Rickey and Robinson Read Free Page B

at you on a steal. I slide. My spikes are high. I cut you in the leg. As the blood starts to show through your uniform, I grin. I laugh at you. ‘Now, you black nigger, how do you like that?’ What do you do now?”
    Robinson was angered, but he also realized that Rickey was playacting. “Mr. Rickey, what do you want? Do you want a coward, a ballplayer who’s afraid to fight back?”
    “I want a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back,” Rickey said firmly. His hair matted and wet, his tie loosened, Rickey took a few paces to the right, away from Robinson. “It’s kind of a coincidence, Jackie, and I think a happy coincidence, that you share the same birth date as my son. He was born on January 31, 1914, and my records show you were born five years later to the day. Branch Jr., you may know, came to Brooklyn before me to handle their minorleague clubs. A couple of years later he was my main reason for coming to Brooklyn. Branch Jr. is a wonderful human being, religious and fair-minded. Yet he has expressed to me on various occasions the fear that signing a Negro player will dry up sources of talent for the Dodgers in the South, sources that he, in particular, has worked on.
    “Mrs. Rickey also has been quite upset about the ramifications of my course of action. Why you, Branch?’ she asks me. ‘Why not someone else for a change?’ She is fearful of my health deteriorating as a result of the controversy signing a colored player is certain to generate.”
    Rickey walked over to the window and adjusted the venetian blind against the rising morning sun. “I want you to know, Jackie,” he continued, “that there is no way for us to fight our way through this situation.” He turned back, facing Robinson once again. “There is virtually no group on our side. No umpires, no club owners, maybe a few newspapermen. We will be in a very tough spot. I have a great fear that there will be some fans who will be highly hostile to what we are doing. Jackie, it will be a tough position to be in, an almost impossible position. But we can win if we can convince everyone that you are not only a great ballplayer but also a great gentleman.”
    “Mr. Rickey,” Robinson said, leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly together, “the way you’re talking it sounds like a battle.”
    “Yes, exactly, a battle!” Rickey’s voice rose again. “But it’s one we won’t be able to fight our way through. We have no army, no soldiers. Our weapons will be base hits and stolen bases and swallowed pride. Those will do the job and get the victory—that’s what will win . . . and Jackie, nothing, nothing else will do it.”
    Now Rickey was once again very close to Robinson. Waving his hand under the black man’s chin, Rickey became the fan screaming obscenities, the rival manager cursing Robinson’s parentage, the teammate refusing to acknowledge his presence, the reporter baiting him with rigged questions. Rickey spilled out the litany of prejudice, all the while probing for the strength of character that he knew would be needed.
    “All right,” Rickey continued, “you have an argument with another player and he makes a statement subjecting you to the lowest depths of scurrility—a sexual reference to you and your mother. What would you do?”
    “I’d kill him!”
    Robinson’s answer showed Rickey that the strength of character was there, but the Dodger general manager was not pleased. He wondered how he could be assured that Robinson would keep that strength and, at the same time, control it in order to survive.
    “That would not serve any purpose,” Rickey lectured. “The taunts and the goads will be aimed at making you react, at infuriating you enough to set off a race riot in the ballpark. Then they’ll say that is proof that Negroes shouldn’t be allowed in the major leagues. They’ll think that’s a good way to frighten fans and make them afraid to attend games.”
    Robinson nodded as he