A previous edition of this work was cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Frommer, Harvey.

  Rickey and Robinson :the men who broke baseball’s color barrier. Includes index.

  1. Robinson, Jackie, 1919-1972. 2. Rickey, Branch, 1881-1965. 3.

  Baseball players-United States-Biography. 4. Baseball-United States Team owners-Biography. 5. Segregation in sports-Case studies. I. Title.

  GV865.R6F76

  796.357’092’2 [B] 81-23646

  ISBN 0-87833-312-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American

  National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library

  Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Manufactured in the United States of America.

  For Ian, my son,

  who was born

  on April 15, 1972,

  a quarter century to the day

  since Jackie Robinson

  Broke baseball’s

  color line

  Contents

  Contents

  Foreword

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: The Meeting

  Chapter 2: Pasadena: The Making of an All-American

  Chapter 3: Ohio: Pioneer Stock

  Chapter 4: St. Louis

  Chapter 5: Building Days in Brooklyn

  Chapter 6: The Color Bar Drops

  Chapter 7: The Signing

  Chapter 8: Number 42

  Chapter 9: The Mahatma in Charge

  Chapter 10: Changing Roles

  Chapter 11: Speaking Out

  Chapter 12: Winding Down

  Chapter 13: The Final Years

  Afterword

  Appendix

  Foreword

  I was almost thirty-one years old when I joined the New York Giants on July 5, 1949. Three days later, against the Dodgers of Jackie Robinson at Ebbets Field, manager Leo Durocher called on me to pinch-hit against Joe Hatten.

  Behind me was the history of more than a decade of Negro League Baseball, of being a five-time All-Star. Nevertheless, as I got into the batter’s box in Brooklyn, my knees started knocking, and they wouldn’t stop. I called time, stepped out, ans stepped back in. I worked the count to 3–2 and then walked. I was so excited, I ran all the way to first base. It was a great feeling just to get there. That was how it all started for me in the majors.

  Whenever I came into contact with Jackie Robinson, we would talk. He had stories, and I had mine. It was not a time without incident. You’d walk into a room and some people would walk out. You’d sit down on a train, and one person, maybe two, maybe more, would get up and walk away. This was 1949 in the United States of America.

  I am grateful for my accomplishments in the eight seasons I did have with the New York Giants—helping them win two pennants, finishing among the league leaders in many offensive catagories in 1951 and 1953, getting elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1973.

  But I regret that I did not get a chance to play major league baseball earlier. What happened to me should have happened ten years before. Still, had it not been for Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey, who knows if I would have ever gotten the chance. I say look at Josh Gibson. Look at Buck Leonard—all those fellows. Those guys were as good as any players who ever lived. They never got a chance.

  Rickey and Robinson tells the story of the man who did get the first chance and the man who helped it happen. Together they made it possible for so many others. It is an important story, and nowhere is it told better than in this moving account written by one of my favorite sports authors. That’s why I am so glad Rickey and Robinson has now been reprinted. It should be required reading for all those who wish to know more about Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey and the breaking of baseball’s color line in that long ago year of 1947.

  Monte Irvin

  Acknowledgments

  To Myrna Frommer for a totally professional editing job, with much love.

  To the team on the bench, who once again listened lovingly: Jennifer, Freddy, Ian, Caroline, “Granny.”

  And for the memories, the time, the access to information: Bill Bevens, Joe Bostic, Bob Broeg, Roy Campanella, Fred Clare, Dr. Dan Dodson, David Doyle, Mal Goode, Dr. George N. Gordon, Bill Griffin, Eleanor Heard, John Sidney Heard, Monte Irvin, Irv Kaze, Ralph Kiner, Jerry Lewis of the Jackie Robinson Foundation, Stan Lomax, Russ Meyer, Lou Napoli, Peter O’Malley, Pee Wee Reese, Mack Robinson, Rachel Robinson, Ed Roebuck Irving Rudd, Red Schoendienst, Lee Scott, Bill Shea, Enos Slaughter, Duke Snider, Ben Wade, Rube Walker, and Willie Mae Walker. For dedicated attention to detail, thanks to Jeffrey Neuman. And specil thanks to Maron Waxman, my editor at Macmillan, for her concise and careful editing.

  For information and aid: Los Angeles Dodgers, New York Mets, Pittsburgh Pirates, St. Louis Cardinals, New York Yankees, Ohio Wesleyan University, Pasadena Junior College, UCLA, Office of the Baseball Commissioner, Jackie Robinson Foundation, Journal of Educational Sociology, 1954.

  It is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points out where the strong man stumbles, nor where the doer of deeds could have done better. On the contrary, the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena—whose vision is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes up again and again; who knows the great devotions; the great enthusiasms; who at best knows in the end of the triumph of high achievement.

  —Theodore Roosevelt

  Chapter One

  The Meeting

  The signs and symbols of the end of a worldwide war were everywhere. Four catastrophic years of death, deprivation, and drama were drawing to a close. The last week of the eighth month of 1945 was more than just the end of another month, another summer. The death camps of the Nazis, the atomic mushroom clouds of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the deaths of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and the despots Hitler and Mussolini were reminders of what America and the world had endured.

