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The training season sped past, and soon enough Rickey found himself leaning against his car on the last day, watching a groundskeeper mow the infield grass. He looked up as Jackie joined him. It felt strange to see the young ballplayer in street clothes after so many weeks in uniform.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Rickey?” Jackie asked.

Rickey nodded. He glanced back out over the training field. “Bermuda grass grows so well here,” he remarked. “I wish we could get it to grow like this in Brooklyn.”

Beside him, Jackie nodded. “I like the way it smells when they mow it.”

“Me, too.” Rickey considered the field a moment, then turned back to Jackie. “Jackie, it's my pleasure to tell you that you've earned a spot on the Montreal Royals. When they head north Tuesday for opening day against Jersey City, you'll be on the train.”

Jackie nodded, but Rickey could tell he was trying to contain his excitement. He was still so young!

“I won't let you down,” Jackie promised after a minute.

Rickey smiled and offered his hand. “I know that.”

They shook, and then Jackie stepped away. “If you don't mind, I've got to go tell my wife.”

Rickey nodded. “Give her my regards.” He hadn't spent much time with Rachel Robinson, but what he had seen of her he admired. She was poised, graceful, smart, and supportive — exactly what Jackie needed. And it was obvious the young couple doted on each other.

Jackie had only gone a few paces before he glanced back. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Rickey?” he asked.

“I'm an opportunist,” Rickey replied easily. “With you and the Negro players I hope to bring up next year, I'll put together a team that can win the World Series. And the World Series means money.” As he paused, he caught the frown that flashed across Jackie's face. “Don't you believe that?”

“I don't think what I believe is important,” Jackie answered after a moment. “Only what I do.”

Rickey nodded. “Agreed. Now worry those pitchers until they come apart. Sometimes they'll catch you, but don't worry about that. Ty Cobb got caught plenty. Just run as you see fit. Put the natural fear of God into them.”

Jackie smiled. “I can do that.”

As Jackie walked away, Rickey smiled as well. “Yes, you can,” he agreed.

A
pril 18, 1946. A clear, beautiful day in Jersey City. Perfect for opening day of the International League season. Thirty thousand fans had packed into Roosevelt Stadium, filling it to capacity and beyond. Several thousand of those were black, and up here in the North they sat anywhere they could afford, not segregated into Colored and White sections. Flags and banners decorated the stadium, and everyone was in a festive mood. Except, perhaps, for the nervous young man stepping up to the plate.

Jackie was still unable to believe he was really here. Playing baseball in the minor leagues! The
white
minor leagues! He heard a few boos as he raised his bat, but there were a lot more cheers, and a lot more shouts of encouragement than catcalls.

“Come on, Jackie!” one fan yelled from the stands. “This fella can't pitch!”

Jackie smiled and raised his bat, but he was still unable to focus. He connected on the first pitch, but not well, knocking a weak grounder almost right into the shortstop's glove. He ran for first anyway, but the toss beat him there by a mile.
Not the best start
, he thought as he turned and jogged back toward the dugout. Still, it was only the first inning.

Up in the stands, over by third, Rachel sat next to Smith, who held his typewriter balanced on his lap, ready and waiting. But Jackie's first at bat was hardly something worth writing about. Smith gathered that Rachel felt the same way — she looked ill, and held a hand up to her mouth.

“You okay?” he asked her. He'd come to like Rachel Robinson. He liked her husband, too, even if he was prickly most of the time.

Normally, Rachel would have waved off his concern, but not this time. “I think I might be sick,” she admitted, rising to her feet. “Excuse me, Wendell.” She carefully made her way along the row, toward the nearest exit.

Smith watched her go. “I'd be sick at a swing like that, too,” he muttered, looking to where Jackie had just slumped onto the bench. Smith knew the newest Montreal player had to be anxious, which explained his poor showing just now. It wasn't a surprise that his pretty, young wife had a case of the nerves to match.

Rachel knew it was more than nerves, and made it to the ladies' room just in time. After emptying her stomach, she stepped to the sink and splashed some water on her face. An older black woman at the next sink watched her, sympathy written in every line of her face.

“Are you all right, honey?” she asked.

Rachel shook her head. “I'm sick. I don't know why.” She'd actually been feeling nauseous and light-headed for several days now, but she hadn't wanted to say anything. Jackie was under enough pressure as it was.

The woman handed her a paper towel, and Rachel thanked her. “It may be that you're pregnant,” the older lady suggested. She smiled, patted Rachel on the arm, and then left her alone with her thoughts.

Rachel stared at herself in the mirror. Pregnant? Now? When Jackie was just starting out here? What would he say? What would they do?

