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“Jackie Robinson?” Jackie and Rachel glanced up. They'd been the last to stumble off the bus, even after the other black passengers, and they were surprised to see a round-faced, bespectacled black man waiting for them. “Mr. Rickey sent me to meet you.” He offered his hand. “Wendell Smith,
Pittsburgh Courier
. I'm going to be your Boswell.”

Jackie just stared. “My who?”

“Your chronicler, your advance man. Even your chauffeur.” Smith tipped his hat. “Mrs. Robinson.”

Rachel offered him a tired smile. “It's Rachel.”

Smith regarded them both. “Man, you two look wiped out.”

“You got a car?” Jackie asked, fatigue and frustration making the words come out sharper than he'd intended. “Get us out of here.”

They carried the bags out to Smith's Buick. Along the way, Rachel couldn't help noticing that even the water fountains were segregated.

Smith caught her stare. “You ever been down South before, Rachel?”

She shook her head. “First time. We have our problems in Pasadena, but not like this.”

“Mr. Rickey says we follow the law,” Smith half-explained, half-warned. “If Jim Crow and the state of Florida say Negroes do this and that, then we do this and that.”

“My life's changing right in front of me,” Rachel said softly, more to herself than to him. “Who I am, who I think I am.” She shook her head and climbed into the car.

“Joe and Duff Harris live here,” Smith explained when they finally pulled up in front of a handsome little house in Daytona Beach's black neighborhood. “He gets out the black vote, does a lot of good for colored folks. Mr. Rickey set it up himself.” He deepened his voice in a fair imitation of Rickey: “ ‘If we can't put the Robinsons in the hotels, they should stay someplace that represents something.' ”

Jackie and Rachel exchanged a look, unsure whether to laugh or not. At least the place seemed nice.

“Brooklyn plays downtown,” Smith continued. “Montreal a few blocks from here. You'll stay with the Harrises except for a few days at the end of the week. The whole Dodger organization is going to Sanford, about forty-five minutes away. Rachel, you'll remain here.”

“Where are the other wives staying?” she asked.

Smith laughed. “There are no other wives. You're the only one Mr. Rickey allowed to spring training.”

A friendly looking couple stepped out onto the porch and waved hello, and Rachel automatically waved back.

“I hope you like it,” Mrs. Harris told them as she led them up the stairs to a door at the very top.

“I'm sure we will,” Rachel promised her. “Thank you.” They'd only been there a few minutes, but she already liked the Harrises.

“Dinner's at five,” Mrs. Harris told them as she headed back down. Jackie had already stepped into the room, and Rachel followed him, closing the door behind her — then accidentally knocked Jackie onto the bed. The room was so small that, between the bed and their luggage, there wasn't even any room to move!

“It's a joke, right?” Jackie asked. He gazed about them in disbelief.

But Rachel smiled. “I like it.” She'd fallen on top of him, and now she kissed him soundly. He smiled and wrapped his arms around her. “Remind me dinner's at five,” she warned.

He laughed. “I'll try to remember.” Then he hugged her close. They'd unpack later. Once they'd had a chance to forget all about planes and trains, and even baseball.

T
he next morning, Smith pulled up at the training field alongside the team buses. He glanced over at Jackie. This was the first time he'd seen the young ballplayer nervous.

“The first day of spring training,” he said gently. “My
Pittsburgh Courier
readers need to know how it feels.”

Jackie shrugged. “It's okay.”

“That's not exactly a headline,” Smith pointed out.

“That's all I got.” Jackie didn't look at him. He stared down at his hands instead. They were clenched together tightly.

Smith shook his head. “Look, Jack, right now it's just me asking you. But you get on that field and it's going to be the
New York Times
and the
Sporting News
. You should think about it.”

“If they ask something, I'll answer,” Jackie told him pointedly. He didn't mean to snap at Smith, but this day was so important, he let his nerves get the better of him.

“All right,” Smith tried again, “but you know when you're at the plate, you want to feel like you see the pitch come in slow? Well, you want to see the questions come in slow, too.”

Jackie didn't say anything. He just glared at him for a second, then climbed out of the car. Smith watched him walk away, and sighed.

Out by the field, Rickey was sitting on one of the benches, fuming. When Parrott hurried over, Rickey shook a newspaper at him.

“Listen to this, Harold,” he declared. He pulled the paper open and began to read from it: “ ‘Whenever I hear a white man' — yours truly — ‘broadcasting what a Moses he is to the Negro race, then I know the latter needs a bodyguard. It is those of the carpetbagger stripe of the white race' — me again — ‘who, under the guise of helping, in truth are using the Negro for their own selfish interest, thereby retarding the race!' ” He growled and crumpled the paper in his hands. “The minor league commissioner of baseball said that! I pay part of his salary!
You
wouldn't stab me in the back like this, would you?”

Parrott shook his head, then finally managed to get a word in. “He's here, Mr. Rickey.”

“He is?” Rickey rose to his feet at once. “Why didn't you say so?”

Out on the field, two hundred white players stopped what they were doing as Jackie crossed the field, wearing his brand-new Montreal Royals uniform and carrying a glove and a bat. Reporters and photographers surrounded him immediately, and the burst of flashbulbs going off left Jackie reeling and partially blinded. Everyone was shouting questions at once, and Jackie had to concentrate to break them apart into coherent sentences.

“Jackie,” one reporter called, “do you think you can make it with these white boys?”

