Jackie Robinson (56 page)

Cole’s treatment in Birmingham, as well as other episodes in the intensifying civil rights struggle, was discussed in the Dodger dugout, where Robinson could count on players such as Reese, Labine, Hodges, and Erskine for sympathy. Other players were not always as understanding, even if they, too, struggled to preserve team unity. Beyond the team, Jack was often a visible target for whites venting their anger against blacks, as the nation underwent changes that had been unthinkable only a few years before. In July, one personal attack on Robinson, appearing first in the New Orleans
Times-Picayune,
expressed the rage felt by many whites against him as the symbol of the social and political changes that had overtaken America since World War II. Immediately behind the attack were two factors. The first was an essay by Jack, “The South After Ten Years in the Majors,” commissioned by the Pittsburgh
Courier
and carried soon after in the
Sporting News.
The second factor was a new Louisiana law, approved unanimously by the legislature, that banned interracial sport.

In his article on the South, Jack was relatively mild. Essentially he found the South a paradox. Integration was growing, but racial tension was becoming worse. Many Southern whites were his friends, but in the South he still felt the raw force of white resentment. (Don Drysdale would recall a visit that year to Pelican Stadium in New Orleans, when the seats were close to the players “
and Jackie got an earful. The fans called him the worst possible names, and about the most polite thing I heard was ‘Gator Bait.’ It was brutal, and I was always braced for an incident of some sort.”) Jack wrote about the segregated hotels, but also about signs of progress, especially in Miami. Blacks were often intimidated, but some were standing up for their rights. In Mobile, Alabama, for example, he had seen “
quite a bit of tension because of the Supreme Court decision. But in other cities I noticed Negroes helping in the fight.”

Robinson’s sense of balance got him nowhere with the
Times-Picayune
columnist, Bill Keefe, who both backed the new Jim Crow sports law and blamed it on Robinson, that “
persistently insolent and trouble-making Negro of the Brooklyn Dodgers.” Robinson had been “pampered and humored” by baseball officials until he thought he was “immune to discipline.” Ending Jim Crow would bankrupt most hotels, Keefe wrote, because whites
would stay away from them. “Sincere segregationists therefore should chip in and buy a plaque to present Robinson for his yeoman work.”

Keefe’s attack, which he subtitled “Enemy of His Race,” hurt Jack deeply and drew from him one of the most incisive letters he had ever written. Scribbling a draft, ironically, on stationery of the once-segregationist Chase Hotel in St. Louis, he addressed Keefe “
not as Jackie Robinson, but as one human being to another.” Far from being a troublemaker, he was rather “an American who happens to be an American Negro and one who is proud of that heritage.” Writing on behalf of black Americans, Jack insisted that “we ask for nothing special. We ask only that we be permitted to live as you live, and as our nation’s constitution provides.” Concerning segregated hotels, black ballplayers now stayed in “white” hotels in cities such as St. Louis and Cincinnati without these hotels losing trade, much less going out of business. “I wish you could see this as I do,” he told Keefe, “but I hold little hope. I wish you could comprehend how unfair and un-American it is for the accident of birth to make such a difference to you.”

As for being insolent, “I’ll admit I have not been subservient, but would you use the same adjective to describe a white ball player—say Ted Williams, who is, more often than I, involved in controversial matters? Am I insolent, or am I merely insolent for a Negro (who has courage enough to speak against injustices such as yours and people like you)?” “I am happy for you, that you were born white,” Robinson concluded. “It would have been extremely difficult for you had it been otherwise.” (On August 7, for the third time in three weeks, Williams openly spat at fans at Fenway Park, some of whom had booed and insulted him. His club fined him $5,000, which he never paid, according to a Boston newspaper. The following month the state legislature itself acted: it approved a bill that would fine fans for using profanity.)

On the baseball field, when Jack’s resentment of racism touched the pennant race, the potential for an explosion only increased. In Milwaukee, for example, as the Dodgers strove to catch the league-leading Braves, he came close to making one of the worst mistakes of his career. After he became convinced that Lew Burdette was aiming thinly disguised racial insults at him, Jack simmered and stewed and then retaliated with uncharacteristic violence. In the middle of a warmup session in the infield, he suddenly wheeled and fired the ball at Burdette, who was standing on the Braves’ dugout steps. Barely missing Burdette’s head, the baseball crashed into a wall behind him and rebounded onto the field. Astonished reporters found Robinson trembling with anger. Why had he thrown the ball at Burdette? “
I threw it at him because I wanted to hit him right between the eyes,” he
responded. “He was calling me names, and I won’t stand for that.” Burdette had black teammates about whom he obviously cared little, and who were too intimidated or confused to stand up to him. “How do you think they felt?” he said. “I decided I’d have to say what [Henry] Aaron and [Bill] Bruton—a couple [of] kids—wouldn’t say back to him.… He’s nothing but a coward in my book.” (When Burdette denied the remarks were racist, Robinson responded the way he normally did in such a case: he accepted the denial and ended the feud.)

