Jackie Robinson

by Arnold Rampersad

  November and December brought further disquieting news. In Vietnam, on November 19, 1965, the day after his nineteenth birthday, Jackie Junior and his platoon of soldiers were caught in a terrifying ambush. Jackie came close to death; two buddies, one on either side of him, were cut down; he was wounded in the left shoulder. Heroically, he had dragged one of the men from the field of fire, but when the fight was over both his friends were dead. Devastated, Jackie spent about one week in the hospital, then returned, by his own choice, to active duty. The Army awarded him the Purple Heart.

  Jack and Rachel had hardly absorbed this news when the next month, on December 9, at the age of eighty-four, Branch Rickey died. Almost a month before, Rickey had collapsed in Columbia, Missouri, where he had gone to be inducted into the state Hall of Fame. Jack took the news of his mentor’s death hard. “He filled a void for me and I for him,” he explained quietly to newsmen. “Here was a man who had lost a son, and myself who had never had a father.” (Rickey’s eldest son, Branch, a diabetic like Jack, had died in 1960.) For Robinson, absorbing Rickey’s death was a trial to compare to his 1947 ordeal: “I tried to prepare myself emotionally the same way I had for that first year.” His deep feeling for Rickey, Jack made clear, was only in part owing to the fact that Rickey had chosen him to be the first black player. Far more, he loved Rickey because Rickey had been loyal to him. He had been loyal during their four tumultuous years in the Dodger organization, but, more important to Jack, loyal when the cheering had died down, and especially after Jack retired from the game. To Robinson, the “wonderful communication we had with each other” after baseball made him feel now “almost as if I had lost my own father.” Rickey had treated him “like a son.”

  The world had changed since 1947; what was revolutionary then was taken for granted now. When Jack looked around at the funeral in St. Louis, he saw only two other black players. The lack of respect hurt Jack. To the veteran black journalist A. S. “Doc” Young, writing about Rickey, “The bigots who hated his guts because he integrated a sport and the chief beneficiaries of that integration movement were all together in absence.” The absent black players were “too busy to attend the funeral,” Young surmised. “Too busy as in … playing golf, selling booze, or counting money.”

  JACK’S HEALTH CONTINUED to decline. After a battery of tests early in January 1966 at the French Hospital in New York, where his physician, Dr. Cyril Solomon, had privileges, he was warned to slow down.

  Instead, Robinson stepped up his activities a few days later by heading into the South. “I owe a great deal to a lot of people,” he explained. On January 14, he spoke in Greensboro, North Carolina, at North Carolina A&T College, where he honored the crucial civil rights role played by the four students who had started the first sit-in there in 1960. Presenting the school with a plaque on behalf of Freedom National Bank, he urged his audience to recommit itself to that earlier spirit. “Our big lesson,” he declared, “is that no intelligent, self-respecting Negro can afford to remain aloof from the struggle.… There is a wealth of personal satisfaction in being able to say that you played a role, took a part—participated in the drive to help free yourself and your fellow man.” In Selma, Alabama, at a YMCA dinner, he also pressed his audience to cast their ballots wisely: “Vote for the man who will do the most for the greatest number of people.”

  Ironically, with each passing year the South seemed a more encouraging region than parts of the North, as the reputedly immovable walls of Dixie segregation came down almost smoothly in many places. “A miracle is unfolding in the Deep South,” Jack wrote. “The very people who were fighting the hardest to keep the Negroes from exercising the right to vote are wooing the Negro for his vote.” In the North, blacks seemed to care less about the vote; they also seemed, in the absence of the brutal physical threats that had often flared in the South, self-destructive. In Westchester County, New York, a black CORE leader, enraged by his white opponents in a civic dispute, hotly declared that the problem was not that Hitler had killed many Jews but that he had not killed enough of them. The remark shocked Robinson, as well as Dr. King and other leaders, black and white. “There are black bigots as well as white bigots,” Jack observed in his column. He was further dismayed when James Farmer, the director of CORE and “a decent man,” seemed to equate the remark, which Farmer condemned, with the opposition that had inspired it. “There can be no such honest equation,” Robinson insisted. “For, to pose it is to excuse or alibi the depths of bigotry from which the statement arose.” Robinson was blunt: “The man did not attack the Jews, he attacked God, he attacked you and me.”

