42

by Aaron Rosenberg

  “You ever write about white guys in your paper?” Branca was teasing Smith. “I mean, if I threw a no-hitter and Jackie got a base hit, what would the headline be?”

  “ ‘Jackie Leads Dodgers to Victory. Again.’ ” Smith replied with a straight face. “Under that, ‘White Italian Guy Does Okay.’ ”

  They all laughed.

  “I’d call your folks for ya, Ralph,” Reese promised. “Tell ’em how you did.”

  Branca nodded. “No problem. It’ll still make the Post.”

  “We are on some kind of winning streak, huh, boys?” Reese commented as he took a card.

  “Hey, maybe forty of our last fifty,” Branca agreed.

  “Thirty-two and fifteen, actually,” Smith corrected gently. “Since the fourth of July.”

  Branca grinned at him. “Math is why I throw a baseball for a living.”

  Reese discarded the card he’d just taken. “This next series against the Cardinals,” he said aloud, “it’s a big one.”

  Branca and Smith both nodded. Then they all turned to Jackie, who hadn’t said a word.

  “Whaddya say, Jackie?” Branca asked.

  In response, Jackie laid his hand down on the little table. Then he looked at his two teammates and his part-time chauffeur. His friends.

  “Gin,” he told them.

  It was the top of the eleventh inning. The Dodgers and the Cardinals were tied at two. Jackie had knocked Stanky in with a double in the third, and Walker had done the same in the eighth. Hugh Casey was on the mound now, and Enos Slaughter had just stepped up to bat for Saint Louis. This was a big game — the Cardinals were still five games out, while the Dodgers had held first place since the end of June.

  Casey threw a ball inside. Then another ball, low. But the third ball Slaughter knocked along the ground, straight toward Reese. The shortstop scooped it up and fired it over to Jackie, already on the bag. Slaughter was still fifteen feet out, but he didn’t slow down. He just kept running, right across first base —

  — and his cleated shoe came down hard on Jackie’s right calf.

  “Aahh!” Jackie went down, clutching his leg. Blood was already seeping through his sock.

  Dodgers poured out of their dugout to protest, but the umpire waved them all back. It had looked like an accident, Slaughter not being able to slow down in time. Nobody believed that, though.

  “Next batter, throw right at his head,” Stanky urged Casey as they and Reese crowded around Jackie, checking to see if he was okay. “Clean his clock —”

  But Jackie shook his head fiercely. “Just get him out. Understand? Game’s too important.”

  As Casey nodded, Jackie reached up to Stanky and Reese. They pulled him to his feet. Jackie scanned the stands until he found Rachel, and gave her a wave to let her know he was all right. He’d worry about the leg later. Right now they had a game to win.

  By the time Jackie got up to bat again, things weren’t looking too good. The Cardinals had scored off them again, and now it was 3–2.

  The first pitch almost took Jackie out at the knees. He channeled his anger into his next swing and sent the ball hard up the middle, nearly taking the pitcher’s head off. Served him right. “I don’t care what happens,” he muttered as he settled into his signature crouch at first. “I don’t care what kind of play it is. When I get to second I’m gonna knock someone into center field.”

  Musial, the Cardinals’ first baseman, glanced at the blood on Jackie’s leg and nodded. “I don’t blame you, man,” he said sincerely. “You got every right.” Which just reminded Jackie that every team had its decent members. Even this one.

  Reiser bunted, and Jackie took off for second, sliding in. The Cardinal there, Schoendienst, saw him coming, saw the look on his face, and wisely got out of the way.

  Jackie took a big lead off second as Walker stepped up to bat. He tensed, ready to run. Munger, the pitcher, glanced back, then at Walker — and then fired the ball to Marion, the shortstop, who was already on the move! Jackie leaped back toward second, but it was too late! He was out!

  Jackie couldn’t believe it. He was out! And that had been the third out for the Dodgers. The game was over. The Cardinals had won.

  Reporters were all over him as he lay on the trainer’s table after the game, getting his leg tended to.

  “Did he spike you on purpose?” one of them asked.

  “You saw the play,” Jackie answered. “I had my foot inside the bag. He was out by a mile. But he kept coming.”

  “Slaughter said it was an accident,” another commented.

  Jackie glared at him. “What are you asking me for, then?”

  The reporter persisted. “Are you calling Slaughter a liar?”

  Just then, Rickey showed up, a baseball in hand, and shooed the reporters away. “Get out,” he told them. “Let me talk to my first baseman. Go. He’s getting stitched up, for Pete’s sake!”