  Millions had awaited this time of their lives: the ending of horrors, the beginning of new ways, the picking up of old patterns.

  A month before, the Queen Mary had sailed west. The lights of the great ship were ablaze for the first time since 1939. There were 15,278 excited troops on board, stuffed into space that usually accommodated 2,000. On August 15, Japan surrendered.,On Monday, August 27, the French war hero Charles de Gaulle arrived in New York City for a twenty-five-hour stay. He drove sixty-two miles in an open car through three boroughs. More than two hundred thousand cheered the tall, impressive figure. He rode in an open car, his hands above his head, his fingers spread in a “V” for victory. It was a beautiful summer day, seemingly made especially for New
Yorkers to greet a hero.

  The morning after de Gaulle’s visit, a well-built black man hesitated at the corner of Court and Montague streets in downtown Brooklyn. He stopped at the newsstand in front of Wallach’s clothing store. A former United States Army lieutenant, he noted with interest the headline on the front page of the New York Times:

  FIRST TROOPS LAND IN JAPAN FROM 48 PLANES TO PREPARE WAY FOR VAST INVASION THURSDAY FLEET UNITS BEGIN TO MOVE INTO TOKYO BAY

  “It’s the beginning of the end,” he thought as he walked toward 215 Montague Street, an office building where the main headquarters of the Brooklyn Dodgers was located. Times were changing. The end of the war was bringing a new spirit of joy and unity to the nation. But for the young man on that Brooklyn street there were some things that never seemed to change.

  While in the armed forces he had experienced firsthand the segregation that was so much a part of the military and so dominant a force in much of American life. An athlete, he had played baseball that summer in the Negro Leagues and was now prepared to meet one of baseball’s most powerful executives to explore the possibility, he was told, of his playing for another all-Negro team.

  Almost since its inception, organized baseball had been a segregated sport run by white men and played by white men. In the 188os, Negroes had played major-league ball, but an unwritten law laid down by baseball executives—notably Cap Anson, the great hitter of the nineteenth century—had established a color bar by the 1890s. No Negro player had breached this unspoken agreement.

  The young man hardly noticed the noise of people arriving for work on Montague Street and the sounds of traffic around Borough Hall as he walked into the building. He was greeted by a secretary and led into the private office of Branch Rickey, the sixty-four-year-old Dodger general manager.

  Venetian blinds were drawn to shut out the morning sun. The large office was walnut-paneled. The visitor saw a blackboard that contained the names of all the players and other personnel in the Dodger organization, down to the lowest minor-league teams. He glanced at a wall decorated with four framed pictures. There was a snapshot of Leo Durocher, the Dodger manager; a portrait of Charlie Barrett, one of the all-time top baseball scouts; and a photo of Gen. Claire Chennault, leader of the volunteer Flying Tigers, who aided China in its war against Japan. The fourth and largest frame contained a portrait of Abraham Lincoln.

  Rickey pushed aside his leather swivel chair and came out from behind his huge mahogany desk. His face nearly obscured by the smoke of his cigar, he extended his hand in greeting. “Jackie Robinson.” He smiled. “It’s very nice to meet you. I understand you’re quite a ballplayer.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” the twenty-six-year-old Robinson responded. They shook hands. Years later, Robinson would recall his first impression at that handshake: “The hand holding mine was hard, gnarled with the often-broken fingers of an ex-baseball catcher. His hair was thick, deep brown. Heavy bushy eyebrows flapped like twin crows from side to side as he talked.”

  Jackie Robinson’s meeting with Branch Rickey was the culmination of a three-year search that had cost thousands of dollars. Rickey had ordered his chief scouts to find the one player who would be best equipped to break baseball’s color line. Rickey asked three questions about each prospect: (I) Can he run? (2) Can he throw? (3) Can he hit with power? Those who met these criteria would then be judged on personality, background, intelligence, and desire.

  Josh Gibson, the veteran black star who had smashed gigantic home runs while playing in the ballpark of the Washington Senators, was scouted, but he was considered too old. “Piper” Davis, an infielder for the Birmingham Black Barons, had fine speed and was a defensive standout. He drew serious consideration but was ruled out because he lacked major-league hitting potential. A catcher named Roy Campanella and a pitcher named Don Newcombe were also high on the list, but the player all the scouts agreed on was standing before Branch Rickey that summer day in Brooklyn, New York.

  George Sisler, the St. Louis Browns’ Hall of Fame first baseman, had praised Robinson’s running ability and limitless hitting potential. His only reservation concerned Robinson’s arm, which he deemed just average. Sisler felt that Robinson’s best position would be first base or second base—the side of the infield with the shortest throw.

  Wid Matthews reported that Robinson could protect the strike zone better than any other rookie he had ever seen. While impressed with Robinson’s hitting, Matthews shared Sisler’s concern about his arm.