  Jack’s return early in 1966 to the Amsterdam News after an unexplained one-year hiatus allowed him to resume his open strife with other leading figures. To many people, his eagerness to fight was a source of some wonder; one New Year’s wish of his fellow columnist James Booker was for Robinson to get “a machine to end all feuds.” But unpopularity mattered little to Robinson. “I’m not in a popularity contest,” he said flatly. “That is not my purpose in life. I simply stand up for what I think is right.” In fact, early in 1966 Robinson was gearing up to plunge further into the fray. In a year in which Nelson Rockefeller, who still harbored dreams of being President, was up for reelection as governor of New York, Jack decided to throw in his lot decisively with the governor.

  By this time, Rockefeller’s confidence in Robinson, and his affection for him, were firmly established. Occasionally, over matters such as the state minimum wage and the number of black appointees in the government, Jack had criticized the governor. But far more often, he sang Rockefeller’s praises as a visionary leader committed to securing justice for all. They had grown closer after October 17, 1965, when Jack had flown in Rockefeller’s private plane to lend support during a crucial venture: a quasi-state visit by Rockefeller and his wife, Happy, to the Kings in Atlanta, to preach a sermon in “Daddy” King’s Ebenezer Baptist Church and dine at the home of Dr. King. This visit clearly sought to recapitulate but also trump John Kennedy’s celebrated phone call to Coretta Scott King in the fall of 1960; it acknowledged the importance not only of the black vote but also of Dr. King’s influence on it. Black voting power was proven again that fall in New York City when Republican Congressman John V. Lindsay, running on a fusion ticket but with strong black support in Harlem and Brooklyn, trounced his Democratic opponent to win the mayoralty. Appearing with him on a stroll down Fifth Avenue near Forty-second Street as Lindsay shook hands with voters, Robinson had helped him to win an upset victory.

  The election had brought Jack one wickedly articulate foe: William F. Buckley Jr., the sharp-tongued editor of the conservative National Review, who also ran for mayor that year. In April, Buckley angered Robinson and other blacks when, in a speech at a policemen’s breakfast, he appeared to criticize the actions of some black demonstrators in Selma. A nastier episode came near Election Day. On an interview show on WINS radio, Robinson had laid out the allegedly dire consequences for blacks if Buckley became mayor; it would be a disaster for which blacks should prepare. Pouncing, Buckley then denounced these remarks as “a direct call to violent illegal action [by blacks] to subvert the democratic process.” Informed of Buckley’s charge, Robinson completely lost his poise. “He’s a liar and a bigot and that’s just what he is,” he stormed to a reporter. “What we’re advocating is preparedness.”

  EARLY IN 1966, Robinson in his column endorsed Rockefeller for reelection: “I think he will fight very hard to win—and I hope he will win BIG.” A message had to be sent to the National Republican Committee, to Goldwater, and to Buckley. To Jack, Rockefeller was not above criticism. After several barbs in the black press about the absence of Negroes in the state government, Robinson sent the governor a stern letter, “one of the most difficult letters I have ever had to write.” He was bold: “While I believe there is not a more dedicated politician on the scene, your record toward the Negro regarding political appointments cannot be accepted by any self-respecti
ng Negro.” Without a change, Robinson would speak out publicly, and soon. “I hope you understand my position,” he told Rockefeller. “I do not put personal feelings above the feeling I have for the masses of our people.”

  On February 8, at a press conference in Albany, Rockefeller personally announced Robinson’s appointment to the position of special assistant to the governor for community affairs. His home base would be New York City, Jack told reporters, “but we will get around to every nook and cranny in the State. We want to talk to people. We want to try to unite as many people as we possibly can.… I am tickled to death that we’ve got the guidance of Governor Rockefeller, because I know we’re going to get the right kind of leadership here.” This appointment was private; Robinson was paid from the governor’s personal funds. Jack’s salary was probably around $25,000 a year, or roughly half of what Chock Full o’ Nuts had paid him.

