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The offhanded comment, and the casual, everyday tone of it, stunned Rickey more than the play had, and it took him a second to process it. He'd known that Hopper was originally from Mississippi, but had just assumed his time in Montreal had worn away any rough edges from his childhood. Finally, however, Rickey found his voice again and said, “Clay, I realize that attitude is part of your heritage, that you practically nursed race prejudice at your mother's breast, so I will let it pass. But I will add this: You can manage Robinson fairly and correctly, or you can be unemployed.”

Hopper didn't reply directly. He didn't even give any sign he'd heard his boss's reprimand. But as Jackie headed off the field toward them, he called out, “Attaboy, Jackie! Way to turn two!”

Rickey nodded. That would do.

Late that night, the phone rang in Rickey's hotel room. He sat up and answered, listening for a second as the caller identified himself. “Yes, Wendell, what is it?”

“A guy just stopped by the Brocks' house,” Smith explained hurriedly. “Said there were fellas coming who weren't too happy about Jackie's being here. About him playing with white boys. And that it'd be best if we weren't here when they arrived.”

Rickey frowned, though there was no one there to notice it. “I see. Yes, I understand. Wake him up and get him out of there. Put him in the car and start driving for Daytona Beach. Now. And, Wendell, under no circumstance tell him what this is about. I do not want him to get it in his head to stay there and fight.”

After they hung up, Rickey shook his head, then sighed and rose to his feet. He knew he wasn't likely to get any more sleep that night.

Back at the Brocks', Jackie sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed and only half-awake. Through his door he could see Smith in his own room across the hall, quickly packing his things.

“I was just getting loose,” Jackie muttered to himself, shaking his head. He couldn't believe the dream was over that quickly.

Smith stuck his head in the doorway. “Don't just sit there; pack your duds. We're blowin'.”

A phone rang somewhere downstairs. They heard Brock answer, then call up, “Wendell?”

Smith headed down, and Jackie listened as the sportswriter took the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Rickey,” he heard Smith say, “I'm with him now. We're pulling out for Daytona in five minutes, soon as he gets his bag packed. Yes, yes, it's just one of those things.”

Jackie hung his head. “One of those things.” Not to him, it wasn't.

They left quickly, barely pausing to thank the Brocks for their hospitality. The road was quiet at this time of night, with only a few bars still open. One of those stood at a street corner, and as they braked to a stop, Jackie saw a pickup idling there in its parking lot. A dozen men in shirtsleeves emerged from the bar to speak with the men in the truck. Then one of them glanced up and spotted the Buick and its passengers. He marched over, gesturing for Jackie to roll down the window.

“I wonder what he wants?” Jackie said aloud, already reaching for the window crank.

“To run us out of town,” Smith answered.

Jackie turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

The man was close now, and Jackie had the window open a crack when Smith suddenly floored it, sending the Buick shooting away with a loud screech. Another car was coming from the other direction, and Smith had to swerve to keep from hitting it.

“Seriously, Wendell?” Jackie found he was shaking a little.

Smith let out a breath, checked the mirror, and slowed down. “Man came by while you were asleep,” he explained. “Told us more men were coming. Maybe those boys. Mr. Rickey said to get you to Daytona Beach ASAP.”

Jackie stared at him. “Why didn't you say so?”

Smith shrugged. “Mr. Rickey was afraid you wouldn't leave, that you'd want to fight.”

Instead of getting angry, Jackie started to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Smith demanded, his own fear making him snappish.

It took a second for Jackie to control himself enough to answer. “I thought you woke me because I was cut from the team.”

After a second, Smith started laughing with him. But as they drove on and the irony faded, Jackie found himself glancing back over his shoulder.
How much worse can it get?
he wondered.

A
few days later, the City Island Ball Park hosted a game between the Dodgers and the Royals. Hundreds of people, a large portion of Daytona Beach's black community, turned out to see Jackie play.

