On a late August day in 1945, just a few weeks after the informal Japanese surrender, which ended World War II, a dark-haired, spectacled man sat behind a desk. When the young, athletic African American came into the office, the man behind the desk examined him intently—and extensively. The black man stared back but also felt the power of the other’s gaze. He later recalled, “His piercing eyes roamed over me with such meticulous care, I almost felt naked.” 

The white man talked for three hours. He revealed everything he had learned about the young African American’s life and character over months of research. He assessed his skills. He spoke of his own grand plans for the future. Mostly, though, he detailed all the tests that the young man would face—challenges to fight, racist curses, slights on the field and off, abusive words. Relentlessly, he hammered the young man. 

Finally, the African American spoke. “Mr. Rickey, do you want a ballplayer who’s afraid to fight back?” 

Branch Rickey pounced: “I want a player with guts enough not to fight back.” 

The premise was not new to Jack Roosevelt Robinson—or to any other African American alive in the United States at the time. He had been forced throughout his life to find ways to handle mindless racism. The year before, when he was a lieutenant in the United States Army, he had been told by a white bus driver to move to the back of the bus. Robinson, aware that the army had ordered military buses desegregated, refused to move, and was court-martialed. Though absolved by the court, he was given his discharge—an honorable one—from the army. 

He knew, then, what he would face. He also knew that Branch Rickey’s plan was revolutionary. Rickey proposed no less than bringing Jackie Robinson to the major leagues, after a one-year stint in the minors with the Montreal Royals, thereby breaking nearly sixty years of major league baseball’s unofficial, but unyielding, understanding that prevented teams from signing African American players.  

Robinson sat in Rickey’s office several minutes considering the opportunity—and the burden—being dangled before him. Finally, he responded: “Mr. Rickey, I think I can play ball in Montreal. I think I can play ball in Brooklyn. But, you’re a better judge of that than I am. If you want to take this gamble, I will promise you there will be no incident.”   

Rickey had been working toward this day for two years, having first secured the approval of Dodgers’ management to sign a black baseball player in 1943. He had scouts visit games of the Negro Leagues to evaluate the talent there under the guise of creating a Dodgers-owned entry in the league. In reality, he was searching for the right player—the one who combined both the physical ability to excel on the field and the character to survive the searing experience he would undergo. 

He found his man in Jackie Robinson. Robinson was twenty-six when he signed with Montreal that year, young enough to have a long career ahead of him but mature enough to run the psychological and emotional gauntlet he would undergo. A graduate of UCLA, a multi-sport athlete, a former army officer, and a man about whom there was not a whiff of scandal, Robinson was equipped in every possible way for the task.  

This does not mean everything went smoothly. Even on his own team, Robinson faced hostility. During spring training of 1947—the first year Jackie Robinson trained with the Dodgers—several Southern players balked at playing with him. Standout outfielder Dixie Walker circulated a petition among the players asking management not to play Robinson. Though not all the Southern players signed it—shortstop Pee Wee Reese, from Kentucky, refused to go along—the team was clearly facing a crisis. 

Manager Leo Durocher called a meeting. “I don’t care if a guy is yellow or black, or if he has stripes like a fuckin’ zebra,” Durocher said. “I’m the manager of this team, and I say he plays.” He told the dissidents to “wipe your ass” with the petition. 

Rickey met with the players the next night. His long speech promoted American values of equality and fairness. A realist, he also offered any player who could not accept playing with Robinson the opportunity of a trade. Two players took him up on it. Dixie Walker also asked to be traded at first, and nearly was, but later in the spring he withdrew his request. While he never became close to Robinson, he did grow to accept him. 

Clubhouse champions emerged as well. Southern-born Eddie Stanky often rushed to Robinson’s defense during the year. Reese, the leader of the team, accepted Robinson fully. Early in the 1948 season, when he was being verbally assaulted before the game by Boston Braves players for playing with a black man, Reese put his arm around Robinson and discussed game strategy. His act silenced the hecklers. 

The worst time of Robinson’s first year came at the hands of the Philadelphia Phillies. The Phils’ Alabama-born manager, Ben Chapman, led his team in nonstop racist attacks on Robinson during a two-game series in Brooklyn a week into the season. Dodgers officials, several reporters, and many fans expressed outrage. Commissioner “Happy” Chandler warned Chapman that the abuse had to stop. Baseball’s establishment was clearly going to support Robinson’s right to play. 

The incident had a significant outcome. The attacks helped rally the Dodgers around their teammate. Even Dixie Walker protested against Chapman—a friend of his.  

A few weeks later, the Dodgers traveled to Philadelphia. In an effort to patch over the earlier ugliness, the owners of both teams had Robinson and Chapman pose for photographers shaking hands. “I can think of no occasion,” Robinson later wrote, “where I had more difficulty in swallowing my pride and doing what seemed best for baseball and the cause of the Negro in baseball than in agreeing to pose for a photograph” with Chapman. 

Another challenge surfaced in early May from the St. Louis Cardinals. While a newspaper report that Cardinals players planned to strike rather than play the Dodgers seem exaggerated, there were some rumblings of mutiny on the team. On hearing word of this discontent, National League President Ford Frick told the Cardinals’ owner that any player who refused to play would be suspended. Again, baseball management was backing Robinson.  

Jackie Robinson went on to enjoy a Hall of Fame career and to help lead the Brooklyn Dodgers to their only World Series win. But he did much more than that. By breaking the color barrier of the sport that dominated American consciousness in the mid-1900s, by shattering the myth that white and black ballplayers could not play together—or that African American players could not compete with white ones—Jackie Robinson helped usher in an end to segregation. He became an unmistakable statement that Jim Crow was on its way out. 

That career, that impact was made possible by that momentous meeting in August of 1945. 

Today, baseball celebrates the 54th anniversary of the day that Jackie Robinson played in his first major league game. To honor him, every player will wear his number, 42—a number that has officially been retired by every major league team, never to be used again. He is the only player so treated. He deserves it. 

Words © 2011 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.