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He got ready to run again but wound up not having to — Reiser struck out, but Hermanski cracked a single to left and Jackie was able to trot home, barely breathing hard. He glared at Chapman as he passed, but the Phillies manager spat on the ground, clearly unmoved. Still, he didn't look happy.

“You fellas are making too big a deal out of this,” Chapman declared in the visitors' locker room a short while later. “He scored. We lost. One to nothing.” He took a sip of his drink.

“Do you think you were a little hard on Robinson?” one of the reporters asked.

Chapman shook his head. “We treat him the same way we do Hank Greenberg,” he claimed, “except we call Hank a kike instead of a coon. When we play exhibitions against the Yankees, we call DiMaggio the Wop. They laugh at it. No harm, it's forgotten after the game ends.” He tossed his empty beer can aside.

“Don't you think this was maybe one foot over the line?” a different reporter insisted.

Chapman barked out a laugh. “Hey, let's get the chips off our shoulders and play ball,” he said easily. “It's a game, right?”

Rickey was lost in thought when Parrott walked into his office. “I'm going in that Philly dugout tomorrow,” the young traveling secretary charged, “and wringing Chapman's neck!” Rickey surprised him by bursting out laughing. “Did I say something funny?”

Rickey took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes. “When I first told you about Jackie,” he pointed out, “you were against it. Now all of a sudden you're worrying about him. How do you suppose that happened?”

Parrott studied his feet. “Well, any decent-minded person —”

His boss cut him off. “
Sympathy
, Harold, is a Greek word. It means ‘to suffer.' ‘I sympathize with you' means ‘I suffer with you.' This Philadelphia manager has done me a service.”

“A service?” Parrott stared at him.

His tone made Rickey laugh again. “Is there an echo in here? Yes, he's creating sympathy on Jackie's behalf.
Philadelphia
, by the way, is Greek for ‘brotherly love.' ”

The buzz of the intercom interrupted him. “Bob Bragan to see you, Mr. Rickey,” Jane Ann warned.

That made Rickey's good mood sour. “What does he want?” He stabbed a button on the intercom. “Send him in.”

He straightened some papers on his desk and pretended to be busy as Bragan entered.

“What do you want, Bragan?” Rickey barely looked up.

“I'd like not to be traded, sir, if it isn't too late,” Bragan answered.

Now Rickey was paying attention. “What about Robinson?”

Bragan had been staring at the floor, but now he looked up and met Rickey's eyes. “I'd like to be his teammate.”

Rickey frowned. “Why?”

Bragan shrugged and looked away again. “The world's changing,” he said. “I guess I can live with the change.”

Rickey considered him for a second. “Well,” he drawled, “the Red Sox just offered Ted Williams, but I'll see what I can do.” That wasn't even remotely true, of course — Williams was ten times the player Bragan was, and they both knew it.

Bragan nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Rickey.”

After he left, Rickey and Parrott just looked at each other. They were both stunned. One of the men behind the petition to keep Jackie from playing now wanted to be Jackie's teammate? What an amazing thing!

Jackie finally stepped out from under the stands and was shocked to find Rachel there. “You shouldn't have waited,” he told her.

She graced him with a sweet smile. “They haven't made a day long enough that I wouldn't wait for you.”

Jackie couldn't help but laugh at her attitude. “Give these boys time,” he retorted. “It's a three-game series.” He turned serious again. “I don't care if they like me; I didn't come here to make friends. I don't even care if they respect me. I know who I am; I got enough respect for myself. But I do not want them to beat me.”

Rachel took his hand and grasped it fiercely. “They are never going to beat you.”

He sighed. “They're taking their best shot. I don't want you coming tomorrow. I don't want you to watch that, them beating me.”

She just gripped his hand tighter. “Wherever you are, I am, too. Look at me, Jack.” He did, though reluctantly. “I have to watch. So our hearts don't break. Plus, I already bought a scorecard.” She held it up. His name was the only one filled in. “And I put your name on it. See? Jack Robinson.”

He laughed and reached out for her other hand, twirling her around.

“I did good the day I met you,” he told her.

Rachel grinned up at him. “Baby, you hit a home run.”

The next day, the Phillies scored a run at the top of the first. Jackie stepped up to bat in the bottom half. And sure enough, Chapman was there to bait him.

