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pay you an additional fifty dollars a week plus expenses if you will attend spring training with Jackie Robinson,” he offered. “You will watch over him, help him to avoid the harm that could come if he were to do or say anything out of turn. You will act as his chauffeur, you will secure accommodations for him wherever the team may be, help him find restaurants, and so on.”
    â€œWhat’s in it for me?” Smith asked. “Besides the fifty dollars and a whole lot of aggravation?”
    Rickey’s smile returned. “Unprecedented access to my team for any reporting you feel is appropriate. What do you say, Mr. Smith?”
    Smith smiled back. “I say yes, sir. If a Negro is good enough to stop a Nazi bullet in France, he’s good enough to stop a line drive at Yankee Stadium.”
    â€œEbbets Field actually,” Rickey corrected. “But I believe you’re right. The world is ready.”
    They shook hands, and Smith couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just agreed to participate in something wonderful.

O n February 28, 1946, Jackie’s and Rachel’s family and friends were on hand to see them off as they walked through the Burbank airport.
    â€œYou knock the cover off that ball,” Jackie’s mother, Mallie, urged him, blinking back proud tears.
    â€œI will, Mama.” He gave her a big hug, teary-eyed himself.
    She hugged him back, then kissed Rachel. “Look after each other.”
    â€œWe will,” Rachel promised.
    Mallie nodded, reached into her bag, and drew out a cardboard shoe box that was slightly greasy at the bottom. “Take this. It’s chicken.”
    Jackie laughed. “They have food on the plane, Mama.”
    â€œYou never know what might happen,” Mallie insisted. “I don’t want you getting there starving and too weak to hit.”
    Rachel caught Jackie’s eye and shook her head ever so slightly. A few minutes later, he was escorting her onto the plane, the shoe box in hand.
    â€œI couldn’t tell her no,” he protested weakly.
    Rachel sighed. “I know she means well. I just don’t want to be seen eating chicken out of a box like some country bumpkin.”
    Jackie smiled and ran a hand over her fancy new coat. “No one’s going to mistake you for a bumpkin in this.”
    Rachel nodded proudly. “Well, they’ll know I belong on that plane or wherever I happen to be.”
    Their argument forgotten, they stepped onto the gleaming plane.

    When they landed for their first stopover, in New Orleans, Rachel headed straight for the nearest ladies’ room, then stopped short. The sign on the door read “White Only.”
    Jackie was still carrying the box of chicken when he caught up to her. “The flight to Pensacola leaves in an hour,” he started, then trailed off when he caught her expression. “You okay?”
    She nodded. “I’ve just never seen one before.”
    Glancing over, Jackie saw the sign. “We’re not in Pasadena anymore.” But Rachel didn’t seem to hear him as she suddenly lurched into motion again — heading straight for the door. “Honey,” he called after her. “Rae —” But she had already disappeared inside. Jackie glanced around, not sure what to do. Before, he would have done the same as her. But things were different now.
    â€œI promised Mr. Rickey we’d stay out of trouble,” he explained to her a few minutes later as they stepped into the airport’s coffee shop.
    â€œDid you promise him we wouldn’t go to the bathroom?” she shot back. “You’ve snuck into segregated toilets before.”
    â€œ
Before
I promised.”
    â€œIt was just a toilet.” She sniffed. “You’d think the commodes were made of gold.”
    They slid into the nearest empty booth, but just as they were reaching for the menu, the cook came bustling out of the