Far more often, Jack channeled his anger into his play, or set his anger aside completely, in an act of will, as he concentrated on the task at hand. Early in August, when Alston returned him to the lineup against the front-running Braves after a spell in limbo, Jack responded with a two-run homer in the second inning, then won the game in the ninth with a long single to beat Milwaukee by one run. He continued to play an important role through September, as the Dodgers bore down in the home stretch on the faltering Braves. Leading the Brooklyn charge were Newcombe and the former Giants headhunter Sal Maglie, now a Dodger. Newcombe would finish with 27 wins for the finest season of his career (he was named MVP of the league). Maglie, acquired from the Indians in May to replace Podres, won 13 games himself. Although diminished compared to 1954 and 1955, Dodger hitting power was still formidable: Snider, about whom Jack had fretted in the spring, hit 43 home runs. On September 25, Maglie threw a no-hitter against the Phillies at Ebbets Field to keep the Dodgers only a half-game behind the Braves. Four days later, Brooklyn moved ahead of Milwaukee by one game with one game to go. On the last day of the season, the Dodgers won the pennant.

Robinson’s inspired play down the stretch led Bill Corum in the New York
Journal-American
to salute him as “
a one-man task force of the diamond,” who was “still the most dangerous individual competitor in the game.” In the World Series, once more against the Yankees, Jack played in all seven games and hit .250, with one home run and one game-winning hit. The Dodgers shone in the first two games at home, then dropped the next three in Yankee Stadium. The last game there, on October 8, saw Don Larsen, a physically imposing but hitherto mediocre pitcher, retire twenty-seven batters in a row to hurl a perfect game and defeat Maglie and the Dodgers, 2–0. (After the game, Jack called on Larsen to pay his respects.) Back at Ebbets Field, pitching dominated again, with both teams scoreless after nine innings. Then, in the tenth inning, when an aging Enos Slaughter misplayed Robinson’s line drive to left field, Gilliam scored to give Brooklyn the win and tie the series; Jack’s welcome in the Dodgers’ dugout
almost matched that accorded Larsen after his famous victory. But in the seventh and deciding game, the Dodger ace, Newcombe, lost in a rout.

By most accountings, Robinson had enjoyed a highly creditable series, to finish off a season that marked an improvement in many respects over 1955. Playing 12 more games (117), he had batted .275 (up from .256), with 43 runs batted in (instead of 36), 61 runs scored (up from 51), and 12 stolen bases (the same as 1955). His 10 home runs (up from 8) and 15 doubles (up from 6) helped to raise his slugging percentage to .412 (from .363 the previous year). Based on this performance (and his financial needs), he had little difficulty in deciding that he would play at least one more season in the majors.

But he would do so only reluctantly. His body clearly was not responding as it once did to exercise; now, despite stringent dieting, he gained weight routinely even during the season. His knees and ankles chronically hurt; his throwing arm often cried out for rest. Quite apart from the demands of his body was his urge to end his prolonged absences from Rachel and the children. Now, more than ever, Jack hoped for the chance in business that would allow him to move on to the next major phase of his life. But his own business ventures were only a mixed success, at best. On 125th Street in Harlem, his clothing store was barely alive. Thus far, his venture into housing construction had led nowhere, with no buildings erected—although in 1956 he was still using his name to open doors for his partners. Over the summer, a news item suggested breathlessly that he and a syndicate of investors were about to buy several radio stations in the South; but this deal, if it ever existed, fell through.

