Opening Day
Page 1
Praise for Opening Day
“In an age of steroids we wonder, what happened to the heroes? In an age of violence we wonder, what happened to the peacemakers? Jackie Robinson was a hero and a peacemaker. In this passionate and riveting book, Jonathan Eig gives us a Jackie Robinson for our time—a man of emotion and talent who needed all his skills, not just his athletic ones, to inspire a nation. Opening Day summons us to believe in heroes again—and boy do we need it.”
—Bruce Feiler, author of Walking the Bible and Where God Was Born
“Jonathan Eig brings us back to the grit and determination, the hot summer days, the sweat and insecurities that were part of baseball’s finest moment. Sixty years after the fact, the story is finally told right. Opening Day is a wonder.”
—Leigh Montville, author of The Big Bam and Ted Williams
“Masterfully researched and beautifully written, Opening Day is that rarest of narrative histories: a truly important story that is at once sympathetic and unflinching, heartfelt and sober. Eig’s powerful account of Jackie Robinson’s historic first season surprises, thrills, and even challenges our lifetime of presumptions. In its insight we find not just Robinson’s story but our own.”
—Robert Kurson, author of Crashing Through and Shadow Divers
“In Opening Day, Jonathan Eig gives us front-row seats to one of the most awe-inspiring, unsettling, and momentous seasons of baseball. This is history at its absolute finest. It’s honest, intimate, and one compelling read. Opening Day is a celebration.”
—Alex Kotlowitz, author of There Are No Children Here
“Jonathan Eig has done it again. Opening Day is the compelling story of not only a great baseball star, but also a critical moment in our nation’s history. It is a terrific read.”
—Kevin Baker, author of Strivers Row
“Mind-opening . . . Eig is especially informative about the dynamics among the Dodgers.”
—George Will, Chicago Sun-Times
“A major-league biography of a baseball icon . . . superb.”
—Dan McGrath, Chicago Tribune
“As did Luckiest Man, Opening Day proves that there is so much to be learned about even our most celebrated heroes. . . . In this thorough and absorbing narrative, Eig brilliantly connects Robinson to the nascent civil rights movement and shows us how he made an impact that is felt as powerfully today as ever. Opening Day is both invaluable history and compelling drama.”
—Jeremy Schaap, ESPN commentator and author of Cinderella Man
“A fine revisionist study by Jonathan Eig, which tells us that Robinson was not quite what he seemed to be . . . The lesson of Opening Day is that a good redemptive story isn’t always the same as the truth. But if Robinson was a temperamental man, he’s no less a hero for his self-restraint and perhaps is even more of one.”
—Farrell Evans, Sports Illustrated
“Eig investigates and sometimes debunks the iconic incidents of this nation-changing season, separating myth from fact, and showing again the sort of courage and determination Robinson displayed on the field and off it.”
—Katherine A. Powers, The Boston Globe
“Jonathan Eig hits it out of the park with Opening Day as an intimate baseball reminiscence. He homers again as the book evolves into a sociological examination of an era, a historical drama, and a biography of a cultural phenom.”
—Lois Reed, The Dallas Morning News
“Jonathan Eig separates fact from fiction and presents a fresh, clear view of Robinson’s first season in his latest book. . . . [W]ith his crisp writing style and sharp reporting, Eig accurately describes a turbulent season that changed the landscape of the game—and reveals Robinson the man, not the myth.”
—Bob D’Angelo, The Tampa Tribune
“Opening Day is a noteworthy new account of the year that started it all—when Jackie Robinson put baseball, and America, on notice.”
—Austin Merrill, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“An excellent account of Robinson’s first year with the Dodgers.”
—Bill Reynolds, The Providence Journal
“Jonathan Eig does a superb job of recounting Robinson’s groundbreaking efforts. . . . Eig’s stylish account of that first season goes beyond the locker room and ball fields, as he delves into the racial pride and uncertainty that accompanied Robinson’s ascension to the big leagues.”
—Steven Goode, Hartford Courant
“A wonderfully thorough and thought-provoking look at Robinson’s first season in the big leagues.”
—Bob Hersom, The Oklahoman
“A splendid book and a fitting tribute to a trailbreaker of notable athletic ability and even greater inner strength.”
—Bob Willis, The Roanake Times
“Eig offers a fresh perspective on Robinson’s rookie season with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Read this book and you’ll be forced to rethink the manner in which history has treated former Dodgers Dixie Walker and Pee Wee Reese.”
—Steve Buckley, Boston Herald
“You don’t have to be a baseball fan, a history buff, or a student of the civil rights movement to enjoy Opening Day, a riveting story of Jackie Robinson’s arrival with the Brooklyn Dodgers.”
—Bill Cotterell, Tallahassee Democrat
“Captivating . . . A superb storyteller, Eig not only reminds us of what a truly heroic figure Robinson was, but also looks beneath some of the myths surrounding that season.”
—Cary Clack, San Antonio Express-News
“Beautifully written . . . Opening Day is far, far more than another sports biography.”
