After we had been declared man and wife, as we walked down the aisle together, I spotted some old boyhood buddies from the one-time Pepper Street gang in Pasadena. I was so happy to see them there and so happy about getting married that I stopped to shake hands with them. Rae kept walking to the end of the aisle and waited there, slightly miffed, until I caught up with her.
At the reception afterward, we had a marvelous time, but when we got ready to leave to go to a local hotel where we would be staying overnight, we found that one of my friends had “borrowed” my old car as a joke. We stood there, a brand-new bride and groom, without transportation to take us to our honeymoon hotel. Finally, the car materialized and we went to the hotel. We were lucky to be admitted because I had forgotten to make a reservation and explain that we were a bridal couple so that the management would provide the traditional flowers and extra services. Once the hotel room door closed, the minor mishaps receded before the great joy of knowing we were alone together at last.
A few weeks after the wedding, we were to fly to Daytona Beach, Florida, where I was to report for spring training with the Montreal farm club. We started out by plane from Los Angeles, arriving at New Orleans quite early in the morning. Upon arrival, I was told to go into the terminal. Rachel waited and waited. Then the stewardess came up to her and suggested that she go into the terminal and take all her things with her. I discovered we had been bumped from our flight owing to military priorities, so they said. We were not alarmed, having been assured that there would be only a brief delay. But as we argued our rights, the plane took off. Another typical black experience. After a few hours we weren’t as concerned about the time we were losing as we were about the hunger we felt. Blacks could not eat in the coffee shop but could take food out. We asked where we could find a restaurant. We learned there was one that would prepare sandwiches provided we did not sit down and eat them there. Though we were both weary and hungry, we decided to skip food until we reached a place where we could be treated as human beings.
Our next project was to find a hotel where we could wait until we got another flight. The only accommodations were in a filthy, run-down place resembling a flophouse. A roof over our heads and a chance to lie down, even in a bed of uncertain sanitary condition, was better than nothing. We made the best of it and notified the airport where we could be found. They promised to call. They did. At seven in the evening, exactly twelve hours after we had been told about a “brief delay,” we were in the air again. After a short flight, the plane set down at Pensacola, Florida, for fueling. The manager of the Pensacola Airport told me that we were being bumped again. There wasn’t any explanation this time. They had simply put a white couple in our seats. A black porter managed to get us a limousine. It stopped at a hotel in Pensacola, and the white driver summoned a black bellboy and asked him where we could get room and board for the night. The bellboy recommended the home of a black family. These were generous and warmhearted people who insisted on taking us in, in spite of the fact that they had a huge family and a tiny home. Their willingness to share made us forget about being sorry for ourselves. Realistically, though, there was just no room for us. We thanked them, telling them we couldn’t dream of inconveniencing them and got a ride to the Greyhound bus terminal. We had decided to take the next bus to Jacksonville, thinking that at least we could relax a bit and rest our backs, but we were in for another rude jolt. We had sunk down gratefully into a couple of seats and pushed the little buttons which move you back into a reclining position. The bus was empty when we boarded, and we had taken seats in the middle of the bus. I fell fast asleep. At the first stop, a crowd of passengers got on. The bus driver gestured to us, indicating that we were to move to the back of the bus. The seats at the back were reserved seats—reserved for Negroes—and they were straight-backed. No little button to push. No reclining seats.
I had a bad few seconds, deciding whether I could continue to endure this humiliation. After we had been bumped a second time at the Pensacola Airport, I had been ready to explode with rage, but I knew that the result would mean newspaper headlines about an ugly racial incident and possible arrest not only for me but also for Rae. By giving in to my feelings then, I could have blown the whole major league bit. I had swallowed my pride and choked back my anger. Again, this time it would have been much easier to take a beating than to remain passive. But I remembered the things Rae and I had said to each other during the months we had tried to prepare ourselves for exactly this kind of ordeal. We had agreed that I had no right to lose my temper and jeopardize the chances of all the blacks who would follow me if I could help break down the barriers. So we moved back to the very last seat as indicated by the driver. The bus continued to pick up passengers. They came on board the bus and filled up the choice white seats. The black section was so crowded that every other person sat forward on the edge to create more room. In the dark, Rachel was quietly crying, but I didn’t know that until years later. She was crying for me and not out of self-pity. She felt bad because she knew I felt helpless. She hoped I realized that she knew how much strength it took to take these injustices and not strike back.
Finally, the bus pulled into Daytona Beach. We were relieved to reach our destination. But we had not escaped from old man Jim Crow. The white members of the team were living in a hotel; however, Rae and I had “special accommodations” at the home of Joe Harris, a local black political leader. Joe was an activist. He kept in touch with every black voter in his district to make sure they voted. His skill at organizing had enabled him to gain concessions from the power structure. He had persuaded business people in downtown Daytona Beach to treat black customers with respect and had influenced the transit people to hire black drivers on local buses. Joe and his wife Duff treated Rae and me with well-known Southern warmth. They liked to kid us, calling us the lovebirds since we were newlyweds. The one major disadvantage we had at the Harris home was that we could not cook or eat there on a regular basis except for breakfast. For our other meals, we had to depend on greasy-spoon joints.