  Rickey sent scout Clyde Sukeforth to Chicago, where Robinson’s team, the Kansas City Monarchs, was playing. “Get to talk to Robinson before the game,” Rickey advised his scout. “Ask him to throw the ball from the hole in practice. There is some doubt about his arm, but if you like his arm, bring him in. Get him away from his teammates, so nobody will know what you are doing. I need absolute secrecy here.”

  Robinson was unable to play in the game that Sukeforth watched, but the Dodger scout prevailed on him to make some pregame practice throws. “I asked him why he was discharged from the army,” Sukeforth wrote in his report to Rickey. “It seemed an old football ankle injury had brought about his discharge, but as it proved it did not bother him. I reasoned that if he wasn’t going to play for a week, this would be an ideal time to bring him to Brooklyn. I had him make a few stretches into the hole to the right and come up throwing. His moves looked good.”

  The Dodger scout and Robinson met after the game in a downtown Chicago hotel. Sukeforth explained that there was interest in making Jackie a member of the Brooklyn Brown Dodgers, a team Rickey was sponsoring in a new Negro league. “Robinson reacted favorably,” recalled Sukeforth. The two men went to Union Station, where Sukeforth purchased tickets, and together they took the train to New York City.

  And now Robinson was face to face with Rickey himself, the man who had built the St. Louis Cardinal dynasty. Rickey’s first question startled Robinson. “Do you have a girl?” he asked. “Do you have a girl?” Rickey pressed.

  Robinson was taken aback. It was a question posed by a white man. It was a question that seemed too personal, especially in the first moments of a new relationship.

  Robinson avoided Rickey’s eyes for an instant. “Mr. Rickey, I don’t know,” Robinson :finally answered quietly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Well,” Robinson responded, “the way I’ve been traveling about the country and not writing as I should, well . . . I don’t know.”

  “Is she a fine girl? Does she come from a good family background? Is she an educated girl?” The questions came out in a gravel-toned rush.

  “They don’t come any finer, Mr. Rickey.”

  “Then you know doggone well that you have a girl. And you need one. You ought to marry her quick as you can. It will be the best thing in the world for you. When we get through here today, you may want to call her up, because there are times when a man needs a woman by his side.”

  There was a pause. The two men stood silently in the middle of the office.

  Then Rickey smiled as he chewed on his cigar. “Sit down, please,” he said, gesturing to a leather chair facing the desk. “We have a lot of things to talk about, and we’ve got plenty of time to do it.”

  Robinson sat down on the overstuffed chair. He tried to relax. He was prepared to give simple anci direct answers to all questions. But he was also on his guard, for he had been in other situations with other white men who had been positive and friendly and then suddenly changed.

  Rickey struck a match and held it inches from the end of his cigar. “Do you have any idea, Jackie, why we are meeting here today?”

  “I only know what Mr. Sukeforth told me. You are starting a new Negro league, and there will be a team called the Brooklyn Brown Dodgers that will play at Ebbets Field.”

  Rickey waved out the lit match and removed the cigar from his mouth. He leaned forward across the desk. “That is what he was supposed to tell you. The truth is that you are not a candidate for th
e Brooklyn Brown Dodgers. You were brought here to play for the Brooklyn organization, to start out, if you can make it, playing for our top farm team, the Montreal Royals.”

  The words staggered Robinson. He frowned as if he hadn’t heard right and clasped his powerful hands together. “Play for Montreal . . .” he said softly. “Me, play for Montreal?”

  Rickey nodded. “Yes,” he said in his cavernous, oratorical voice. Someone once said if Rickey spoke to a fellow across a desk, he delivered a Gettysburg address. Now he intoned, “Yes, if you can make the grade, Jackie. Later on, also if you can make it, you’ll have a chance with the Brooklyn Dodgers. I want to win pennants. We need ballplayers. We have scouted you for weeks. What you can do on the baseball field is a matter of record. But this is much more than just playing baseball, much more. What I mean when I say ‘can you make it’ is do you have the guts, do you have the guts and what it takes to make it?”

  “Mr. Rickey,” Robinson answered firmly, although he was somewhat unnerved by the older man’s bombast, “I’ll make it. I’ll make it if I get the opportunity to make it.”

  “I know you’re a good ballplayer.” Rickey swung about in his swivel chair, continuing his booming rhetoric. “I know all about your ability. But there is much more here than just playing.” Rickey paused for a moment, then continued in a low, confidential voice. “I wish it meant only hits, runs, and errors—those things you can easily see in the box score. You know, Jackie, a box score is one of the most democratic things in the world. What color you are, what your politics are, how much money you have, how big or small you are—a box score doesn’t reveal any of these things. It just tells what kind of a ballplayer you were on any given day.”

  “Isn’t that all that matters in baseball?” Robinson cut in. “Isn’t that all that counts?”

  “It’s all that should count. Perhaps the day will come when it will be all that does count. That’s one of the reasons you are here in my office today. Jackie, if you are a good enough ballplayer and a big enough man, we can start in the right direction. What it will take, what it must take, is a great deal of courage.”