About managing in baseball, Jack was ambivalent, mainly because he wanted to be close to home in the future. His best chance, in any event, was a position outside the United States, where racism would be less of a factor. In Canada, Sam Bankhead, a brother of Dan Bankhead, the first black pitcher in the majors (with the Dodgers), had once managed at Drummondville in the Provincial League. To Jack, Montreal was ideal, if in the minor leagues; but the Royals job was not likely to be open to him, given his relationship with Walter O’Malley. (“
Robinson can’t manage himself,” O’Malley once snapped, no doubt after Jack left baseball. “How can you expect him to manage twenty-five ball-players?”) Earlier in 1956, talk was that Robinson would be offered the chance to manage the new Vancouver club, transferred from Oakland, California, in the Pacific Coast League; but the talk led nowhere. In October, another report again linked Robinson to the Montreal Royals. To an inquiring reporter, Jack confirmed that the offer was “
strictly rumor”; however, “I’d like to manage a ball club. I’m thirty-seven years old now, and I’ve got a lot of gray hair.”

Jack’s weak joke about his gray hair was meant to deflect the pain he felt at yet another sign of the ironies of racism in America. In 1956, perhaps the best example of this perversity was the appointment of Bobby Bragan by Branch Rickey (as Rickey stepped down as general manager of the Pirates) to be field manager of the club. In 1947, refusing to play with a black man, Bragan was traded by Rickey from the Dodgers. Also ironic was the fact that Bragan had become, apparently, an excellent coach and manager of black players. In an article, “Why Can’t I Manage in the Majors?” (as told to Milton Gross), Robinson probed possible answers:
“Because I am a Negro? Because I am emotional? Because I can’t get along with people, no matter what the pigmentation of their skin? Because white players would resent me and would be reluctant to take orders from me? Because baseball isn’t ready now or never will be ready to accept a Negro as a manager at the major league level? Because I’m not qualified by experience or ability?”
Looking back, he knocked down each theory. From a boy, he had played well with whites, many of whom had remained his friends; as a player, he had been loyal and obedient, with a fine sense of team solidarity. “My managers know that I gave them everything I had as a player,” he insisted. “I believe my players would give me everything they have if I were a manager. Maybe I wouldn’t be a good manager, but the reason would come from what was inside me, not outside me, and inside my players.”

W
ITH THE
W
ORLD
S
ERIES OVER
, Jack temporarily set aside thoughts of business and left with the Dodgers on a twenty-game tour of Japan. For him, as for many of the Dodgers, the trip represented a financial sacrifice; as a barnstormer, certainly, he could have made more than twice the money. Several players went unwillingly; however, to the relief of the State Department, which viewed his participation as important, Robinson never hesitated about going. This would not be the first tour of Japan by an American team after World War II, but its diplomatic and cultural importance was obvious. “
Your own presence in Japan will make a contribution,” a government official had assured him, “the value of which cannot be estimated.” Besides, all the Dodger wives were invited, and Rachel was eager to make the trip. After her mother came from Los Angeles to stay with the children, Jack and Rachel left on the longest journey of their lives together.

Columbus Day, October 12, found the team in Los Angeles. There, the Robinsons happily visited family and friends, and O’Malley happily took a helicopter ride. The helicopter was owned by the Sheriff’s Department of the County of Los Angeles, and his host on board was Kenneth Hahn, a member of the County Board of Supervisors. From on high, O’Malley
looked down speculatively at various parcels of land where, with the cooperation of the Board of Supervisors, a major-league ball club might build a new park. This was a crucial step in O’Malley’s gestating plan to move the team west to California. Unknown to the players, Ebbets Field would be home for only one more year. Then the Brooklyn Dodgers would cease to exist. The club would be reborn, in California, as the Los Angeles Dodgers.

In Japan, after a few easy days in Hawaii, the Dodgers traveled all over the country, including Osaka, the ancient imperial city of Kyoto, Nagasaki with its ruins from the atomic bomb dropped on it in World War II, and the industrial city of Nagoya in central Honshu. For both Jack and Rachel, the tour was a grand experience. While Jack was at the ballpark, Rachel spent much of her time in the company of O’Malley’s wife, Kay, a bright, engaging, cultivated woman who, like Rachel, liked museums and the theater. “
Walter O’Malley had all sorts of Japanese friends,” Rachel recalled, “so our welcome everywhere was very warm.” But Jack was also probably the people’s favorite in Japan, and he responded in kind. “What was unusual about Jack in Japan,” Rachel said, “was that he tried new things eagerly, which was not always the case at home. There he was, dressing up in kimonos, trying gamely to eat all kinds of unfamiliar food. We had a lot of fun watching the geisha girls try to make him comfortable, because he literally could not sit down with his legs out, his leg muscles were so tight and large. But he tried; he was in high spirits most of the time. I think he saw the tour of Japan as a culmination of his Dodger career, especially after the World Series victory the year before. I think he knew the end was in sight.”