But she felt a flutter of excitement, too. She was pregnant!

Rachel stepped out onto the runway leading back to the seats just as the announcer called, “Now batting — Jackie Robinson!” Hurrying her steps, Rachel reached the end of the tunnel and stopped, looking out over the railing across the field. There he was, standing tall at home plate, bat in hand. He looked confident and in control, and she could tell from here that he'd fought off his first-day jitters — his gaze was clear and sharp. Just seeing him there made her feel better. She stood and watched, one hand unconsciously grazing her belly, as he settled down and lifted the bat to his shoulder.

The pitcher peered over one shoulder at the Montreal runner on first, then over the other at the one on second. Then he turned his eyes back toward home plate. He tensed, his whole body coiled like a spring. And just as quickly, he unleashed all his energy, hurling the ball forward like a shot from a cannon. It was a high fastball — and Jackie caught it dead-on with a massive
CRACK!
The ball sailed across left field, out over the stands, before finally slamming into the scoreboard and bouncing away.

“Oh, Jack!” Rachel said softly, clapping her hands together. And she wasn't the only one. All around her, people were cheering and shouting and clapping as Jackie trotted around the bases. He wasn't in any hurry, especially with his two teammates making their way ahead of him. Both of them turned and waited for him once they'd crossed home plate, and shook his hand as he joined them. Rachel could see Jackie was beaming, and so was she. If ever there had been any doubts that this was the right place for him to be, they were gone now, erased like they had never existed. This was where he belonged, out on this field with these players — these white players, and maybe someday other black players, too.

“Oh, Jack!” Rachel said again as she turned back toward the tunnel. She started down it, trying to figure out how to best make her way down to her husband. He was going to be in a good mood — one she hoped would continue when he found out that a few months from now their lives might be changing again.

Rachel cried out from the delivery room of Huntington Memorial Hospital. It was November 18, and they had come back to Pasadena for their baby to be born — Jackie had declared that if California had been good enough for him and for her, it was good enough for their child. Labor pains stabbed through her abdomen, but soon enough they had passed, and she found the doctor offering her a wriggling little bundle, all scrunched-up face and wide, wailing mouth.

“Congratulations,” he told her happily. “It's a boy!”

Rachel held out her arms for her son, exhausted and happy.

That night, Jackie stood outside the maternity ward, looking in at his son. Jack Robinson Jr. lay nestled in his bassinet, swaddled carefully, his eyes closed in blissful, untroubled sleep. He was beautiful.

Jackie leaned against the glass and stared. He hadn't known many babies, but he couldn't imagine any of them being more perfect. He still remembered when Rachel had told him she was pregnant, right after that big hit in the game against Jersey City. He'd been on top of the world already, but finding out he was going to be a father? That had sent him truly soaring.

He was nervous, of course. It was a big responsibility. But Jackie knew one thing for certain: He was ready for it.

“My daddy left,” he said softly, as if Jackie Junior could hear him. “He left us flat in Cairo, Georgia. I was only six months older than you are now. I don't remember him. Nothing good, nothing bad. Nothing.” He spread his hand wide and pressed it against the glass. “But you're going to remember me,” he promised his newborn son. “And I am going to be with you until the day I die.”

Standing there, he remembered what Mr. Rickey had said to him, that first day in his office. “A man needs a family relying on him. It ensures he'll behave responsibly.” Jackie finally understood that. Because from now on, he knew everything he did would be to make his little boy proud. He hoped he could live up to that. He was definitely going to give it his absolute best shot.

T
wo months into the new year, on February 5, Rickey sat in the front row of a packed room at the Brooklyn YMCA, waiting for his turn to speak. Herbert Miller, a leading member of Brooklyn's black community and the executive secretary of the local YMCA, was introducing him, but Rickey was more interested in two deacons who sat nearby, whispering over the sports page.

“Look here what he did,” one of them said. He read from the paper: “ ‘Led the International League in batting: three forty-nine; in stolen bases: forty; runs scored: one hundred thirteen. Plus, batted four hundred in the Minor League World Series.' ”

But the other deacon shook his head. “Last season doesn't matter. The International League, it doesn't matter. What matters is this year. What matters is Brooklyn.” Rickey privately agreed.

Just then he heard Miller say, “I present the general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers Baseball Club, Mr. Branch Rickey!”

Rickey smiled, stood, and stepped forward, accepting the podium from Miller. Looking out at the crowd, he saw thirty or so men gathered before him, all of them important figures in the local black community. These were the people he'd come here to see. These were the people he had to reach tonight.

