42 by Aaron Rosenberg Read Free Book Online

do.”
    Rickey nodded. “Agreed. Now worry those pitchers until they come apart. Sometimes they’ll catch you, but don’t worry about that. Ty Cobb got caught plenty. Just run as you see fit. Put the natural fear of God into them.”
    Jackie smiled. “I can do that.”
    As Jackie walked away, Rickey smiled as well. “Yes, you can,” he agreed.

A pril 18, 1946. A clear, beautiful day in Jersey City. Perfect for opening day of the International League season. Thirty thousand fans had packed into Roosevelt Stadium, filling it to capacity and beyond. Several thousand of those were black, and up here in the North they sat anywhere they could afford, not segregated into Colored and White sections. Flags and banners decorated the stadium, and everyone was in a festive mood. Except, perhaps, for the nervous young man stepping up to the plate.
    Jackie was still unable to believe he was really here. Playing baseball in the minor leagues! The
white
minor leagues! He heard a few boos as he raised his bat, but there were a lot more cheers, and a lot more shouts of encouragement than catcalls.
    â€œCome on, Jackie!” one fan yelled from the stands. “This fella can’t pitch!”
    Jackie smiled and raised his bat, but he was still unable to focus. He connected on the first pitch, but not well, knocking a weak grounder almost right into the shortstop’s glove. He ran for first anyway, but the toss beat him there by a mile.
Not the best start
, he thought as he turned and jogged back toward the dugout. Still, it was only the first inning.

    Up in the stands, over by third, Rachel sat next to Smith, who held his typewriter balanced on his lap, ready and waiting. But Jackie’s first at bat was hardly something worth writing about. Smith gathered that Rachel felt the same way — she looked ill, and held a hand up to her mouth.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked her. He’d come to like Rachel Robinson. He liked her husband, too, even if he was prickly most of the time.
    Normally, Rachel would have waved off his concern, but not this time. “I think I might be sick,” she admitted, rising to her feet. “Excuse me, Wendell.” She carefully made her way along the row, toward the nearest exit.
    Smith watched her go. “I’d be sick at a swing like that, too,” he muttered, looking to where Jackie had just slumped onto the bench. Smith knew the newest Montreal player had to be anxious, which explained his poor showing just now. It wasn’t a surprise that his pretty, young wife had a case of the nerves to match.

    Rachel knew it was more than nerves, and made it to the ladies’ room just in time. After emptying her stomach, she stepped to the sink and splashed some water on her face. An older black woman at the next sink watched her, sympathy written in every line of her face.
    â€œAre you all right, honey?” she asked.
    Rachel shook her head. “I’m sick. I don’t know why.” She’d actually been feeling nauseous and light-headed for several days now, but she hadn’t wanted to say anything. Jackie was under enough pressure as it was.
    The woman handed her a paper towel, and Rachel thanked her. “It may be that you’re pregnant,” the older lady suggested. She smiled, patted Rachel on the arm, and then left her alone with her thoughts.
    Rachel stared at herself in the mirror. Pregnant? Now? When Jackie was just starting out here? What would he say? What would they do?
    But she felt a flutter of excitement, too. She was pregnant!
    Rachel stepped out onto the runway leading back to the seats just as the announcer called, “Now batting — Jackie Robinson!” Hurrying her steps, Rachel reached the end of the tunnel and stopped, looking out over the railing across the field. There he was, standing tall at home plate, bat in hand. He looked confident and in control, and she could tell from here that he’d