“‘Let’s do it again,’ he says.
“Around we go. This time he beats me by about twenty yards.
“‘One more time,’ he says.
“One more time we go. By the third time around he is really skating. He’s such a natural, gifted athlete, he’s skating like a guy who has been at it for weeks. It’s no contest. He almost lapped the field on me . . . that was it. Now there’s a crowd around me and they’re cheering. He puts his arms around me. He wasn’t a demonstrative man. ‘Irv,’ he says, ‘am I glad you were here this weekend. I had to beat someone before I went home!’”
Chapter Twelve
Winding Down
On November 6, 1950, after having carefully evaluated all employment possibilities with his circle of loyalists and his family, Rickey moved on to Pittsburgh. “He saw it as a challenge,” explains Mal Goode. “It was a last-place team, and the idea of getting lots of kids and building a third National League power was very appealing to him.”
Installed as executive vice-president and general manager of the Pirates by his old college friend John Galbreath, Rickey was granted total freedom to do as he wished to rejuvenate the hapless team.
“Rickey’s Boys” followed him to the new challenge. George Sisler came along to head the “Buc’s” scouting department. Ironically, it was George’s son, Dick, who had hammered a home run on the last day of the 1950 season to defeat the Dodgers and give the Phillies the pennant.
Branch Rickey, Jr., was placed in charge of the Pirate farm system. Milt Stock and Clyde Sukeforth, former Brooklyn coaches, came over to help. Bob Cobb, owner of the Hollywood team in the Pacific Coast League, ended his working agreement with the Dodgers. “I don’t know Mr. Rickey’s plans,” Cobb said when Rickey was removed as Brooklyn general manager, “or even if he’s continuing in the baseball business. I’m going to follow him even if he goes into the laundry business. I’ll fill the Hollywood park with washing machines and get a working agreement with him. I’m a Rickey man to the finish.”
The sixty-nine-year-old Rickey sold his farm in Chesterton, Maryland, along with its duck blinds and its pits for shooting wild geese. Across the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh, in Fox Chapel Township, he purchased one hundred acres with a large house. He contracted for the building of a combination stable and barn to house ponies for his grandchildren. With his usual thoroughness, he sent scouts east, west, north, and south to focus on new sources of talent. The commitment was made to spend money and to go after black and Hispanic youths.
One of his first actions was to claim a player from the Brooklyn Dodger farm system whom Rickey had signed to a complicated minor-league bonus arrangement. The Dodgers tried to hide him in the low minors, but Rickey knew all about him and claimed him for a sum of $8,000. His name was Roberto Clemente. He would join the Pirates in 1955 and star in their outfield until his tragic death in 1972.
The entire Pittsburgh farm system was overhauled. Sweeping changes were made in the Pirate roster. Veteran players were discarded, and a brigade of “bonus babies” began to take their place. Rickey described the bonus system as insanity, but realized that the only way to build the Pittsburgh team was from the ground up. His five-year plan, begun in 1951, was disrupted by the Korean War. High school and college youths that he had signed were taken into the armed forces. “Things cannot be considered normal,” he said, “and it will not be possible to make the progress desired until our boys start to come out of the service as fast as they are now going in.” At one point, 174 players in the Pittsburgh organization were in the armed forces.
Rickey looked on with mixed emotions as the 1952 Dodgers won 96 games and the National League pennant. They followed this by winning 105 games and another pennant in 1953. Their star-studded lineup was Rickey’s legacy: Pee Wee Reese, Billy Cox, Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Carl Furillo, Roy Campanella, Preacher Roe, Don Newcombe, Carl Erskine. Robinson batted over .300 both seasons; a second baseman in 1952, he switched to left field in 1953 with· the arrival of Junior Gilliam, another Rickey product.
Proud of the Dodger team he had built, Rickey scuffled about attempting to improve the Pirates. He had very little to work with; they had the home-run-hitting Ralph Kiner, but not much else. By 1952, Rickey’s spending had exceeded the profits of the Pirates. John Galbreath’s private funds were used to make up the deficit. Other stockholders refused to contribute. In spring training that year, Rickey sent Galbreath a letter citing twenty reasons why Ralph Kiner should be traded. “This· relates only to his baseball value,” the Mahatma said, “and certainly not to his personality. He is one of the nicest boys I’ve ever met, but Ralph satisfies my requirements in only one respect—as a home run hitter. To me, that isn’t enough.”