  Rickey watched them go. “Sticking up for yourself is what you’d expect of any man,” he told Jackie. “Some find it galling to see it in a Negro.”

  Jackie couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rickey,” he said softly.

  “Sorry? Sorry for what?”

  “I lost my cool out there,” Jackie admitted. “It probably cost us the game.”

  Rickey chuckled. “I told you, Jackie, all the best base runners get caught sometimes.”

  But Jackie shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Rickey pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “Do you know what I saw this morning?” he asked. “I was passing a sandlot and a little white boy was up to bat. You know what he was doing?”

  “Sitting on a fastball?” Jackie asked.

  Rickey smiled. “He was pretending he was you. Wiping his hands on his pants, swinging with his arms outstretched like you do. A little white boy pretending he was a black man.”

  Jackie turned to face him finally. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Rickey?” he asked, as he had so many times before.

  “We had victory over fascism in Germany,” Rickey answered. “It’s time for victory over racism at home.”

  But Jackie wasn’t going to let it go this time. “Why are you doing this?” he asked again. “Come on now.”

  Rickey paused, looked away, and finally answered, his voice heavy. “I love this game. I love baseball. I’ve given my life to it. Forty-odd years ago, I was a player coach at Ohio Wesleyan University. We had a Negro catcher, best hitter on the team. Charley Thomas.” He started slowly rubbing the baseball in his hands. “A fine young man. I saw him laid low. Broken because of the color of his skin, and I didn’t do enough to help. I told myself I did, but I didn’t. The game I loved had something unfair at the heart of it. I ignored it. But a time came when I could no longer do that.” He looked up. “You let me love baseball again. Thank you.”

  Jackie nodded seriously. “You’re welcome.”

  Blinking away tears, Rickey took refuge in his usual big pronouncements. “You’re a force of nature, Jackie. You’ve complicated everything but yourself. You’re changing the world, and refusing to let it change you. I, for one, am in awe.” Jackie could tell he meant it.

  Jackie reached out and claimed the baseball. After a second, he declared, “I won’t get picked off second base again. Not this year.” That was a promise.

  Rachel watched as Jackie packed.

  “It’s Pop’s last long road trip of the year, little man,” he told Jackie Junior softly. The baby slept on, undisturbed.

  “Careful you don’t wake him,” Rachel warned.

  Jackie smiled. “I know. I won’t.” He looked at her. “You okay?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t like seeing you leave, that’s all.”

  “I’ll be home in a week,” he promised.

  “Eleven days,” she corrected. “That’s a long time without you.” He continued packing. Finally, she blurted out, “Try not to lunge at the plate.”

  Jackie looked up at her. “Seriously?”


  She nodded, hugged herself. “That’s why they’re throwing the fastballs inside.” He looked surprised, but she forced herself to continue. “Fight those inside fastballs off, foul them back. Sooner or later they won’t be able to help but throw a curve.”

  He stepped over to her, smiling. “And what’ll happen then?”

  She pantomimed him hitting a home run, and the crowd going wild.

  “We win enough of these next games,” Jackie told her, “and we’ll bring home the pennant.” As if she didn’t know that already!

  But she mock-frowned and looked around their apartment. “Pennant? Where are we going to put a pennant? All these baby diapers hanging everywhere.”

  Jackie glanced about as well. “We got room right over there,” he joked. “Between number one and number two.”

  “Win one if you have to,” Rachel told him, “but bring yourself home. That’ll be plenty.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Rae, you’re in my heart.”

  “Promise me you’ll come home,” she said. “That you’ll always come home.”

  He nodded. “I promise.”

  It was the bottom of the eighth and the Cardinals had two on and two outs. They’d cut the Dodgers’ lead down to two, and Nippy Jones was up, with Musial on deck.

  “Come on, Casey,” Jackie hollered at the Dodgers’ relief pitcher, “get him out! Pitch that ball!”

  Casey threw, and Jones swung. Crack! The ball popped up, heading toward first but then arcing out of play. It was a foul. But Jackie saw a chance to end the inning right then. He took off after it, running hard right toward his own dugout. There! He flung himself into the air, catching the ball solidly — but as he came down, his left foot found nothing but air.

  And then Branca was there, leaping forward from the dugout to tackle him back onto the field safely.

  “He’s got it!” Jackie heard the announcer shout. “And one of the Dodgers has him!”

  Jackie sat in the locker room after the game. They’d done it, closed out the Cardinals and maintained their spot. Next was Cincinnati, for three games against the Reds. Most of the others were showering, and Branca was heading that way, a towel around his waist. But he stopped when he saw Jackie sitting there alone.

