42 (3 page)

“What are you saying, Mr. Rickey?” Smith still wasn't entirely sure why Rickey had asked him to stop by.

Rickey's smile broadened. “I'm saying it's going to be a very interesting spring training. A lot of players are coming back from the war, and with gas rationing over, we can train down in Florida again.”

“Daytona Beach?” Smith asked. “You're aware in the past six months a black boy was lynched in Madison and a black man down in Live Oak?”

Rickey waved that off. “Those towns may as well be a million miles from Daytona.”

“Live Oak is one hundred and fifty, actually,” Smith informed him.

“I spoke to the Daytona mayor,” Rickey said. “He assures me there'll be no trouble.” But he didn't sound entirely convinced himself. “Mr. Smith, are you a Communist?”

Smith laughed. “I'm a Democrat. Why do you ask?”

“I have a business proposition. What's your salary at the
Courier
?”

“Fifty dollars a week.” It wasn't a lot, but it was enough for him. And it let him write about baseball.

Rickey nodded. “I will pay you an additional fifty dollars a week plus expenses if you will attend spring training with Jackie Robinson,” he offered. “You will watch over him, help him to avoid the harm that could come if he were to do or say anything out of turn. You will act as his chauffeur, you will secure accommodations for him wherever the team may be, help him find restaurants, and so on.”

“What's in it for me?” Smith asked. “Besides the fifty dollars and a whole lot of aggravation?”

Rickey's smile returned. “Unprecedented access to my team for any reporting you feel is appropriate. What do you say, Mr. Smith?”

Smith smiled back. “I say yes, sir. If a Negro is good enough to stop a Nazi bullet in France, he's good enough to stop a line drive at Yankee Stadium.”

“Ebbets Field actually,” Rickey corrected. “But I believe you're right. The world is ready.”

They shook hands, and Smith couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just agreed to participate in something wonderful.

O
n February 28, 1946, Jackie's and Rachel's family and friends were on hand to see them off as they walked through the Burbank airport.

“You knock the cover off that ball,” Jackie's mother, Mallie, urged him, blinking back proud tears.

“I will, Mama.” He gave her a big hug, teary-eyed himself.

She hugged him back, then kissed Rachel. “Look after each other.”

“We will,” Rachel promised.

Mallie nodded, reached into her bag, and drew out a cardboard shoe box that was slightly greasy at the bottom. “Take this. It's chicken.”

Jackie laughed. “They have food on the plane, Mama.”

“You never know what might happen,” Mallie insisted. “I don't want you getting there starving and too weak to hit.”

Rachel caught Jackie's eye and shook her head ever so slightly. A few minutes later, he was escorting her onto the plane, the shoe box in hand.

“I couldn't tell her no,” he protested weakly.

Rachel sighed. “I know she means well. I just don't want to be seen eating chicken out of a box like some country bumpkin.”

Jackie smiled and ran a hand over her fancy new coat. “No one's going to mistake you for a bumpkin in this.”

Rachel nodded proudly. “Well, they'll know I belong on that plane or wherever I happen to be.”

Their argument forgotten, they stepped onto the gleaming plane.

When they landed for their first stopover, in New Orleans, Rachel headed straight for the nearest ladies' room, then stopped short. The sign on the door read “White Only.”

Jackie was still carrying the box of chicken when he caught up to her. “The flight to Pensacola leaves in an hour,” he started, then trailed off when he caught her expression. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I've just never seen one before.”

Glancing over, Jackie saw the sign. “We're not in Pasadena anymore.” But Rachel didn't seem to hear him as she suddenly lurched into motion again — heading straight for the door. “Honey,” he called after her. “Rae —” But she had already disappeared inside. Jackie glanced around, not sure what to do. Before, he would have done the same as her. But things were different now.

“I promised Mr. Rickey we'd stay out of trouble,” he explained to her a few minutes later as they stepped into the airport's coffee shop.

“Did you promise him we wouldn't go to the bathroom?” she shot back. “You've snuck into segregated toilets before.”

“
Before
I promised.”

“It was just a toilet.” She sniffed. “You'd think the commodes were made of gold.”

They slid into the nearest empty booth, but just as they were reaching for the menu, the cook came bustling out of the kitchen. “You folks can't sit here,” he told them.

Jackie glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“It's white only. I'll sell you some sandwiches,” the cook continued, “but you gotta take 'em to go.” He sounded like he felt bad about that.

Jackie started to say something, but stopped himself. Then he tried again. At least he wasn't picking a fight, as he would have done not long ago. “No,” he answered instead. “You hang on to those.” He stood up, glared at the cook, and offered Rachel his hand. She didn't say anything, but she was the very picture of outraged elegance as she accepted it and let him lead her away.