  Not long afterward, Rockefeller also hired Evelyn Cunningham, the veteran Pittsburgh Courier journalist, to be Jack’s assistant. Soon, other blacks augmented what Robinson called his “team,” including his ghostwriter, Al Duckett; the Reverend Wyatt Tee Walker, now special assistant to the governor for urban affairs; and Grant Reynolds, an attorney and prominent Republican. Robinson saw himself in charge of this group. “I have rolled up my sleeves and gone to work,” he explained, in part to further the two-party system for blacks, in part because “I want to see liberal, progressive Lindsay and Rockefeller Republicanism triumph.”

  “I was brought in,” Cunningham revealed later, “to help Jackie Robinson stay on track with the governor’s program. Some of the governor’s people obviously thought he fired too often from the hip, and Jackie himself was worried about this. I remember him calling me early one morning, upset at a story of the front page of the Times saying that he had criticized the governor. ‘That’s not what I said!’ he kept telling me. ‘Should I call the Times?’ I said, ‘No, why don’t you call the governor?’ The governor told him, ‘Try to calm down, Jackie, because I’m really not upset. If I’m not able to take care of little things like this, I shouldn’t be governor. This is nothing for me to worry about and certainly nothing for you to worry about.’ But Jackie remained upset for quite a while. He didn’t intend to be quiet but he did not want to harm the governor.”

  For Cunningham, who had also been one of the organizers of Rockefeller’s introduction to Harlem at the Dawn Casino in 1961, Robinson and Rockefeller “went through a big love affair with one another. They had such respect and admiration for one another, it was really like love. Rockefeller was convinced that Jackie really cared about him despite the fact that he was a rich, powerful man. He wanted to be loved by everybody, but he was never certain and he would never be certain that it wasn’t for his money and power. But he believed Jack. And in the meantime, he loved Jackie over and beyond his being a baseball hero. He was always puzzled and pleased that Jackie supported him and was his friend.”

  Percy Sutton, the influential Democratic leader in Harlem, saw both the value of Jack’s relationship to Rockefeller and its sterling character. “Jackie got things done,” Sutton said, “and he helped us across party lines. When Medgar Evers’s brother Charles was elected mayor in Mississippi and we wanted a plane to fly down to see him sworn in, to see history, Jackie arranged it. And you only had to watch Rockefeller and Robinson together to know the genuine affection and respect they had for one another. It was real. Rockefeller, once he embraced you, was real. He gave you access and opportunity and contacts, and he didn’t abandon you. And he embraced Jackie.”

  Operating in quarters adjacent to the governor’s New York offices at 22 West Fifty-fifth Street, Jack threw himself into his job. “Jackie was usually the first one in the office every day,” according to Cunningham. “He was a zealous worker. If there was nothing to do, he’d try to create something.” To her, Robinson was not always confident about his intelligence, but “Rockefeller had no dummies around him, not one mediocre person. Jackie maybe was out of his element in electoral politics, but he was not out of his depth.” Soon, as part of his job, Jack was testifying before the State Investigation Commission on middle-income housing; descending on the offices of the Queens district attorney to discuss citizens’ complaints; standing in for the governor and reading a speech to the Ohio Republican Council in Cleveland, Ohio. He could stand in easily for the governor because he was the greater celebrity; when the two men strolled in Manhattan, someone pointed out, taxi drivers usually yelled out greetings to Robinson and ignored Rockefeller.

  Driving Jack and his team was the knowledge that in the major New York cities Democrats outnumbered Republicans by almost a million voters. Thus, the black vote was crucial to the governor’s chances. On April 7, when Jack attended a key planning meeting, it was emphasized that in contrast to 1962, the 1966 campaign needed a much more intense effort. Rockefeller would have to “go into areas he has never been before,” including “trouble areas” like the poor Bedford-Stuyvesant district of Brooklyn, with Robinson “as close to him as possible.” For greater effect, Jack was urged to use his title “Special Assistant to the Governor” more and to deemphasize his role as a campaign official. Although “he was not to concern himself exclusively with minority affairs,” he was a crucial figure in wooing the black vote. The importance of that vote was underscored in the governor’s almost gaudy gesture later that month when, with Robinson taking a prominent role, he launched his third gubernatorial campaign at the offices of the New York Amsterdam News in Harlem.