  “Can I ask you something, Jackie?” the young pitcher said. “How come you never shower until everyone else is done?”

  Jackie stared at him, wondering if he really didn’t know, but Branca wouldn’t let it drop.

  “You shy or something?” he asked.

  Jackie shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

  Branca shook his head. “We’re a team. On a hot streak. Half the wins on account of you. You’re the bravest guy I ever saw. You’re leading us and you’re afraid to take a shower?” Jackie looked at him, and Branca smiled. “C’mon. Take a shower with me.” Then he laughed. “Hey, I don’t mean it like that.”

  All chatter stopped and everybody looked over as Branca entered the showers — followed by Jackie. Then everyone went back to talking and joking and getting clean. Jackie was surprised by how much that meant to him. But he did notice Dixie Walker leaving. Who’s the loneliest man on the team now? Jackie wondered. He was pretty sure it wasn’t him anymore.

  Jackie settled himself at the plate. It was September 17. They were at Forbes Field, facing Pittsburgh again. They’d swept Cincinnati, all three games, and almost guaranteed themselves the pennant — if they could win today.

  But it was Pittsburgh. And Ostermueller was pitching.

  “You don’t belong!” he shouted at Jackie, his face red. “You’ll never belong!”

  Jackie just waited for the pitch.

  It was outside. Jackie didn’t move. Ball one.

  The second one was low and away. Ball two.

  The third was outside as well. Ball three.

  Was he just going to walk him? “Give me something I can hit!” he shouted at the mound. And he muttered to himself, “What are you afraid of?” Was Ostermueller really that worried about what Jackie could do? Jackie felt a surge of pride and power. Maybe he was.

  The Pirates pitcher scowled at him. “You want it?” he hollered back. He tensed, wound up, and let fly.

  Crack!

  “Back, back, back,” Jackie heard the announcer shout, “and oh, doctor! Robinson got his pitch!”

  That ball was gone!

  Jackie dropped the bat and started toward first. Then second. The Dodgers fans were going wild. Even the Pittsburgh fans were clapping. He felt a smile stretch across his face as he ran. He could almost see Rachel, watching him proudly. And Rickey, waiting to shake his hand. Jackie rounded third and headed toward home plate. All his teammates were waiting for him, and he laughed from sheer joy.

  Finally, Jackie Robinson was home.

  Branch Rickey had to convince his staff to add a talented black player to the Brooklyn Dodgers roster.

  He found one in Jackie Robinson, who had been playing with the Kansas City Monarchs in the Negro Leagues.

  Jackie discussed how joining the white baseball league would affect him with his wife, Rachel.

  Meanwhile, Rickey continued to gather support, from the farm team Jackie started with up to the major-league Dodgers.

  Not every member of Rickey’s own team wanted Jackie around. A few players started a petition to get rid of him.

  But Dodgers manager Leo Durocher set them straight.

  Jackie Robinson was a Dodger, whether anyone liked it or not.

  Jackie learned that all of his teammates had things on their minds before a big game.

  But while white players only worried about playing ball, Jackie had other things on his mind.

  People like Philadelphia coach Ben Chapman didn’t think a black man should be playing in the big leagues.

  Rickey didn’t want Jackie to fight his critics.

  He wanted Jackie to prove them wrong by playing good ball.

  Rickey and Rachel both believed in Jackie.

  Soon critics like Ben Chapman were forced to acknowledge his talent, too.

  And eventually many of Jackie’s fellow Dodgers came to appreciate him as a player, a teammate, and a friend.

  When Jackie Robinson participated in his first game as a Brooklyn Dodger on April 15, 1947, he became the first African-American athlete to play in Major League Baseball. He opened the door for other African-American athletes after him, and left behind an incredible legacy. Jackie was named Rookie of the Year in 1947 and was the first African-American to be voted the National League MVP in 1949. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962.

  In 1972, the Dodgers retired his uniform number, 42. And in 1997, the league retired the number 42 across all teams, making Jackie Robinson the first player in any sport to have this honor. In 2004, the league instituted Jackie Robinson Day on the anniversary of his first game in the majors. April 15 is the only day that players are allowed and encouraged to sport the number 42 on their jerseys.

  eISBN 978-0-545-54113-8

  Copyright © 2013 by Legendary Pictures Productions LLC. All rights reserved.

  42 and associated logos are trademarks owned by Legendary Pictures Productions LLC.

  Novel cover design © 2013, Legendary Pictures Productions LLC. All rights reserved. Author’s Note Photo 1 © SMI/Newsroom; Author’s Note Photo 2 © Associated Press

  Published by Scholastic Inc.

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  First printing, March 2013

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