A few hours later, the plane landed in Pensacola, Florida, for refueling. There were only ten seats on the small plane, and when the door opened, four passengers departed. Four new people quickly took their places.

“Just a hop to Daytona now,” Jackie assured Rachel. They were both exhausted from the long day of air travel. Their reception in New Orleans hadn't helped any.

Rachel nodded, but motion by the plane door caught her eye as a woman entered. She was wearing an airline uniform. Her name tag read “Bishop.”

The woman scanned the passengers, then made a beeline for them. “Jack Robinson?” she asked. “Come with me.” She'd turned away before she'd even finished speaking, and glanced back impatiently when they didn't move immediately. “Come on now. Both of you.”

Rachel looked at her husband. He shrugged and rose to his feet. “Guess we'd better do what she says,” he commented. Rachel followed him out, but she had a bad feeling about this.

Once they were at the ticket counter, Miss Bishop explained. “We have to lighten the plane. There's some bad weather east of here. A heavy plane's dangerous.” They realized at once what she meant. They had been removed from their flight.

“Tell her you're with the Dodgers,” Rachel urged quietly. But Jackie shrugged off the suggestion.

“When's the next flight?” he asked instead.

Miss Bishop smiled, but it was a phony one. “Tomorrow morning,” she replied, “but it's booked. So someone'll have to cancel.”

Jackie sighed. “Look, I'm with the Brooklyn Dodger organization. I've got to get down to Daytona. I'm supposed to report to spring training in the morning.”

“We'll do our best to get you down there by tomorrow afternoon,” Miss Bishop assured him stiffly, “but it might be the day after.” Clearly the fact that he was with the Dodgers hadn't impressed her any.

Just then, Rachel noticed a couple being led out to their plane. A white couple. But there hadn't been any empty seats when they'd gotten up! Suddenly, she understood. “Jack —”

He followed her gaze, stared for a second, then wheeled on Miss Bishop, furious. “You gave away our seats! Get us back on that plane!” he demanded.

Instead she lifted the phone and held it between them. “Do you want to call the sheriff?” she asked nastily. “Or should I?”

That night, Rachel and Jackie sat in the deserted Pensacola train station. The bus right across from their bench read “Daytona Beach,” but if wouldn't be leaving until the morning. Even though they were in Florida, it was chilly, and Rachel tugged her coat around her more tightly. She still couldn't believe what had happened to them. But there had been no fighting it, and after calming down she'd realized that. All arguing would have done was land them in jail, and wouldn't that be a lovely way for Jackie to start his new career?

Sitting next to her on the bench, Jackie stared off into the night. He'd known it would be tough, but he hadn't expected these difficulties to start so early. Nor had he realized that Rachel would get dragged into it with him. Leaning back, his hand brushed something at his side, and he glanced down. It was the shoe box. Reaching in, Jackie pulled out a drumstick, studied it for a second, then took a bite.

“Mama knew,” he whispered.

He turned and offered the piece to his wife. She slid over, closing the gap between them, and took a bite. Then she smiled at him.

“It's good,” she admitted. That was his Rachel, always looking for the bright side.

Jackie smiled back and wrapped his arm around her. As long as she was with him, he knew he'd be all right.

The next day, Rickey drove along a dirt road in Daytona Beach. He sang along with the radio as he passed Brooklyn Dodgers, Montreal Royals, and Saint Paul Saints, all warming up or already trading pitches, hits, and throws.

“How're they looking, Leo?” he asked as he stopped the car, got out, and walked over to where Dodgers coach Leo Durocher was hitting balls. Three of the Dodgers players, Pee Wee Reese, Eddie Stanky, and Dixie Walker were chasing the balls down.

“Rusty, Mr. Rickey,” Durocher admitted. “But we'll get 'em oiled up and ready in no time. You find your lost sheep yet?”

Troubled, Rickey shook his head. Jackie and Rachel should have arrived the night before, but there'd been no sign of them on the plane. Just then, Parrott hurried over.

“Jackie Robinson's on a bus leaving Pensacola,” he reported.

“A bus?” Rickey stared at him. “Harold, how in blazes did he end up on a bus?” Parrott shrugged. “Well, let Wendell know.” Rickey saw a few of the other Dodgers — Bob Bragan, Ralph Branca, and Kirby Higbe — muttering to one another. He wondered if it was about Robinson, but shook off the thought. Their first priority was getting him here. Then they'd figure out the rest.