After staying several days at Daytona Beach, the club was moved to Sanford, Florida. I would have more than two hundred teammates, the majority of them Southern. The first time we met was in the locker room and I remember being quite reticent. Most of the other players seemed intent on doing their own jobs. But there was a mutual wariness between us, a current of tension that I hoped would lessen with time.
I had my first confrontation with the press in camp. Some-one asked if I thought I could “make it with these white boys.” I said I hadn’t had any crucial problems making it with white fellow athletes in the service or at UCLA or at Pasadena. One of the newsmen asked what I would do if one of the white pitchers threw at my head. I replied that I would duck. Noting that I was a shortstop, another newsman made the assumption that this automatically meant I wanted to replace the popular Brooklyn Dodger shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. I pointed out that Pee Wee Reese was after all with the Brooklyn Dodgers and I was trying to make the Montreal Royals. I was not in a position to go after another man’s job on another team—I was going to concentrate on securing my berth with Montreal. This confrontation with the press was just a taste of what was to come. They frequently stirred up trouble by baiting me or jumping into any situation I was involved in without completely checking the facts before rushing a story into print.
Clyde Sukeforth, the scout who had taken me to Mr. Rickey, was in camp at Sanford. I was glad to see him. Clyde introduced me to Clay Hopper, the Montreal manager. I had been briefed about Hopper. What I had heard about him wasn’t encouraging. A native of Mississippi, he owned a plantation there, and I had been told he was anti-black. There was no outward sign of prejudice in his manner, however, when we first met. Hopper told me I could take it easy, just hit a few and throw the ball around. This relaxed activity—or, rather, lack of activity—went on all that first day and the next. The evening of the second day, the stunning and discouraging word came that Mr. Rickey had ordered
me back to Daytona Beach where I had originally reported. Naturally, I was worried about this sudden shift. Officially, I was told I was being sent ahead to Daytona a few days before the rest of the club was to arrive so that Rachel and I would have a chance to settle down. The truth I learned from Wendell Smith when en route to Daytona, was that my presence with the club in Sanford had already created racial tensions. Local civic officials had decided that mixing black and white players was apt to create trouble.
Shortly after Branch Rickey had signed me for Montreal, he had signed John Wright, a black pitcher, for the farm club. Johnny was a good pitcher, but I feel he didn’t have the right kind of temperament to make it with the International League in those days. He couldn’t withstand the pressure of taking insult after insult without being able to retaliate. It affected his pitching that he had to keep his temper under control all the time. Later I was very sad because he didn’t make the Montreal team.
All during that spring training period in Daytona, I was conscious every minute of every day, and during many sleepless nights that I had to make good out there on that ball field. I was determined to prove to our manager, Clay Hopper, that I could make the grade. Perhaps it is a good thing that I didn’t know about Hopper’s initial reaction to me. Hopper had begged Mr. Rickey not to send me to his club.
“Please don’t do this to me,” he had pleaded. “I’m white and I’ve lived in Mississippi all my life. If you do this, you’re going to force me to move my family and my home out of Mississippi.” Clay Hopper began to come around only after I demonstrated that I was a valuable property for the club.
During this time of trial, while my fellow players were not overtly hostile to me, they made no particular effort to be friendly. They didn’t speak to Wright or to me except in the line of duty, and we never tried to engage them in conversation. They seemed to have little reaction to us, one way or the other.
But the generosity and friendliness of one white teammate during those early days with Montreal stands out vividly. A young and talented player, Lou Rochelli, had been—until my arrival—the number-one candidate for second base. When I got the assignment, it would have been only human for him to resent it. And he had every right to assume that perhaps I had been assigned to second base instead of him because I was black and because Mr. Rickey had staked so much on my success. Lou was intelligent and he was a thoroughbred. He recognized that I had more experience with the left side of the infield than the right, and he spent considerable time helping me, giving me tips on technique. He taught me how to pivot on a double play. Working this pivot as a shortstop, I had been accustomed to maneuvering toward first. Now it was a matter of going away from first to get the throw, stepping on the bag, and then making the complete pivot for the throw to first. It’s not an easy play to make especially when the runner coming down from first is trying to take you out of the play. Rochelli taught me the tricks, especially how to hurdle the runner. I learned readily, and from the beginning, my fielding was never in question. But my hitting record was terrible. This was obvious in practice games during that first spring training. After a good hard month of training, I had only two or three decisive hits.
Rae, Mr. Rickey, and Clyde Sukeforth were all great supporters during this period. Rae never missed watching a practice period, and Mr. Rickey became personally involved in helping me. He would stand by the base line and mumble instructions to me.
“Be more daring,” he would say.
“Give it all you’ve got when you run. Gamble. Take a bigger lead.”
While Mr. Rickey pushed me, Clyde showed his support and concern by massaging my morale and trying to get me to loosen up.
My supporters were helped by two glorious events that acted like tonic. The first was during the initial Dodgers-Royals game. On the eve of that game I experienced all kinds of mental torture. The grapevine had it that I would not be allowed to play; that the local authorities had been putting terrific pressure on Mr. Rickey. What I didn’t know was that the shoe was on the other foot. The Dodger boss was the one exerting the pressure. He had done a fantastic job of persuading, bullying, lecturing, and pulling strings behind the scenes.