In the Dodgers dugout, Rickey munched on a bag of peanuts and gave voice to his thoughts, with only the team's batboy to hear them.

“I've spoken to the mayor,” he told the boy. “I've explained how much money we'll spend in Daytona. But still, when this fine young Negro man steps on that field today, he and the Dodgers will technically be breaking the law. A law which says white and black players cannot enjoy the same field at the same time. Does that make sense to you? Does Jim Crow make any sense when placed against the words of the United States Constitution? When placed against the word of God?” He shook his head. “I'll tell you, it does not make sense to me.”

The young batboy wisely didn't say anything at all.

Jackie stood in the on-deck circle, swinging two bats to loosen up. He watched as the Montreal batter ahead of him hit a line drive, and Pee Wee Reese sprang into the air like a bullet to take it down. No question about it, he was playing in the big leagues now.

As he stepped up to the plate, the announcer called out the words he'd been waiting to hear, “Now batting, the second baseman — Jackie Robinson!”

There was a mix of cheers and boos from the white sections, but the packed black section offered him a standing ovation, and Jackie couldn't help but smile as he took his place and raised his bat.

“Come on, black boy,” someone called from the white sections, “you can make the grade!”

Another added, “They're giving you a chance! Do something about it!”

Jackie nodded. He could do this. He concentrated on Higbe's first pitch — then had to jerk out of the way to avoid getting hit by it.

Bragan, the catcher, chucked the ball back. Jackie could feel the man looking up at him, but refused to take his eyes off the mound. He remembered Bragan's and Higbe's jokes that first day, but he wasn't going to think about that now. He was here to play.

Higbe fired again, even tighter than before, missing Jackie by an inch.

“Ball two!” the umpire called.

The third pitch was way outside, and Jackie didn't move a muscle as it sailed by. Ball three.

“Come on, rook!” Higbe taunted. “Ain't you gonna swing at something?”

Sure
, Jackie thought to himself.
Just give me something worth swinging at
. He took a practice swing to show Higbe he could, then got back into position and waited. This time, the pitch was too low. Ball four.

A cheer from the colored section followed him all the way to first — and then turned to stunned silence as Jackie took a deliberately large lead off the bag. Higbe stared at him for a second.

“Well, throw over there, for crying out loud!” the Dodgers coach, Leo Durocher, commanded from the dugout.

Higbe obeyed, firing a fastball to Lavagetto. Jackie dove back just in time.

When the pitcher turned away, Jackie took a lead off the bag again, though he settled for a more modest one this time. As soon as Higbe loosed the ball toward home, however, Jackie was off and running. Bragan saw him, of course, and hurled the ball to Pee Wee, but it was late and high and Jackie made it to the bag safely. He didn't even have to slide.

He could see that Higbe was upset as Pee Wee tossed the ball back to him. Well, too bad. And as soon as Higbe threw his next pitch, Jackie took off again, this time gunning for third. But Bragan's toss beat him there, and now Jackie was caught between players as the Dodgers tried to run him down. Good thing none of them had his speed! It was Higbe who finally came after him near the bag — and Jackie ducked under the attempted tag and managed to get a hand on third. Safe!

The entire stadium was buzzing now, and as he dusted himself off, Jackie could see Rickey pounding one fist into the other with excitement. He hoped the general manager felt he was getting his money's worth.

Jackie stepped off third as Higbe returned to the mound. How closely was the Dodgers pitcher watching him? He feinted toward home, and Higbe took a step toward him. Normally, a player who was on base would head back at that, but Jackie held his ground.

“You're supposed to go back to third when I step off!” Higbe shouted at him. “Don't you know nothing?” He threw the ball, but Jackie beat it back easily. Then, as soon as Higbe turned away, he stepped off again. He rocked back and forth, getting ready.

Apparently, his restlessness unsettled Higbe. The pitcher started his delivery, glanced around, caught a glimpse of Jackie bouncing on his feet — and dropped the ball. The umpire spotted it and signaled a balk. Then he pointed Jackie home.
Yes!