  But Jack was also effective with white voters, especially men. Cunningham remembered a trip with him to Staten Island. “We faced a very conservative group,” she recalled, “and not very nice people either, definitely antiblack and not real fond of women either. But for Jackie, they turned out in droves; the halls were packed, and Jackie was the key. It was like, Okay, okay, enough, we’ll vote for Rockefeller—now, Jackie, how about that play in that game? And so on. They adored him, and Jackie was very good, very outgoing, laughing a lot when they asked funny questions. At the end, sheepishly, he started signing autographs, and graciously too. We got the votes.”

  On some points, however, Jack would not yield. When talk arose that Rockefeller might use William E. Miller, Goldwater’s running mate in 1964, in the fall election, Jack put his foot down. Unaccustomed to being crossed, the governor nevertheless accepted such resistance from Robinson. “I like a man,” Jack wrote later, “who can look me in the eye and say to me—as Governor Rockefeller has done—‘Jackie, I agree with you that you should always say what you feel you must say. Don’t worry about upsetting me or upsetting anyone else. I believe in a man’s right to be true to himself.’ ” In turn, Jack was loyal to the governor, unless he thought the welfare of blacks was at risk. When a reporter counted only about two dozen blacks among almost thirty-five hundred guests at a state Republican dinner in New York, Jack was defensive; the reporter was “nit-picking” and “looking for trouble.” But Robinson kept alive his special interest in black Republicans; on May 21, in Detroit, he delivered the main address at the first national convention of the Negro Republican Assembly. The Amsterdam News noted that inside the party, Robinson “is proving to be a real pro in the political infighting and is getting some key recognition for Negroes.”

  Fishing for black votes in strange, sometimes treacherous waters, Rockefeller often needed Robinson’s help. But sometimes even Jack was not enough. That summer, as a perspiring, shirt-sleeved Rockefeller tried to open a campaign office in Harlem, about one hundred heckling black nationalists led by Roy Innis of CORE shouted rude questions about the Rockefeller family’s holdings in South Africa and almost broke up the event. As Robinson, buttoned up in a dark suit and tie, watched helplessly, it was left to Eddie “Pork Chop” Davis, a Harlem street-corner orator, to seize the microphone from the beleaguered governor, shout down the hecklers, and restore order.

  By this time, another long, hot summer was playing out across the nation. “One
of the most terrible tragedies of our times,” Jack wrote, “is being acted out in the streets of our big cities. It is both frustrating and frightening to see the hordes of Negro people, so many of them the restless young, exploding into the most sickening kind of violence.” The tension in New York was made worse by a prolonged public dispute between forces favoring a strong civilian review board, which Jack supported, and backers of police independence, of whom William F. Buckley Jr. was perhaps the most provocative spokesman. As so often happened, Robinson quickly turned a political dispute into something personal, as in rebuking a popular liberal WMCA radio personality and longtime friend, Barry Gray, who had sided with the police. “I hope I am wrong, Barry,” Jack chided Gray in his column. “I would not in good conscience call you a bigot. But you know the logical conclusion about the man who lies down with hogs. The hogs do not end up smelling like men.” The idea of Gray and the reactionary Buckley uniting on this issue “would be ludicrous if it were not tragic.”

  Making the situation more volatile was the increasingly fierce rhetoric about Black Power. On May 26, 1965, in a commencement speech at Howard University, Adam Clayton Powell Jr. had introduced the term; in the audience was Stokely Carmichael of SNCC, who then used it to galvanizing effect in rallies later that year. To Robinson, the slogan encouraged demagogues and even crime by lending them an aura of political legitimacy. Meanwhile, he said, “the white power structure builds into giant visibility the slightest pip squeak who comes along with something incendiary or radical to say.” Late in August, a new ingredient was added to the brew. With Carmichael in the chair and all whites banished, a large crowd of SNCC supporters warmly welcomed a spokesman for a new militant group, the Black Panthers, while six Panthers, dressed in black berets, black shirts, and black slacks, stood guard. SNCC, born out of the efforts of Dr. King’s SCLC, had moved some distance away from its source. Later that year, Robinson issued his own definition of Black Power: “When we use our ballot and our dollars wisely, we are exercising black power without having to define it.”