“Good evening,” he began. “I have something very important to talk with you about tonight. Something that will require courage from all of us.” He paused for a second. “I have a ballplayer on my Montreal farm team named Jackie Robinson.” That won him a burst of applause, but Rickey motioned them to silence. “He may stay there or he may be brought to Brooklyn. But if Jackie does come up to the Dodgers, the biggest threat to his success, the one enemy most likely to ruin that success, is the Negro people themselves!”

That caused a wave of stunned silence, followed by a few whispers — but not from the men in chairs. Glancing around, Rickey realized that there was a raised running track circling the room, and a group of boys were gathered there, eavesdropping. He bit back a smile. That was fine. The more people who heard him now, the better.

But he wasn't going to pull any punches, kids or no kids. “I say it as cruelly as I can,” he stated loudly, “to make you all consider the weight of responsibility that is felt not only by me and the Dodgers, but by Negroes everywhere. Because on the day Jackie enters the National League, if he ever does, I have no doubt every one of you will throw parades and form welcoming committees. You'll strut. You'll wear badges. You'll hold Jackie Robinson days and Jackie Robinson nights. You'll get drunk, fight, and get arrested.”

Now Rickey heard angry mutterings among the men as they registered those insults, but Rickey wasn't about to let that stop him. “You'll wine and dine him,” he accused, “until he is fat and futile. You'll turn his importance into a national comedy and, yes, a tragedy! So let me tell you this!” He pounded his fist on the lectern, underscoring the intensity of his desire to make this group see how crucial it was to avoid distracting Jackie from the game. “If any group or segment of Negro society uses the advancement of Jackie Robinson in baseball as a triumph of race over race, I will regret the day I ever signed him to a contract, and I will personally see to it that baseball is never so abused and misrepresented again!”

Having finished what he came to say, Rickey turned and walked off the small stage. He kept going, through the door and out into the hallway, where he leaned against the wall and let himself take several deep, gulping breaths. He had been harsh, yes, but had he gotten through to them? Did they understand? Could they see past their own hurt pride, past petty revenge, to what had to be done if Jackie Robinson was to have any career at all?

The sound of approaching footsteps made him straighten just as Miller stepped through the door and joined him. Miller didn't look pleased, exactly, but Rickey didn't think he looked furious, either.

They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Miller sighed and shook his head. “I question your bedside manner, Mr. Rickey,” he commented, “but they've agreed to set up a committee of self-policing. We'll call it the ‘Don't Spoil Jackie's Chances' campaign.”

Rickey nodded and offered his hand. They had listened after all! “Thank you, Mr. Miller,” he said. “I'm sorry; the spotlight will be on us.”

As they shook hands, Rickey allowed himself to feel a tiny twinkling of hope. This just might work after all!

Jackie stood in front of the cozy house on Pepper Street, holding his little boy and kissing him good-bye. After a second, he handed the cooing baby off to his mother, who received a kiss from Jackie as well before she headed back inside. As the cabbie carried his bags out to his taxi, Jackie turned to Rachel, alone at last.

“Promise me you'll write,” Rachel demanded. It killed her that she couldn't go to Florida with him this time, but Jackie Junior was still too young to travel that far safely. It would be better for him if they stayed here, with Jackie's mother. Better for him, but not for her.

Jackie gave her a smile. “When did I ever not write?” he asked gently.

But Rachel wasn't about to let him blow her off. “I want you to know I'm there for you,” she explained. “Even if it's words on paper.”

Jackie took her in his arms, holding her tight against his chest. “Rae, you're in my heart.” She could hear it thudding, as if confirming that was true.

Even so, she sighed. “You're getting close now,” she warned him. “The closer you get, the worse they'll be. Don't let them get to you.”

“I will not,” he promised. “God built me to last.”

He pulled back just far enough to kiss her, and she returned the kiss fiercely.

“See you in Brooklyn in eight weeks,” Rachel said when they finally broke for air.

Jackie frowned. “It might be Montreal.”

But Rachel didn't believe that, not for a second. “It's going to be Brooklyn,” she told him. “I know it is.”

Jackie nodded, though he didn't seem convinced. The taxi honked, and he glanced toward it, then back at her. “I've got to go, Rae.”

She nodded and hugged him one last time, then stood back and watched him head toward the waiting car. But she just couldn't let him go that easily. When after a second Jackie stopped and looked back at her, she flew toward him, and soon he was catching her in his arms, squeezing her tight. She didn't want to see him go, and she knew he didn't want to leave her. But he had to, at least for now.

“Go,” she told him. “I'll be right here for you. Go, and hit one out of the park for me.”

He smiled at her again, and it showered a warm glow of light upon her heart. “Rae, I'll hit every one out of the park for you.”