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Jackie nodded curtly and resumed his march toward the restroom. Behind him, the other players looked on, stunned. None of them would have dared to try that.

Inside the tiny restroom, Jackie used the facilities, flushed, washed, and then splashed water on his face. He heard a bell ding outside as he patted his face dry with a paper towel — another customer had arrived. Good thing that hadn't happened a few minutes earlier!

Stepping back outside, he saw a snazzy car parked beside the bus. Its driver was busy talking with several of the Monarchs. They all looked up as Jackie approached.

“Are you Jackie Robinson?” Clyde Sukeforth asked. When Robinson nodded, he smiled and gestured toward the passenger seat. “Great, get in. I've got somebody wants to meet you, back in Brooklyn.”

J
ackie strained to focus in the gloom of Rickey's office. The blinds were closed again. Rickey sat behind the desk, studying him closely, the dim light gleaming off his glasses. Sukeforth was seated against the wall, well out of the way.

“Do you have a girl?” Rickey demanded suddenly.

Jackie stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“A man needs a family relying on him,” Rickey explained. “It ensures he'll behave responsibly. Do you have a girl?”

“I think so,” Jackie answered.

Rickey's thick brows drew together. “You
think
so?”

Jackie glanced at Sukeforth, who just smiled. Then he turned back to Rickey. “I don't make much money,” he admitted to the Dodgers' general manager. “Between the army and now baseball, I've been away a lot. And Rae — Rachel — she wants to finish school. Considering all that, I say I think so.” Nonetheless, he warmed at the thought of her, her ready smile, her warm laugh, her bright eyes.

Rickey wasn't done. “Do you love her? Rachel?” He noted Jackie's pause. “Or don't you know?”

“Yes, sir, very much,” Jackie answered finally. The delay hadn't been because he didn't know his own heart. He just wasn't sure where this conversation was going, which was why Rickey's next words really floored him:

“Marry her.” He stood and walked over to the window. Jackie glanced questioningly at Sukeforth, who gestured for him to stay put and keep listening.

“Baseball's a hard life,” Rickey continued. “A man needs a good woman by his side. You don't want the only person waiting for you at home to be a catcher.” Sukeforth chuckled as Rickey fingered open a slat on the blind and peered out, almost as if he were bored with this conversation.

Enough of this nonsense
, Jackie decided.
Time to get down to brass tacks
. “Coach Sukeforth here said you were starting a new Negro League,” he declared. “That doesn't make sense to me.”

“It doesn't, huh? Are you calling us liars, Jack?” Rickey hadn't turned around.

“What's this about, Mr. Rickey?” Jackie asked. He was starting to wonder if the long car ride had just been a waste of time.

“About?” Rickey answered. “This is about baseball.” He opened the shade then, and sunlight flooded into the room. The beams illuminated the chalkboard on the far wall, and Rickey followed them over, stopping beside a list of players.

“I see you starting in the spring with our affiliate in Montreal,” he announced, studying the board. “If you make it there, we'll try you down here with the Dodgers. The white Brooklyn Dodgers.”

Jackie just stared at him. A black man joining a white team — was that even possible? He glanced at Sukeforth, who nodded. He couldn't tell if the talent scout liked the idea or not.

“I'll pay you six hundred a month,” Rickey continued, “and a thirty-five-hundred-dollar bonus when you sign the contract. Is that agreeable?”

Jackie gulped. “Yes, sir,” he managed. “That's fine.” Fine? That was an astounding amount of money, especially for a young black man. Could this really be happening?

“There is one condition,” Rickey added. “I have a pile of scouting reports on you. I know you can hit behind the runner, that you can read a pitch. The question is, can you control your temper?”

“My temper?”

Suddenly, Rickey turned from the board. “Yes, your temper!” he snapped. “Are you deaf?” Jackie glared at him, balling his fists, but didn't move another muscle. “He looks proud,” Rickey told Sukeforth. “Willful.”

“He'll need to be,” the scout pointed out, and Jackie thought he heard grudging admiration in the man's voice.

Rickey turned back to Jackie. “I want to win!” he announced. “I want ballplayers who can win! Are you one of them?”

That, at least, Jackie could answer. “Yes.”

“A black man in white baseball. Imagine the reaction. The vitriol.” Rickey took a step forward and got right in Jackie's face. “The Dodgers check into a hotel. A good, decent hotel. You're worn out from the road and some clerk won't give you the pen to sign in.” He affected a Southern drawl. “ ‘We got no room, boy, not even down in the coal bin where you belong.' ” Jackie was scowling now, banging his hands on the arms of the chair as Rickey continued. “The team stops at a restaurant. The waiter won't take your order.” His voice shifted again. “ ‘Didn't you see the sign on the door? No animals allowed.' What are you going to do then?” he demanded. “Fight him? Ruin all my plans? Answer me!”

