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“Robinson!” the talent scout and coach called. Then he tossed something over. Jackie caught it reflexively, then glanced down, recognizing the feel of worn leather. It was a first baseman's glove.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Jackie asked.

Sukeforth raised an eyebrow. “Play first base,” he answered, as if that were obvious.

Jackie shook his head. “I've never played first base in my life, Coach.”

“Well, it's like this,” the coach explained. “Brooklyn's got a solid second baseman. And they got Pee Wee Reese at short. But first base is up for grabs.” He broke into a big, warm, friendly smile. “Are you catching my drift?”

Jackie nodded. “Yeah. I don't need a glove to do that.”

Sukeforth ambled over to the dugout and grabbed a bucket of baseballs and a bat. Then he returned to home plate and started hitting grounders out to Jackie. At first, Jackie had trouble catching the wicked little hops, and he fumbled his tosses to the little Panamanian kids who had appeared from nowhere and taken up residence at second and third. But after a few rounds, Jackie felt he was starting to get the hang of it.

“Mr. Rickey said he wants you playing conspicuous baseball!” Sukeforth explained as he hit ball after ball toward Jackie. “To be so good the Dodgers'll demand you on the team! So I thought about it awhile and then I looked up
conspicuous
in the dictionary. It means ‘to attract notice or attention.' ”

On that last hit, Jackie dove and snagged the ball, then fired it to second, almost knocking the kid off the bag from the force of his throw. That was more like it! He looked over at Sukeforth, who paused and tilted back his cap.

Then the coach grinned and gave him a big thumbs-up. “Conspicuous.”

“Bragan,” Rickey said, staring at the catcher across his desk at the Tivoli Hotel, “most of your teammates have recanted on this petition nonsense. Are you really here to tell me you don't want to play with Robinson?”

“Yes, sir,” Bragan answered. “My friends back in Birmingham would never forgive me.”

“And your friends here in Brooklyn?” Rickey asked. But Bragan just shrugged. “Then I will accommodate you.” He frowned and sharpened his tone. “If you give me your word that you will try your very best for this team until I can work out a trade.”

Apparently, Bragan didn't much like the suggestion that he might slack off, because he jumped up from his chair and pounded both hands on the desk. “Do you think I would quit on anyone?” he demanded. “I don't quit.”

Rickey stared him down, only the edge in his voice showing his anger — or his disgust. “Only on yourself, apparently,” he snapped. “You can go, Bragan.”

Jackie was getting better and better at playing first base, but he was still the second baseman for Montreal. And second was where he played that afternoon when they practiced against the Dodgers. Dixie Walker was on first when the batter hit the ball straight toward short. Their shortstop snagged it on the hop, then tossed it to Jackie as Walker barreled toward him.

His feet solidly on second, Jackie knew Walker was done. He fired the ball to first, aiming to beat the runner there. He was so focused on that, he didn't even realize that Walker hadn't stopped until the other man slammed into him just as the ball left his hand. They went down together in a tangle, but Jackie didn't care. He glanced up, as did Walker, both of them looking to first — where the Montreal player was standing pretty and grinning. The Dodgers player, on the other hand, was walking away, cursing up a blue streak.

Jackie smiled at that. Beside him, Walker scowled. But so what? That was the game. Jackie didn't hold it against Walker. The Dodger had tried to rattle him, make him throw wild so the runner could get safely to first even if he himself was already out at second. It hadn't worked, but Jackie didn't fault him for trying. He'd have done the same.

“I received your letter, Dixie,” Rickey told Walker as they sat in his office. He lifted it from his desk and read aloud: “ ‘Recently, the thought has occurred to me that a change of ball clubs would benefit both the Brooklyn Baseball Club and myself.' ”

Setting the letter down, Rickey asked bluntly, “This is about Robinson?”

But Walker wasn't a hothead like Bragan. “I'm keeping my reasons private,” he answered slowly. “Hope you can respect that, sir.”

Rickey sighed. “I realize, Dixie, that you have a Southern upbringing, that you would have to subordinate your feelings for the welfare of this venture. I, for one, would deeply appreciate it. I think we can all learn something.” He liked Walker, always had — the man was a solid hitter, a good fielder, and a team player. He didn't want to lose him.