Kiner, today a broadcaster for the New York Mets, recalls the first time he met Branch Rickey in contract negotiations, in 1952. “He was extremely difficult. There was a saying that he had all the money and all the ballplayers and he never let the two get together.”
Kiner was the 1952 National League home run leader with thirty-seven. “Rickey offered me a twenty-five percent cut in salary,” the affable Kiner recalls. “That was the maximum cut allowed at the time. I held out for two weeks, and I ended up getting a shade more than he first offered. He more or less told me to take it or leave it. . . . I couldn’t have left it,” jokes Kiner. “I would have had to go to work for a living.”
The 1952 Pirates finished in last place, fifty-four and a half games behind the Dodgers. Kiner led the league in home runs for the seventh straight season. The Braves offered Rickey seven players and $150,000 for Kiner. Rickey was not permitted to make the trade. ‘’You’ve got to win the pennant without Kiner or contend for it with him,” a Pittsburgh official warned Rickey. ‘’You can’t trade him now.” Kiner was an institution at Forbes Field. Even when the Bucs were hopelessly out of a game, fans would linger just to see Kiner bat one more time, hoping to see him hit one more home run.
With the franchise losing both games and money, Rickey borrowed $200,000 against future earnings and plowed it back into Pittsburgh stock. “It’s not a good buy now,” he said, “but it may be if I work hard enough. I’ve just got to work to make it worth more.” Investment in the future was a way of life for Rickey. He had organized a corporation for the production of fiberglass batting helmets, the American Baseball Cap Company, and involved friends and relatives in the venture. All of them lost money that first year of 1952, but five years later the helmet was standard equipment in the major leagues. Three hundred thousand helmets were produced in 1957, and the corporation made a substantial profit.
In 1953, the man who had traded Dizzy Dean and Rogers Hornsby and Dixie Walker traded Ralph Kiner. The slugging outfielder moved on to the Cubs, along with catcher Joe Garagiola, pitcher Howie Pollet, and infielder George Metkovitch. The Bucs received pitcher Bob Schultz, catcher Toby Atwell, first baseman Preston Ward, infielder Gene Freese, outfielders Gene Hermanski and Bob Addis, and $100,000.
“It was a typical Branch Rickey operation,” notes Kiner. “I found out about the trade from manager Fred Haney. In fact, we took batting practice in Pittsburgh Pirate uniforms and the trade was consummated after batting practice. We moved next door to the Chicago Cub dressing room in Forbes Field and changed uniforms. I don’t think I ever talked to Branch Rickey after that.”
Joe Garagiola remembers the trade with a certain degree of humor. The wisecracking announcer recalled that a couple of days before the trade Rickey greeted him on the playing field: “We’ve got big plans for you, Joe, big plans.”
With Ralph Kiner gone, and no real rooting interest left, attendance at Forbes Field dropped below six hundred thousand for the first time in a decade. The I 953 Pirates scored the fewest runs of any team in the league, recorded the lowest team batting average, and gave up more than five runs a game.
Frustrated by the ineptitude of the Pirates, and not totally enamored with manager Fred Haney, Rickey looked over to the Bro
oklyn organization for a new pilot. He attempted to obtain Pee Wee Reese, but was told the little shortstop was not available. His next choice was Walter Alston, a manager in the Dodger farm system for thirteen seasons, but O’Malley had plans of his own for the native of Darrtown, Ohio.
When the 1953 season ended, Charlie Dressen, who had replaced Burt Shotton as Dodger manager, demanded a twoyear contract. He argued that he had won two straight pennants, 298 games in three seasons, that Durocher had just signed a three-year contract with the Giants and that his record was better than Durocher’s.
O’Malley was not impressed with Dressen’s arguments for job security. In Alston, the man Rickey had praised so highly, he found a man who would be content with a oneyear contract. He replaced Dressen with Alston, signing him to the first of twenty-three consecutive one-year contracts to manage the Dodgers.
The dour, taciturn Alston was a bland counterpoint to the effervescent Dressen, the man they called “Jolly Cholly.” Alston was an O’Malley man; Dressen was openly for Jackie Robinson. “Give me nine guys like Jackie Robinson,” he had said, “and I’d never lose.”