Jackie looked around, seeking help — and spotted Smith standing behind the others, just watching. He remembered what the other man had said.
See the questions slow.
So he took a deep breath, let it out, and used that second to think so he could answer clearly: “Sure, I had no problem with white men in the service or at UCLA.”

“What'll you do if one of these pitchers throws at your head?” someone else asked.

Jackie gave himself a second before replying, “I'll duck.”

That got some laughs.

“Jack, what's your natural position?” a third reporter called.

At least that one was easy. “I've been playing shortstop.”

But then the same man followed up with “Are you after Pee Wee Reese's job?”

Jackie looked over and spotted Reese watching with another Dodger he recognized, Ed Stanky. “Reese plays for Brooklyn,” he answered. “I'm worried about making Montreal.”

The first reporter hurled another question. “Is this about politics?”

Jackie shook his head and smiled. “It's about getting paid.” He saw Smith smile and nod, and relaxed a little. He could do this.

Rickey had held back — this was Jackie's moment, not his. But now, as the first barrage of questions died down a bit, he cut in, smiling and nodding as he drew Jackie away and led him across the field to where a middle-aged man in a Royals uniform waited. “Clay,” he said as they reached the man, “I'd like you to meet Jackie Robinson. Jackie, Clay Hopper, manager of the Montreal Royals.”

Hopper held out his hand. “We ain't doing much today,” he told Jackie, and though there was a clear Southern drawl to his words, his voice and manner sounded neutral, maybe even a little bit friendly. “Just throwing the ball around and hitting a few. Why don't you toss a few with those fellas over there?” He turned toward a kid in a Royals uniform. “Hey, Jorgensen!” The kid looked up. “Meet Jackie Robinson.”

By the end of the day, Jackie was tired, but feeling pretty good. He'd held his own with the Montreal players, and if some of them hadn't warmed much to him, others had accepted him as just another guy on the team. And that was all he wanted.

Two of the Dodgers called out to him, however, as he walked past the buses to where Smith and his Buick waited.

“Hey, rook!” one of them, Higbe, shouted. “Did you hear about the redneck shortstop?”

The other, Bragan, followed up: “He thought the last two words of the national anthem were ‘play ball'!”

Jackie managed a smile, but he couldn't help wondering if they were heckling because he was the new guy or because he was black.

Higbe tried again: “How about the shortstop making all the errors who tried to kill himself by jumping out on the highway?”

And Bragan finished the joke, “A bus just missed him. Drove right between his legs!”

A few of the other players laughed as the pair climbed onto the Dodgers bus and it pulled away. Most of the faces staring down at him glared or looked at him blankly. Only one, the young pitcher Ralph Branca, smiled and waved.

“ ‘Between his legs,' good one,” Smith muttered as Jackie reached him. “He must've read a joke book. If he can read.” Jackie just climbed in the car without a word. Smith sighed, then beat a quick drumroll on the hood of the Buick. “Hi, Wendell, how are you?” he asked, then glanced over at his silent passenger and sighed again. “Well, looks like I got a long drive to Sanford.”

It was almost evening when they pulled up in front of the Brock house in Sanford. Mr. Brock stepped out onto the front porch to meet them. He was carrying a tray of tall drinks, the glasses glistening with condensation.

“Jackie,” he said as they reached him, setting the tray on a table so he could offer his hand, “I'm Ray Brock. Welcome to Sanford, Florida! The day belongs to decent-minded people.” He turned to Smith next. “Wendell, good to see you.

“My wife's inside, cooking,” Brock added after the greetings were over. “You know what she asked me this morning? She asked me, ‘What do you serve when a hero's coming for dinner?' ”

Jackie scuffed his feet, not used to such attention. “I'm just a ballplayer, Mr. Brock.”

But Brock laughed good-naturedly. “Tell that to all the little colored boys playing baseball in Florida today. You're a hero to them.” He gestured toward the tray, the table, and the rocking chairs beside them. “Sit down, have something to drink. My special rum and Coke.”

But Jackie shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I don't drink.” Even if he had before, he wouldn't now — there was no way he was going to let anyone paint a picture of him as a lush!

“A ballplayer who doesn't drink?” Brock let out a low whistle, then shook his head. “That's a new one on me.”

“I'll have one,” Smith was quick to offer. “I'm a stereotypical reporter through and through.”

All three of them laughed.

“Mr. Brock,” Jackie asked, “do you have a desk? I'd like to get a letter to my wife.”

Brock clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, this way.” He led Jackie inside, while Smith settled into one of the chairs and claimed one of the drinks. Jackie could tell already that, except for Rachel being back in Daytona Beach, he was going to like it here.

The next day, Rickey and Hopper watched the training game between Montreal and Saint Paul. Jackie was playing second.

“He's getting by on a quick release,” Hopper commented, “but his arm's too weak for short. Second base is his spot.”

“I agree.” Rickey frowned. “And I'll state another obvious, Clay — I need the players to act like gentlemen around him.” Hopper just nodded, not taking his eyes off the field. “To treat him as they would any other teammate. To be natural, to impose no restrictions on themselves. To all work together in harmony.”

The whack of a bat solidly connecting made him look up, as a low line drive shot for the gap between first and second. Jackie lunged forward, glove outstretched, and snagged the ball before it could hit the ground. Then he spun around and dropped to one knee, firing the ball back to first before the runner who'd just left there could make it back safely. It was a beautiful play.

“That was superhuman,” Rickey whispered, awed.

Next to him, Hopper chuckled. “Superhuman? Don't get carried away, Mr. Rickey. That's still a nigger out there.”