“Hey, porch monkey!” he called. “Hey, Robinson! Hey, boy! You know why you're here?”

Motion from the Dodgers dugout caught Jackie's eye, and he turned in time to see Stanky launching himself forward. The fiery little guy headed straight for Chapman, who was still talking.

“You're here to draw those nigger dollars at the gate for Rickey!” he was saying. Then he spotted Stanky coming toward him full tilt.

“Sit down,” Jackie heard Stanky snarl as he closed the distance. “Sit down, or I'll sit you down.”

“What's the problem, Stank?” Chapman asked.

“You're the problem, you disgrace!” Stanky replied, his voice carrying across the field. “What kind of man are you? You know he can't fight! Pick on someone who can fight!”

The two of them glared at each other for a minute. Finally, Chapman threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Jesus.” He returned to his dugout, and, suddenly free from distraction, Jackie hit a strong single.

Reiser was next, and he banged out a home run. Jackie jogged around the bases. When he reached the dugout, he sought out Stanky and plopped down next to him.

“Thanks,” he told the second baseman.

Stanky shook his head. “For what? You're on my team. What am I supposed to do?” He rose to his feet and walked away, but not without muttering, “I gotta look in the mirror, too.”

Jackie watched him go, and smiled. Today was turning out to be a pretty good day.

R
ickey was sitting in his office, watching rain beat down against the windows, when Parrott rushed in. The younger man was soaking wet and clutching a newspaper he'd evidently cradled to keep from being destroyed. As he dropped into a chair, Rickey saw that it was the sports section of the
Herald Tribune
.

“The news isn't good, sir,” Parrott warned.

Ricky sighed and leaned back in his chair. Things had been going reasonably well, lately. Dixie Walker continued to shun Jackie, but wasn't letting it interfere with his performance, and Rickey had just managed to trade the still-hostile Higbe to Pittsburgh for a bit of money and an Italian outfielder named Gionfriddo. Ah, well. He realized Parrott was waiting on him, and smiled. “Nevertheless it must be accepted calmly, Harold. What is it?”

Parrott held up the newspaper so his boss could see the headline: “PLAYERS STRIKE.” “ ‘A National League players' strike,' ” he read out loud, “ ‘instigated by some of the Saint Louis Cardinals against the presence of Negro first baseman Jackie Robinson has been averted temporarily and perhaps permanently quashed.' ” They both knew, though, that for it to have been started in the first place was a bad sign. And the Dodgers were playing the Cardinals next!

Rickey shook his head. “Madness! What are they thinking?”

Parrott didn't have any answers for him. The rain continued to beat down, but now it sounded more like something dark banging against the door, trying to find a way in.

Smith was waiting under an umbrella when the Cardinals pulled up to the Manhattan Hotel in their team bus. When the doors opened, the first person off was the manager, Eddie Dyer.

“Eddie,” Smith called out, “what's all this talk about your Cardinals refusing to play?”

Dyer sneered at him. “We're here, aren't we? We didn't come to New York to go to Macy's.”

Right behind Dyer was Big Joe Garagiola, but all he said was “get lost” as he shoved past Smith. Stan Musial was a little more agreeable.

“This is big-league baseball, not English tea,” he told Smith. “Couple a' guys might've popped off; it's hot air.”

But Smith saw the glares from many of the other players, and knew it was a lot more than that.

Jackie sat at the training table, tending to his bat. The Dodgers had held practice despite the rain, and he didn't want his wood to warp. He was wiping it down with rubbing alcohol when Rickey came in and sat down beside him, holding a newspaper.

“National League president Frick says this is America, and baseball is America's game,” Rickey declared, waving the rolled-up newspaper. “He says one citizen has as much right to play as another.” A clap of thunder sounded outside, and Rickey winced as he continued, “Baseball will go on as planned once the rain stops.”

Jackie eyed his bat rather than the man next to him. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Rickey?”

Rickey laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Because my job is to win,” he answered. “I have an obligation to Brooklyn to put the best team on the field that I can. Your presence on the roster increases our chances of winning.”

Now Jackie did glance up. “If this is winning,” he said, “I'd hate to see us on a losing streak.” The thing was, the Dodgers had been winning more games than not. But he didn't believe for a second that was Rickey's only reason for bringing him onto the team.