A cold, hard look settled on Jackie's face. “Do you want a ballplayer who doesn't have the guts to fight back?” he asked, barely able to force the words out through his anger. “Is that what you want?”

“I want one who has the guts
not
to fight back!” Rickey shot back. “There are people who won't like this. They will do anything to get you to react. If you echo a curse with a curse, they'll only hear yours. Follow a blow with a blow, and they'll say a Negro lost his temper, that the Negro does not belong. Your enemy will be out in force, but you cannot meet him on his own low ground. We win with hitting, running, and fielding — nothing else. We win if the world is convinced of two things: that you are a fine gentleman and a great ballplayer. Like our Savior, you must have the guts to turn the other cheek.”

The two of them stared at each other, the fiery general manager and the equally volatile young player.

“Can you do it?” Rickey asked. His voice had gone soft, all the fire burned out of him. For now.

Jackie considered the question seriously. He knew there would be no turning back. That he wasn't sure he could deal with the scrutiny and harassment Rickey was describing. But he also knew he had to try.

“Mr. Rickey,” he said finally, meeting the other man's eyes, “you give me a uniform, you give me a number on my back, and I'll give you the guts.”

Rickey smiled, nodded, and clapped a hand on Jackie's shoulder. Then he looked over at Sukeforth, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had their player.

An hour later, a phone rang in the Los Angeles home of the Isum family. Twenty-three-year-old Rachel crossed the room gracefully and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Rae?” It was Jackie. “Rae, I'm in Brooklyn.” She could hear the sound of people bustling about in the background.

“Brooklyn?” she asked. “For what?”

“I don't want to say on the phone,” he answered. “In fact, I'm not supposed to tell anyone.” She could hear his excitement, though.

“Jack?”

“I'm here, Rae.”

“What's going on? You're supposed to be playing in Chicago!”

He laughed at that, his happy laugh, not his bitter one. “We've been tested, you and me,” he told her. “Our loyalty, our faith. We've done everything the right way. Me trying to make money. You finishing school. Separated by the war, now by baseball. We don't owe the world a thing. Only each other.”

She wasn't following him. “Jack, what are you talking about? What happened?”

He laughed again, and it was sheer joy. “The Brooklyn Dodgers just signed me to play ball up in Montreal,” he answered. “It might lead to bigger things. To something wonderful.”

“That's wonderful,” she agreed. “But what does it mean? For you and me?”

His voice turned serious. “Rae, will you marry me?”

She didn't even have to think about it. “Absolutely. When?”

“Now.”

This time she laughed. “Jack, I don't think we can get married in a phone booth.”

Two nights later, Jackie rounded a corner in the Clark Hotel in Los Angeles. He looked dashing in his tux, though the bow tie was now undone. Rachel was walking by his side, her hand clasped in his, radiant in her wedding gown.

“Did my mom look happy?” she asked as they reached the hotel room door and Jackie pulled out a key to unlock it.

“Yes,” he answered absently, concentrating on the key and the lock.

“Did my gram look happy?” She took a step back as he unlocked the door. Everything was moving so fast!

He smiled. “Everyone looked happy. I've never seen so many people looking happy.”

“Did Jack Robinson look happy?” she asked softly, the full weight of what they'd done looming over her suddenly. “What if I can't make you happy?”

“Too late,” he assured her as he turned and took her hands. “You already do. It's you and me, Rae.”

She smiled, basking in the love she felt flowing from him. “Until the wheels fall off.”

Wendell Smith sat before Rickey's desk, studying the Dodgers manager in the dim light. He blinked behind his glasses.

“Who's the best shortstop you ever saw?” Rickey was ask-ing him.

“Rabbit Tavener,” Smith replied.

That got a snort. “Rabbit Tavener? And you call yourself a sportswriter?” Smith covered baseball for the
Pittsburgh Courier
, the most popular black community paper in the country.

“Yes, a sentimental one,” Smith answered. “I'm from Detroit. He was the Tigers' shortstop when I was a boy. How about you? Who's your best?”

“Pop Lloyd.” John Henry “Pop” Lloyd had played for over ten different teams in the Negro Leagues before moving over to managing in 1926.

Smith smiled. “Not Honus Wagner?” The Pittsburgh Pirates player had been one of the first to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, back in 1936.

“Wagner is number two,” Rickey told him. “And Rabbit Tavener would not break my top twenty-five. Where do you suppose Jackie Robinson will end up on that list?”

Smith shook his head. “He won't break it. He doesn't have a shortstop's arm. Robinson belongs on second base.”

Rickey didn't seem bothered by that assessment. “All right, then, where would he rate at second?”

Smith considered. “If he was playing now, he'd be the best second baseman in the majors.”

That won a smile from the Dodgers manager. “High praise. He'll have to be the best in the minor leagues first, though.”