It wasn't the way Jackie had wanted to score, but he'd settle for throwing Higbe off his game. This time. The colored section went wild with cheering as he sauntered across home plate. “Look at me, Ma,” he whispered as he reached the dugout. “Playing baseball with the white boys. And scoring offa 'em, too! Not too shabby!”

A week later, though, Jackie wasn't having quite as good a time. The team was in DeLand, Florida, playing Indianapolis. It was the top of the first, no score, and Jackie had just dropped a bunt straight down the first base line. The first baseman fielded the ball too late to tag Jackie, so he tossed it to the second baseman — who was too far out to cover his own base. The ball sailed by him, so Jackie put his head down and made it to second base safely. It was a bunt double, and the packed colored section went wild.

Spider Jorgensen was up to bat next and cracked a single out to left field. Jackie took the opportunity to race to third — and there was Sukeforth, waving him home. Jackie wasn't about to argue.

He raced toward home plate, the catcher already bracing himself for the throw, but the ball wasn't in his glove yet when Jackie barreled into him and landed on the base. Safe!

But as he clambered back to his feet, Jackie found himself facing not an umpire but a cop. A big, angry cop who grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Git offa this field now!” the cop bellowed at him.

Jackie stared at him. “What? Why?”

“It's against the law is why,” the cop snarled back. “Niggers don't play with no white boys. Git off or go to jail.”

Jackie shrugged the policeman's hand off his shoulder, and the cop reached for his nightstick just as Sukeforth joined them.

“You swing that thing, you better hit me between the eyes with it,” Jackie warned, balling his fists. Promise or no promise, he wasn't about to stand meekly while somebody tried to beat him down.

The cop narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?” The booing from the stands — most, but not all of it from the black section — almost drowned him out.

Just then, Hopper burst from the dugout. “Hey, hold on,” he demanded, “what'd he do wrong?”

“We ain't havin' Nigras mix with white boys in this town,” the cop informed him coldly. “Ya'll ain't up-states now; they gotta stay separate. Brooklyn Dodgers ain't changin' our way of living. Where are y'all from, anyhow?”

“Greenwood, Mississippi,” Hopper answered.

The cop sneered down at him. “You oughta know better. Now tell your Nigra I said to git. You think I'm foolin'?”

Hopper looked over at Jackie, who hadn't budged. Now what?

“What did you do?” Rachel asked breathlessly. It was evening now, and the Robinsons were taking a walk before dinner. Jackie had been telling her the story, since she hadn't made it to the game that day.

He shook his head — and then he grinned. “I said, ‘Okay, Skipper, tell him Ah'm a-gittin'. Sho'nuff, Ah is.' ”

Rachel laughed delightedly, one hand going to her mouth. “You didn't?”

“I did. Then I took a long shower.” His grin faded. “We lost two to one.”

Seeing his mood darken, Rachel took several exaggeratedly slow steps. “Ah'm a-gittin',” she drawled, “Ah'm a-gittin'.”

That did it, and he laughed, taking her hand again and pulling her close. “You're not getting away from me,” he warned playfully.

Rachel smiled, but then she happened to glance over his shoulder. A white man had appeared on the far side of the street, and he was making a beeline for them. “Jack . . .”

Jackie turned, spotted the man, and quickly shifted around, putting Rachel behind him. “Get back, Rae. Go back.” His whole body was tense, coiled and ready for action.

The man, clearly a local, stopped right in front of Jackie and stared at him. “I want you to know something,” he announced in a thick Florida drawl.

“Yeah?” Jackie asked. “What's that?”

The man smiled. “I want you to know I'm pulling for you to make good. And a lot of folks here feel the same way. If a man's got the goods, he deserves a fair chance. That's all.” Then he tipped his hat to Rachel. “Ma'am.”

“Well, how about that?” Jackie said softly as they watched the man leave. “How do you like that?”

Rachel smiled. “I like it just fine.”