Outside, the rain continued.

Some of the other players were still in the locker room, changing into their street clothes, when Jackie gathered his things for a shower. He overheard Branca reading Reese something from the
New York Post
.

“Listen to this,” Branca said. “ ‘Right now Robinson is the loneliest man I have ever seen in sports.' ” He threw the paper down. “Who's this guy to say Jackie's lonely?” he demanded. “He doesn't wear it on his sleeve. Man's got a fantastic game face. Take no prisoners. How does some reporter know how he feels?” Jackie thought he heard respect in his teammate's voice.

They quieted as Jackie walked past, but both Branca and Reese nodded to him. Walker, who stood beside them, did not. But that was nothing new.

“Lonely?” Branca commented after Jackie had passed. “I say it's the best game face in the world.”

Just as he turned the water on, Jackie heard Walker reply: “So long as he showers lonely, he can have whatever face he wants.”

The next day, the rain finally let up and the fields dried enough for them to play. Rachel was there in the stands, as always. And just a few rows in front of her, two men sat insulting her husband.

“Look, there he is!” the first one said, pointing to where Jackie stood at first. “Black as the ace of spades!”

His buddy shook his head. “You believe that? A genuine nigger in a Dodger uniform.”

Rachel winced, but brightened a little when a Brooklyn fan leaned across the aisle and told them, “Shut up and go back to Saint Louis!”

Undeterred, the first Saint Louis fan exclaimed, “Hey, you got a nigger on your team!”

“So what?” the Dodgers fan replied. “He's better than anyone you got!”

“Wait till his cousin wants your job!” the second Saint Louis fan warned. “Don't you know nothing?”

The Dodgers fan waved that off. “Don't you?”

The first Saint Louis fan was staring out at the field again. “He's a nigger!” he said again, as if he still couldn't believe it. “Hey, black boy!”

Rachel stared straight ahead, her back straight, and tried to ignore them. But it was hard to do through the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Meanwhile, the Dodgers had come up to bat and Jackie had stepped up to the plate.

“Watch this guy!” the Cardinals catcher, Garagiola, shouted down to third. “He can't hit! Especially the curve! He can only get on base bunting!” That was a particularly sharp insult to any solid hitter, no matter what color his skin, but Jackie ignored him and dug in. “Take your time, Robinson,” Garagiola muttered to him. “You're digging your own grave.”

Big Red Munger fired the pitch, and Jackie scooted back to avoid getting hit. There was a reason his bat had a thicker handle than most — the ball came at his chest and hands so often, he needed the extra width there to knock them away.

Trying to take his mind off that, he asked the catcher, “What's your average, Joe?” as he edged onto the plate again.

“It'd be a lot higher than yours, if I could run as fast as you can,” Garagiola admitted.

Jackie laughed. “No matter how fast you run, you'll never hit as much as you weigh.”

The catcher didn't like that much. “C'mon, Munger!” he called to the pitcher. “Boy's got a hole in his bat!”

Munger threw inside again, but this time Jackie was ready for it. He fell back, and stroked a double into the gap between first and second. How was that for getting on base?

On the bus home that night, Rachel stared out the window. “Oh, Jack,” she said sadly.

He put his arm around her. “What is it, Rae?”

“Nothing. It's just, sometimes when I sit up there with those loudmouths in the stands, I know you can hear them.”

Jackie gave her a hug. “Don't worry. It's okay.”

But she shook her head. “No, it's not okay. I can hear them, too.”

Jackie looked at her, then moved his arm so he could take her hand in his. “I know. I'm sorry for that.”

Rachel squeezed his hand back. “We're in this together. When they start in on you, you know what I do? I try to sit up straight.”

He studied her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Straight as I can. I got it in my head that I can block it from you, some of it, if I sit up straight.” She gave him a sad little smile. “Isn't that dumb?”

Jackie stroked her hand. “It worked. I didn't hear a thing.”

She tried to smile for real, but tears rolled down her cheeks and she just couldn't manage it. Jackie leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“They're just ignorant,” he told her.

Rachel gazed up at him. “If they knew you, they'd be ashamed.” She wrapped her arms around him.