—Robert Philip, The Daily Telegraph (London)
“A vivid, enjoyable account that sheds new light on a season that’s been written about many times before.”
—John C. Ensslin, Rocky Mountain News
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1 JACK ROOSEVELT ROBINSON
2 “SOME GOOD COLORED PLAYERS”
3 THE UPRISING
4 OPENING DAY
5 UP IN HARLEM
6 PRAYING FOR BASE HITS
7 CARDINAL SINS
8 THE GREAT ROAD TRIP
9 TEARING UP THE PEA PATCH
10 PEE WEE’S EMBRACE
11 THE GLORIOUS CRUSADE
12 “A SMILE OF ALMOST PAINFUL JOY”
13 UP AND DOWN MACDONOUGH STREET
14 A REAL GONE GUY
15 A GOOD THING FOR EVERYBODY
16 THE POISON PEN
17 THE UNBEATABLE YANKS
18 DIXIE WALKER’S DILEMMA
19 THE FOOTSTEPS OF ENOS “COUNTRY” SLAUGHTER
20 SHADOW DANCING
21 “WE AREN’T AFRAID”
22 “AND THE WORLD SERIES IS OVER!”
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PHOTOGRAPHS
NOTES
INDEX
For my parents, Phyllis and David Eig
Be the change you want to see in the world.
—MOHANDAS GANDHI
A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.
—JACKIE ROBINSON
PROLOGUE
April 10, 1947
The telephone rang like an alarm, waking Jackie Robinson from deep sleep.
“Hello,” he mumbled.
It was early morning in Manhattan. Robinson was alone in room 1169 of the McAlpin Hotel, across the street from Macy�
��s. He had been on edge all week, his stomach in knots. As he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, he was poised to embark on a journey—one that would test his courage, shake the game of baseball to its roots, and forever change the face of the nation. Throughout history, heroic quests have often been launched on grand orders. “The object of your mission is to explore the Missouri River . . . ,” wrote Thomas Jefferson to Meriwether Lewis. “The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!” General Dwight David Eisenhower exhorted his troops before the D-Day invasion. But the commanding words that sent Robinson on his way this cool, gray morning were uttered by a humble secretary.
Come to Brooklyn, she said.
He showered and shaved and hurried out of the hotel. He was on his way to meet Branch Rickey, president and part owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and to learn whether Rickey was ready to end the segregation of the races in big-league baseball.
In 1947, some southern states still denied the vote to black Americans. Black children were not entitled to attend the same schools as white children. Lynch mobs executed their own bloodthirsty style of justice while local law enforcement officials looked the other way. “I’m sorry, but they done got him,” one sheriff in North Carolina announced that year after a gang of white men made off with one of his prisoners. Black Americans were excluded not only from certain schools but also from parks, beaches, playgrounds, department stores, night clubs, swimming pools, roller-skating rinks, theaters, rest rooms, barber shops, railroad cars, bus seats, military units, libraries, factory floors, and hospitals. In the North, WHITES ONLY signs were far less evident than in the South, but the veiled message was often the same. Black men on business in Chicago, Detroit, or Cleveland usually stayed in black-owned hotels, rode in black-owned taxis, and dined in black-owned restaurants. If a white man became acquainted with a black man, odds were good that the acquaintance stemmed from some service the black man performed for the white man—shining his shoes, for example, or mowing his lawn, or mixing his cocktails.
Segregation suffused the nation’s culture, and yet profound changes were rippling across the country. Black workers moved from South to North in great waves, reshaping urban spaces and lending new muscle to organized labor. Black soldiers coming home from the war declared they would no longer tolerate second-class citizenship. Federal judges commanded southern states to stop obstructing the black vote. President Truman signed an order to end segregation in the military. And in major-league baseball, where there were sixteen teams and every player on every one of those teams was white, a single black man was presented an opportunity to change the equation: to make it one black man and 399 white.
The test case represented by Jackie Robinson was one of towering importance to the country. Here was a chance for one person to prove the bigots and white supremacists wrong, and to say to the nation’s fourteen million black Americans that the time had come for them to compete as equals. But it would happen only if a long list of “ifs” worked out just so: if the Brooklyn Dodgers gave Robinson the opportunity to play; if he played well; if he won the acceptance of teammates and fans; if no race riots erupted; if no one put a bullet through his head. The “ifs” alone were enough to agitate a man’s stomach. Then came the matter of Robinson himself. He perceived racism in every glare, every murmur, every called third strike. He was not the most talented black ballplayer in the country. He had a weak throwing arm and a creaky ankle. He had only one year of experience in the minor leagues, and, at twenty-eight, he was a little bit old for a first-year player. But he loved a fight. His greatest assets were tenacity and a knack for getting under an opponent’s skin. He would slash a line drive to left field, run pigeon-toed down the line, take a big turn at first base, slam on the brakes, and skitter back to the bag. Then, as the pitcher prepared to go to work on the next batter, Robinson would take his lead from first base, bouncing on tiptoes like a dropped rubber ball, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, taunting the pitcher, and daring everyone in the park to guess when he would take off running again. While other men made it a point to avoid danger on the base paths, Robinson put himself in harm’s way every chance he got. His speed and guile broke down the game’s natural order and left opponents cursing and hurling their gloves. When chaos erupted, that’s when he knew he was at his best.
