Branch Rickey Read Free Page A

Avenue in Manhattan. McLaughlin said that if they had tried to meet in Brooklyn, the first fifty people seeing them would spy or hound the subject out of them. The AC, as it was known whenever decent Catholics gathered, was an unlikely site to introduce a black into anything; the club didn’t even have one caring for the garbage. Sportswriters who might be hanging around the club would be easy to shoo away. McLaughlin knew what to do if any Catholics might wander by: Give a look that said, “I’ll have you in detention pens.” And there would be no Jewish sportswriters disturbing the secrecy because there were no Jews allowed inside the club, either. Once, Norton Peppis, the great Queens gambler, was pursued by Ruby Stein, a racket guy who wanted his money, right up to the doorway of the AC, which Peppis, with a smattering of Irish blood, jumped through while Stein stood on the sidewalk and caterwauled about anti-Semitism.
    At the meeting, George V. McLaughlin opened the conversation by saying he thought that Rickey had a great idea about scouting that could mean blacks would be signed to play for the team. Because it was George V. saying this, nobody choked, as they might have if anybody else was talking. McLaughlin lectured the table that this was about the greatest virtue, making money. Barnewell said, “We probably haven’t tapped the Negro market enough.” The others agreed.
    I am playing with children , Rickey thought. George V. then turned it over to Rickey, whose bushy eyebrows were bunched. His voice was low and rolled on without pause. The cigar in his right hand provided the smoke and his waving left hand was the mirror.
    â€œPrejudice,” Rickey told the table. “It reflects an attitude of a great many people in this country who don’t introspect themselves very closely about their own prejudices. . . . You can’t meet it with words. You can’t take prejudice straight on. It must be done by proximity. Proximity! The player alongside you. No matter what the skin color or language. Win the game. Win all. Get the championship and the check that goes with it.”
    Rickey and McLaughlin were probably the only men in the room who actually worked for a living. How do we handle these owners if they oppose us, McLaughlin remembered thinking.
    On the way back to his Montague Street office, Rickey had the driver stop at Ebbets Field, the home of the Dodgers. A watchman let him in and he went past the closed hot dog and beer stand and out to the seats behind home plate. He still was new and had never before noticed the sign running along the bottom of the scoreboard on the right field fence. It was a delight to Brooklyn fans. The sign was knee high and it called out the hallowed name of the clothing store owned by Abe Stark. In the bottom left and bottom right corners of the long sign, inside circles, was a message: “Hit Sign Win Suit.” Only a freak low line drive would put Abe’s threads on you.
    Rickey was delighted by the sign. There was also a big, bold ad for whiskey: “Schenley’s. That’s All.” Rickey imagined this sign being ripped down and scrubbed away and the space sold to some decent business that believed in fighting sin. He also wanted a ban on beer at the ballpark. He would let the fans face summer heat with only vile Coca-Cola as a defense.
    Staring at the infield in empty Ebbets Field, Rickey suddenly saw in the gray winter afternoon a player tearing past second on the way to third. The player’s short sleeves were whipping in the wind. Little clumps of dirt shot up from his spikes.
    Now Rickey saw the unfamiliar figure dancing down the line from third. His head threatened a race for the plate, the most exciting play of all, stealing home. He was rocking joyously off the base and ready to explode with the pitch.
    When it comes, the catcher leaps as if electricity has hit him. He is ready to fire to third. The runner goes back