With Rickey struggling at Pittsburgh and with Dressen gone, Robinson became involved in contentious coexistence with the two Walters, neither of whom was his type of man.
There were also many differences of opinion between Robinson and Buzzy Bavasi, who had taken over most of Rickey’s duties. Bavasi had his own ideas about how to motivate his players. “One night Bavasi came into the Dodger dugout,” recalls Irving Rudd, “and he started to berate the players as a whole. He called them a bunch of ingrates, a bunch of dogs, etc. Robinson was livid. ‘I hope you’re smiling when you say that, Buzzy,’ he said. Bavasi clammed up, but you could see the tension and the friction between the two of them.”
The friction between Alston and Robinson was even more evident. In a 1954 game, Duke Snider pounded the ball into the left-field stands as the Dodgers played the Cubs at Wrigley Field. The ball came back onto the field. Umpire Bill Stewart ruled that the ball had hit the wall and awarded Snider a double. Robinson thought a fan had touched the ball and that Snider should have been given a home run. Screaming and in a rage, Robinson raced out of the Dodger dugout to protest. Alston stood near the third-base coach’s box, hands on hips, staring at Robinson. Number 42’s rhubarb with Stewart lasted several minutes, but the umpire would not change his decision. Robinson went back to the dugout.
Later a teammate told Robinson that Alston had expressed anger at what he called “Jackie’s temper tantrum.”
“The team might be moving somewhere,” snapped Robinson, “if Alston had not been standing on third base like a wooden Indian. The run meant something in a close game like that, so whether or not I was right or wrong, it paid to protest to the umpire . . . but not according to Alston. What kind of a manager is that?”
The following day a newspaper photo revealed that Robinson had been correct. A fan had touched the ball. The “wooden Indian” comments also appeared in the newspapers. The Robinson-Alston rift widened.
In spring training, and throughout the exhibition season in 1955, Robinson rode the Dodger bench. Alston was evasive about his plans for number 42. Robinson was frustrated. He had batted .311 in 1954, alternating between third base and the outfield. He went to New York Daily News reporter Dick Young and made inquiries about Alston’s plans. Robinson’s query proved to be a mistake. Alston heard about it.
At a team meeting, Alston went into a long tirade about cowardly players who went to the press. Robinson shouted that if there was better communication between Alston and his players there would be need to go to outside sources.
Alston was enraged. Both men began to shout at each other. They were ready to fight and would have fought had it not been for Gil Hodges. The muscular Dodger first baseman seized Jackie’s arms. “Cool down, buddy,” he said. “It’s not worth fighting about. Take it out on the other teams.”
It was very hard for Robinson to take it out on the opposition in 1955. It was a season of nagging injuries, reduced playing time, and acrimonious exchanges with Alston and O’Malley. It was a year of discontent and frustration that saw his batting average drop to .256.
The slogan of Brooklyn fans after each World Series defeat by the New York Yankees had always been “Wait ‘Till Next Year.” The slogan was becoming a way of life for the fans of “Dem Bums,” and for Robinson; it was a nettling, unsettling frustration to lose year after year to the Yankees. Robinson’s Dodgers were defeated by the Bronx Bombers in 1947, 1949, 1952, and 1953.
As the Yankees and Dodgers squared off once again in the 1955 World Series, “this year” it seemed the Brooks had the talent to prevail. They had stolen more bases, scored more runs, and hit more home runs than any other team in the National League in 1955: they had the highest team batting average and the top slugging percentage; their pitching staff had the most saves, the most strikeouts, and the best earned-run average. Snider, Hodges, and Campanella each drove in more than a hundred runs. Snider, Furillo, and Campanella each batted over .300. The talent was there, but so was the Yankee hex.
Robinson missed almost one-third of the Dodgers’ games in I 955, had just sixteen extra-base hits, drove in only thirtysix runs. Fans and sportswriters did not view him as much of a factor in the World Series. He was dubbed “the old gray fat man,” by some writers, for his gray hair and the paunch about his middle. His legs ached from the all the years of football and baseball, all.the turns and tumbles and twists. His exceptional speed belonged to memory.
