Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin Read Free Book Online Page A

splendid first game. Not only did the Dodgers win 4-3, but my hero, Jackie Robinson, ignited the Dodger offense in the second inning when he walked, stole second, went to third on an errant pickoff throw, and scored on an infield out. Watching him on the base path, with his long leads, his feints toward second, and his needling of the pitcher, kept me on the edge of my seat. If he looked awkward when he first started running, with his shoulders rocking and hips swaying, once he gained momentum he created an indelible image. I knew that Jackie’s baserunning was part of his mystique, that once he got on base he was such a distraction that the opposing pitcher often lost his concentration and ended up either throwing the ball away trying to pick him off or throwing a bad pitch to the batter at the plate. But to see him in person, through my own eyes instead of Red Barber’s, was thrilling. “As long as he got on base,” was our ritual refrain, “he was going to do something to bring himself home.”
    The game at Ebbets Field that day was a first not only for me, but for the sport of baseball as well. When Giant batter Henry Thompson stepped up to bat against Dodgerrookie Don Newcombe, it was the first time that a black pitcher faced a black batter in a major-league game. Though Newcombe was the third black player to join the Dodgers after Robinson’s debut in 1947 and Campanella’s arrival the following year, most of the other teams were slow to follow suit. For the Dodgers, Newcombe’s intimidating presence in ’49 was critical not only because he became Rookie of the Year but because he provided a certain measure of protection for Robinson. Opposing pitchers knew, if they threw at Robinson, Newcombe would promptly return the favor.
    At the start of the ’49 season, Branch Rickey had told Robinson that he no longer had to honor the pledge he had made when he first came up, to tolerate insults without retaliation. Freed from this restraint, Robinson was more aggressive than ever at the plate and on the base path, quick to stand his ground against his tormentors. This attitude provoked an even greater desire on the part of opposing pitchers to “get him.” Despite the tension on the field, Robinson’s newfound freedom proved intensely liberating: the 1949 season would be his best in baseball, earning him the batting title and the MVP award and marking the beginning of six consecutive seasons in which he would hit over .300.
    I had brought my red scorebook with me, but it wasn’t as easy to concentrate on scoring as it was at home. There was so much to see I wasn’t sure where to look. A man two rows behind us had a portable radio with him, and I found myself almost compulsively listening for Red Barber’s voice to tell me what I was seeing. Still, I managed to score the entire game, and to this day, I cannot watch a ball game at the ballpark without keeping score. As we left the ballpark, I did not want the evening to end. Sensing this, my father suggested that we stop for ice-cream sodas sothat we could go through my scorebook and re-create in full detail the game we had just seen.
    I experienced that night what I have experienced many times since: the absolute pleasure that comes from prolonging the winning feeling by reliving the game, first with the scorebook, then with the wrap-up on the radio, and finally, once I learned about printed box scores, with the newspaper accounts the next day. But what I remember most is sitting at Ebbets Field for the first time, with my red scorebook on my lap and my father at my side.

CHAPTER TWO
    O N SUMMER MORNINGS , my father would come downstairs dressed in his three-piece suit, glance at the gold pocket watch that was attached to his vest with a slender gold chain, kiss my mother and me goodbye, and leave for work. From the window I watched him greet the other men on our block as they walked to the corner to catch the bus for the short ride to the train station, where,