On that April 10 morning, as he rode the subway from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Robinson understood exactly what he was getting into. One prominent black journalist had written that the ballplayer had more power than Congress to help break the chains that bound the descendants of slavery to lives lived in inequity and despair. Before he’d even swung a bat in the big leagues, Robinson was being compared to Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, and Joe Louis, with some writers concluding that this man would do more for his people than any of the others. The time had come, they said, for black Americans to stake their claim to the justice and equal rights they so richly deserved, and now a baseball player had arrived to show them the way. Robinson absorbed the newspaper articles. He felt the weight on his shoulders and decided there was nothing to do but carry it as fast and as far as he could.
A cold wind met him as he climbed out of the subway onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He walked to 215 Montague Street. Waiting for him there was Branch Rickey, a potato-shaped man in a wrinkled suit. The office was dark and cluttered. Rickey got straight to business, offering Robinson a standard contract for five-thousand dollars, the league’s minimum annual salary.
“Simple, wasn’t it?” Robinson recalled later. “It could have happened to you. The telephone rings. You answer it . . . and you’re in the Big Leagues. . . . Just like a fairy tale. . . . I went to bed one night wearing pajamas and woke up wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers’ uniform.”
He knew it was no fairy tale, of course. He knew that a happy ending was far from assured. Most big-leaguers in 1947 had never been on the same field as a black man, had never shared a locker room, a shower, a taxi, a train car, or a dining-room table with one. Big-league culture was so thoroughly dominated by white southerners that even rough Italian kids from northern cities experienced shock and isolation upon arrival. There was no telling how Robinson would be received. He was not yet a member of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and already half a dozen or more of his prospective teammates promised they would quit or demand a trade before they would play with him. Elsewhere, players spoke of a league-wide strike. They were willing to destroy the game they loved rather than see it stained by integration. Others said it would be simpler to take Robinson out with a well-aimed fastball to the head, or with a set of metal cleats driven through his Achilles tendon on a close play at first base—something that would look like an accident.
Rickey made only one demand of Robinson. He asked the ballplayer to promise that he would never respond to the racist attacks that would surely come his way. When Rickey quoted a passage from Giovanni Papini’s Life of Christ—“But whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also”—Robinson sought clarification. Did Rickey want a player who didn’t have the guts to fight back? No, the boss answered, “I want a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back.”
Rickey turned and walked away while Robinson thought about it for a moment. Though the request would require Robinson to subdue his most basic instincts, and though he had no idea, honestly, whether he could compete without an outlet for his seething sense of indignation, he said he would try. With that, the season’s storyline was set.
Robinson became baseball’s biggest attraction in 1947. According to one survey, he was the second most famous man in America, trailing only Bing Crosby. Americans yearned for a sense of normalcy in the aftermath of the war, yet everything around them was in flux. Robinson, a human whirlwind, captured the spirit of the time better than anyone. When the Dodgers went on the road, thousands of black men and women traveled great distances to get a glimpse of him, as if to see for themselves that he was real, to share his dignity and glory, to watch this pro
ud, defiant man, the grandson of slaves, stake a claim on their behalf to what Langston Hughes called “the dream deferred.” Railroad companies scheduled special runs. Black parents named their children, boys and girls, after him. White kids from small towns in the Midwest sat surrounded by black men and women at the ballpark and wondered why their parents seemed anxious. Jewish families in Brooklyn gathered around their dining-room tables for Passover Seders and discussed what Moses had in common with a fleet-footed, right-hand-hitting infielder with the number 42 on his back. White business owners integrated their factory floors and wrote to Robinson to thank him for opening their eyes. Young ballplayers of every color imitated his style, wiping their hands on their trousers between pitches, swinging with arms outstretched, and running helter-skelter around makeshift bases.
Jackie Robinson showed that talent mattered more than skin color, supplying a blueprint for the integration of a nation. He led the Dodgers to the greatest season the team’s fans had yet seen, to a World Series showdown with the New York Yankees, the outcome in doubt until the final inning of the seventh and final game.
But it was something else, something more personal, that captured the American imagination that summer.
It was the story of a man filled with fear and fury. It was Jackie Robinson, all alone, taking his lead from the base, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing . . . and a nation waiting to see what he would do next.
ONE
JACK ROOSEVELT ROBINSON
His name was Jack Roosevelt Robinson, not Jackie. Mallie Robinson, his mother, chose the middle name in honor of former president Theodore Roosevelt, who had died a few weeks before her son’s birth. “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” Roosevelt had said. “You will go far.” Mallie Robinson had no big stick. All she had was a sixth-grade education, a powerful faith in God, and a sense of determination that bordered on mulishness. She didn’t expect to go very far, but she believed strongly that her children would.