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least, Jackie could answer. “Yes.”
    â€œA black man in white baseball. Imagine the reaction. The vitriol.” Rickey took a step forward and got right in Jackie’s face. “The Dodgers check into a hotel. A good, decent hotel. You’re worn out from the road and some clerk won’t give you the pen to sign in.” He affected a Southern drawl. “ ‘We got no room, boy, not even down in the coal bin where you belong.’ ” Jackie was scowling now, banging his hands on the arms of the chair as Rickey continued. “The team stops at a restaurant. The waiter won’t take your order.” His voice shifted again. “ ‘Didn’t you see the sign on the door? No animals allowed.’ What are you going to do then?” he demanded. “Fight him? Ruin all my plans? Answer me!”
    A cold, hard look settled on Jackie’s face. “Do you want a ballplayer who doesn’t have the guts to fight back?” he asked, barely able to force the words out through his anger. “Is that what you want?”
    â€œI want one who has the guts
not
to fight back!” Rickey shot back. “There are people who won’t like this. They will do anything to get you to react. If you echo a curse with a curse, they’ll only hear yours. Follow a blow with a blow, and they’ll say a Negro lost his temper, that the Negro does not belong. Your enemy will be out in force, but you cannot meet him on his own low ground. We win with hitting, running, and fielding — nothing else. We win if the world is convinced of two things: that you are a fine gentleman and a great ballplayer. Like our Savior, you must have the guts to turn the other cheek.”
    The two of them stared at each other, the fiery general manager and the equally volatile young player.
    â€œCan you do it?” Rickey asked. His voice had gone soft, all the fire burned out of him. For now.
    Jackie considered the question seriously. He knew there would be no turning back. That he wasn’t sure he could deal with the scrutiny and harassment Rickey was describing. But he also knew he had to try.
    â€œMr. Rickey,” he said finally, meeting the other man’s eyes, “you give me a uniform, you give me a number on my back, and I’ll give you the guts.”
    Rickey smiled, nodded, and clapped a hand on Jackie’s shoulder. Then he looked over at Sukeforth, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had their player.

    An hour later, a phone rang in the Los Angeles home of the Isum family. Twenty-three-year-old Rachel crossed the room gracefully and answered it.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œRae?” It was Jackie. “Rae, I’m in Brooklyn.” She could hear the sound of people bustling about in the background.
    â€œBrooklyn?” she asked. “For what?”
    â€œI don’t want to say on the phone,” he answered. “In fact, I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” She could hear his excitement, though.
    â€œJack?”
    â€œI’m here, Rae.”
    â€œWhat’s going on? You’re supposed to be playing in Chicago!”
    He laughed at that, his happy laugh, not his bitter one. “We’ve been tested, you and me,” he told her. “Our loyalty, our faith. We’ve done everything the right way. Me trying to make money. You finishing school. Separated by the war, now by baseball. We don’t owe the world a thing. Only each other.”
    She wasn’t following him. “Jack, what are you talking about? What happened?”
    He laughed again, and it was sheer joy. “The Brooklyn Dodgers just signed me to play ball up in Montreal,” he answered. “It might lead to bigger things. To something wonderful.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” she agreed. “But what does it mean? For you and me?”
    His voice turned serious. “Rae, will you marry me?”
    She didn’t even have to think about it.