I had steeled myself for jeers and taunts and insulting outbursts. To my relief, when I walked out on that field, I heard nothing but a few weak and scattered boos. Holding down second, I felt a mighty surge of confidence and power. I picked up a smoking grounder that seemed certain to be a hit. Pivoting, I made an accurate throw, forcing the runner at second. My arm was in great shape and so were my legs. I had speed to spare.
That game seemed to be a turning point. The next few days in practice and intrasquad play, I began to show significant improvement. I was elated at the happiness my performance brought to Rachel and Mr. Rickey. I got my first base hit, and Rae was delighted. She had made some friends in the Agricul-ture Department at Bethune-Cookman College, which was close to where we lived. To celebrate, she got special permission from the Harrises to cook a victory dinner of chicken and fresh vegetables given her by her friends at Bethune. It was one of the few times she could cook for me in those days and I really enjoyed it. Our two newspaper friends, Wendell Smith and Billy Rowe of the Pittsburgh Courier, were our guests for dinner.
The second inspiring event occurred during the opening game of International League season in Jersey City. It was a major game and Clay Hopper had gambled on me by letting me hold down second base. Through the second inning, we kept the Jersey City team scoreless. My big moment came in our half of the third when with two men on base, I swung and connected. It felt so good I could tell it was a beauty. The ball flew 340 feet over the left field fence. I had delivered my first home run in organized baseball. Through all the cheering, my thoughts went to Rachel, and I knew she shared my joy. This was the day the dam burst between me and my teammates. Northerners and Southerners alike, they let me know how much they appreciated the way I had come through.
All these good and positive things generated a tremendous kind of power and drive inside of me. My next time at bat in the Jersey City game, I laid a bunt down the third base line. I beat it out for a hit. I got the sign to steal second, got a good jump on the pitcher, and made it with ease. When the game ended, I had four hits: a home run and three singles, and I had two stolen bases. I knew what it was that day to hear the ear-shattering roar of the crowd and know it was for me. I began to really believe one of Mr. Rickey’s predictions. Color didn’t matter to fans if the black man was winner.
My happiness about the three victorious games in Jersey City was soured when we got to Baltimore. There were two racist types sitting behind Rae. As soon as we emerged on the field, they began screaming all the typical phrases such as “nigger son of a bitch.” Soon insults were coming from all over the stands. For me on the field it was not as bad as it was for Rae, forced to sit in the midst of the hostile spectators. It was almost impossible for her to keep her temper, but her dignity was more important to her than descending to the level of those ignorant bigots.
On the positive side Rae and I noticed in Florida and in cities like Jersey City that black fans were beginning to turn out in unprecedented numbers despite extremely adverse conditions. Fortunately, there were no racial incidents of consequence. In Southern cities, including Baltimore, segregated seating may have held down racial tension, but it was grossly unfair to blacks who had to take bleachers and outfield seats. But they turned out anyway. Their presence, their cheers, their pride, all came through to me and I knew they were counting on me to make it. It put a heavy burden of responsibility on me, but it was a glorious challenge. On the good days the cries of approval made me feel ten feet tall, but my mistakes, no matter how small, plunged me into deep depression. I guess black, as well as white, fans recognized this, and that is why they gave me that extra support I needed so badly. This was the first time the black fan market had been exploited, and the black turnout was making it clear that baseball could be made even more profitable if the game became in
tegrated.
After Jersey City and Baltimore, the Royals moved to Mon-treal. It was a fantastic experience. One sportswriter later commented, “For Jackie Robinson and the city of Montreal, it was love at first sight.” He was right. After the rejections, unpleasantness, and uncertainties, it was encouraging to find an atmosphere of complete acceptance and something approaching adulation. One of the reasons for the reception we received in Montreal was that people there were proud of the team that bore their city’s name.
The people of Montreal were warm and wonderful to us. We rented a pretty apartment in the French-Canadian sector. Our neighbors and everyone we encountered were so attentive and kind to us that we had very little privacy. We were stared at on the street, but the stares were friendly. Kids trailed along behind us, an adoring retinue. To add to our happiness, Rachel shyly told me that very soon there were going to be three of us. There was only one sour note for me at that time. Johnny Wright, the black pitcher Mr. Rickey had signed on, was dropped from the club.
Although he never did anything overtly negative, I felt that Manager Clay Hopper had never really accepted me. He was careful to be courteous, but prejudice against the Negro was deeply ingrained in him. Much, much later in my career, after I had left the Montreal club, the depths of Hopper’s bigotry were revealed to me. Very early during my first Montreal season, Mr. Rickey and Hopper had been standing together watching the team work out, when I made an unusually tricky play.
Mr. Rickey said to Hopper that the play I had just executed was “superhuman.”
Hopper, astonished, asked Mr. Rickey, “Do you really think a nigger’s a human being?” Mr. Rickey was furious, but he made a successful effort to restrain himself and he told me why.
I Never Had It Made: An Autobiography of Jackie Robinson Page 6