Whitey Ford opposed Don Newcombe in the first game of the World Series onSeptember 28, 1955· In the top of the eighth inning, the Yankees were ahead, 6-4. There were two men out. Robinson was the runner at third base. His speed may have belonged to memory, but he still had desire. He stole home l “I took off and didn’t care whether I made it or not,” Robinson said later. “I was tired of waiting.” The Yankees won the game 6-5, but the Dodgers were given a huge psychological lift by Robinson’s steal of home.
Her brother’s dramatics in that first game of the 1955 Series will always remain as Willa Mae Walker’s greatest baseball thrill. “Yogi [Berra] always bragged about what Jack couldn’t do against him. He said, ‘Nobody, not even Jackie Robinson, will steal home on me.’ So Jackie tried it. Years later the two got together and Yogi said he never touched Jackie at home plate, and Jackie said he never touched home plate:”
The Yankees swept the second game at Yankee Stadium, and once again it looked as if the Dodgers would have to “wait ‘till next year.”
The third game was played at Ebbets Field before 34,209. Johnny Padres, pitching for the Dodgers on his twenty-third birthday, faced Bob Turley of the Yankees. The record shows that Padres yielded seven hits and struck out seven and that Campanella collected three hits and three RBis to power the 8-3 Dodger victory. The box score doesn’t show how Jackie Robinson triggered Brooklyn’s win.
With the score tied, 2-2, he singled. Darting back and forth off first base, he so unnerved Turley that the Yankee hurler hit Sandy Amoros with a pitch. Padres came to bat. Again Robinson leaned, laughed, and taunted Turley. Padres dumped the ball down and reached first base safely on a bunt. Robinson was now on third base, Amoros was on second, and Padres was on first. Turley checked the runners. Ebbets Field was like an echo chamber of howls and squeals. Robinson feigned a dart toward home. Berra screamed to Turley to concentrate on the batter, not Robinson. The batter, Junior Gilliam, walked on four straight pitches. It was as if Turley had pitched to Robinson and not to Gilliam. Number 42 crossed the plate with a big smile on his face. The Dodgers led 3-2.
Casey Stengel was angry. He took Turley out and replaced him with Tom Morgan, who walked Reese, and the Dodgers led 4-2. Incredibly, two runs had been scored off the vaunted Yankee pitching staff, and the only ball that had been hit out of the infield was the lead-off single by Robinson.
The game moved along to the seventh inning, and the Dodgers were leading 6-3. The
Dodger faithful were well aware that every run counted with . the Yankee batting power at work in their small ballpark.
Robinson slammed a Tom Sturdivant pitch off the screen in left field. Elston Howard fielded the ball cleanly and saw Robinson make a wide turn past second base. Robinson changed gears and apparently was making a retreat back to second base. Howard made a fundamental error by throwing behind the runner, firing the ball into second in an attempt to cut off what he thought was Robinson’s retreat. As the ball came in, Robinson lit out for third base. He slid safely into third, beating Billy Martin’s relay throw. A single by Sandy Amoros brought Robinson home with another run, an insurance run.
“The way Howard fielded the ball,” Robinson explained later to reporters, “I knew he would go through with his intention to throw to second, so I took off. If Irv Noren [the Yankees’ regular left fielder] was out there, I would’ve held up, because Noren could pretend to throw to one base and throw to another. A couple of years ago no slide would have been necessary. . . . That was quite a burst of speed by a gray, fat man, wasn’t it?”
The Dodgers went on to win games four and five of the Series. The Yankees won the sixth game, tying the Series at three games apiece.. On October 4, 1955, Johnny Podres, who had been a fifteen-year-old living in Witherbee, New York, when Jackie Robinson broke baseball’s color line, spaced out eight hits to defeat the Yankees 2-0 and give Brooklyn its only World Championship ever.
Robinson had batted an anemic .182 in the Series, but his four hits and five runs scored had come in the clutch. “He comes to win,” Durocher had said of him. “Robinson comes to beat you.” The kudos were for Podres and Amoros, Snider and Hodges and Campanella, but an old man in Pittsburgh, who had put most of the Brooklyn team together, knew how much number 42 had contributed to the Dodger victory just by being on the team.
Rickey and Robinson Page 20
