42 by Aaron Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

Rickey sat in the front row of a packed room at the Brooklyn YMCA, waiting for his turn to speak. Herbert Miller, a leading member of Brooklyn’s black community and the executive secretary of the local YMCA, was introducing him, but Rickey was more interested in two deacons who sat nearby, whispering over the sports page.
    â€œLook here what he did,” one of them said. He read from the paper: “ ‘Led the International League in batting: three forty-nine; in stolen bases: forty; runs scored: one hundred thirteen. Plus, batted four hundred in the Minor League World Series.’ ”
    But the other deacon shook his head. “Last season doesn’t matter. The International League, it doesn’t matter. What matters is this year. What matters is Brooklyn.” Rickey privately agreed.
    Just then he heard Miller say, “I present the general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers Baseball Club, Mr. Branch Rickey!”
    Rickey smiled, stood, and stepped forward, accepting the podium from Miller. Looking out at the crowd, he saw thirty or so men gathered before him, all of them important figures in the local black community. These were the people he’d come here to see. These were the people he had to reach tonight.
    â€œGood evening,” he began. “I have something very important to talk with you about tonight. Something that will require courage from all of us.” He paused for a second. “I have a ballplayer on my Montreal farm team named Jackie Robinson.” That won him a burst of applause, but Rickey motioned them to silence. “He may stay there or he may be brought to Brooklyn. But if Jackie does come up to the Dodgers, the biggest threat to his success, the one enemy most likely to ruin that success, is the Negro people themselves!”
    That caused a wave of stunned silence, followed by a few whispers — but not from the men in chairs. Glancing around, Rickey realized that there was a raised running track circling the room, and a group of boys were gathered there, eavesdropping. He bit back a smile. That was fine. The more people who heard him now, the better.
    But he wasn’t going to pull any punches, kids or no kids. “I say it as cruelly as I can,” he stated loudly, “to make you all consider the weight of responsibility that is felt not only by me and the Dodgers, but by Negroes everywhere. Because on the day Jackie enters the National League, if he ever does, I have no doubt every one of you will throw parades and form welcoming committees. You’ll strut. You’ll wear badges. You’ll hold Jackie Robinson days and Jackie Robinson nights. You’ll get drunk, fight, and get arrested.”
    Now Rickey heard angry mutterings among the men as they registered those insults, but Rickey wasn’t about to let that stop him. “You’ll wine and dine him,” he accused, “until he is fat and futile. You’ll turn his importance into a national comedy and, yes, a tragedy! So let me tell you this!” He pounded his fist on the lectern, underscoring the intensity of his desire to make this group see how crucial it was to avoid distracting Jackie from the game. “If any group or segment of Negro society uses the advancement of Jackie Robinson in baseball as a triumph of race over race, I will regret the day I ever signed him to a contract, and I will personally see to it that baseball is never so abused and misrepresented again!”
    Having finished what he came to say, Rickey turned and walked off the small stage. He kept going, through the door and out into the hallway, where he leaned against the wall and let himself take several deep, gulping breaths. He had been harsh, yes, but had he gotten through to them? Did they understand? Could they see past their own hurt pride, past petty revenge, to what had to be done if Jackie Robinson was to have any career at all?
    The sound of approaching footsteps made him