42 Read Free Page A

“Absolutely. When?”
    â€œNow.”
    This time she laughed. “Jack, I don’t think we can get married in a phone booth.”

    Two nights later, Jackie rounded a corner in the Clark Hotel in Los Angeles. He looked dashing in his tux, though the bow tie was now undone. Rachel was walking by his side, her hand clasped in his, radiant in her wedding gown.
    â€œDid my mom look happy?” she asked as they reached the hotel room door and Jackie pulled out a key to unlock it.
    â€œYes,” he answered absently, concentrating on the key and the lock.
    â€œDid my gram look happy?” She took a step back as he unlocked the door. Everything was moving so fast!
    He smiled. “Everyone looked happy. I’ve never seen so many people looking happy.”
    â€œDid Jack Robinson look happy?” she asked softly, the full weight of what they’d done looming over her suddenly. “What if I can’t make you happy?”
    â€œToo late,” he assured her as he turned and took her hands. “You already do. It’s you and me, Rae.”
    She smiled, basking in the love she felt flowing from him. “Until the wheels fall off.”

    Wendell Smith sat before Rickey’s desk, studying the Dodgers manager in the dim light. He blinked behind his glasses.
    â€œWho’s the best shortstop you ever saw?” Rickey was ask-ing him.
    â€œRabbit Tavener,” Smith replied.
    That got a snort. “Rabbit Tavener? And you call yourself a sportswriter?” Smith covered baseball for the
Pittsburgh Courier
, the most popular black community paper in the country.
    â€œYes, a sentimental one,” Smith answered. “I’m from Detroit. He was the Tigers’ shortstop when I was a boy. How about you? Who’s your best?”
    â€œPop Lloyd.” John Henry “Pop” Lloyd had played for over ten different teams in the Negro Leagues before moving over to managing in 1926.
    Smith smiled. “Not Honus Wagner?” The Pittsburgh Pirates player had been one of the first to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, back in 1936.
    â€œWagner is number two,” Rickey told him. “And Rabbit Tavener would not break my top twenty-five. Where do you suppose Jackie Robinson will end up on that list?”
    Smith shook his head. “He won’t break it. He doesn’t have a shortstop’s arm. Robinson belongs on second base.”
    Rickey didn’t seem bothered by that assessment. “All right, then, where would he rate at second?”
    Smith considered. “If he was playing now, he’d be the best second baseman in the majors.”
    That won a smile from the Dodgers manager. “High praise. He’ll have to be the best in the minor leagues first, though.”
    â€œWhat are you saying, Mr. Rickey?” Smith still wasn’t entirely sure why Rickey had asked him to stop by.
    Rickey’s smile broadened. “I’m saying it’s going to be a very interesting spring training. A lot of players are coming back from the war, and with gas rationing over, we can train down in Florida again.”
    â€œDaytona Beach?” Smith asked. “You’re aware in the past six months a black boy was lynched in Madison and a black man down in Live Oak?”
    Rickey waved that off. “Those towns may as well be a million miles from Daytona.”
    â€œLive Oak is one hundred and fifty, actually,” Smith informed him.
    â€œI spoke to the Daytona mayor,” Rickey said. “He assures me there’ll be no trouble.” But he didn’t sound entirely convinced himself. “Mr. Smith, are you a Communist?”
    Smith laughed. “I’m a Democrat. Why do you ask?”
    â€œI have a business proposition. What’s your salary at the
Courier
?”
    â€œFifty dollars a week.” It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for him. And it let him write about baseball.
    Rickey nodded. “I will