But Walker shook his head. “What I have, Mr. Rickey, is a hardware store back home. It's called Dixie Walker's. Folks don't come because I have the lowest prices, they come because it's called Dixie Walker's. Understand? And I make as much money owning that store as I do playing for you.”

Rickey studied him. “Is that what you're afraid of?” Walker didn't respond. “Bragan's a third-stringer,” Rickey tried again, “but you bat cleanup. You're popular in Brooklyn. Children look up to you!”

Walker didn't say anything to that. Instead he said simply, “You got my letter. Can I go?”

Rickey sighed, but nodded. “I'll start looking for a trade or a sale. But it won't happen until I get value in return. Until then I expect you to drive in runs.”

The other man rose to his feet. “I always have,” he replied with quiet dignity. “That's my job.”

Rickey watched him go. That was a shame. But if Walker was the only good player he lost over this, he'd count himself lucky. And if he got Robinson in return, he knew he would still come out on top.

I
t was late at night on April 8 when Jackie exited Penn Station. He was tired, grumpy, and more than a little confused. Coach Sukeforth had told him that he was wanted up here in New York, that Mr. Rickey wanted to talk to him in person, but hadn't said what it was about. A part of Jackie wondered if he was getting cut, but that didn't make much sense — they could have told him that down in Panama! Coach had refused to say any more, and Jackie had traveled all the way up here worrying over it and trying to puzzle it out, with no success.

Now he stepped out of the station, his suitcases in hand, and looked around. He didn't know New York City at all, wasn't sure where to find a good hotel, but figured he could hail a cab and ask the driver to take him someplace decent and not too pricey. Yet as he took in the people bustling about and the tall buildings everywhere, he spotted a very familiar Buick.

And there, leaning against it, was Wendell Smith.

“You again,” Jackie muttered, stomping toward the reporter.

Smith blinked at him. “That's right, me again. Something wrong with that, Jack?”

Jackie shrugged. Truth to tell, he had no real reason to dislike Smith — the man had only ever been kind and polite to him. But Jackie hated having to rely on somebody else. At least with a cab he'd be paying the driver, so he wasn't getting help, he was getting service. But Smith giving him a ride? That was different.

He didn't say any of that, however. He'd never been much of a talker, except sometimes with Rae. Instead he just grumbled, “Come on,” and stepped around Smith to toss his luggage into the backseat.

“Yes, suh!” Smith replied. He saluted Jackie, and the pair took off.

As they drove through the Manhattan traffic — heavy even at this late hour — Jackie could feel Smith glancing over at him every so often. Finally, the reporter spoke:

“They can't keep you on Montreal for long. After these exhibition games, they've got to bring you up.” He let that hang in the air for a second, but Jackie didn't much feel like talking. “You don't have two words to rub together, do you?”

“Do I have to entertain you?” Jackie snapped. He regretted it immediately, but he wasn't about to admit that. Instead he folded his arms over his chest and glared out the window.

Next to him, Smith sighed. “You ever wonder why I sit out in right field with my typewriter on my knees?” he asked. “Does that ever cross your mind?”

Jackie just stared at the skyscrapers as they slid past.

That didn't slow Smith down one bit, though. “It's because Negro reporters aren't allowed in the press box.”

That hadn't occurred to Jackie, and now he felt horrible for never asking. Of course Smith had to type on his lap. Why hadn't he realized that? And now he was too embarrassed to apologize.

After a few minutes, Smith shook his head. Then, in a deep, gravelly voice Jackie guessed was supposed to be him, Smith declared, “You know, Wendell, I never asked you where you were from?”

“Why, I'm from Detroit, Jack,” Smith answered in his own voice.

He switched back to his Jackie impersonation. “You don't say? Tell me more.”

Jackie shook his head and tried to block it all out, all the chatter, but he could still hear Smith's explanation loud and clear:

“My daddy used to work at Fair Lane. That was Mr. Ford's estate. My daddy was Mr. Henry Ford's cook.”

As “Jackie,” he frowned. “I did not know that.”

“Oh, yes.” Smith nodded. “Cooked for him for years, but never once broke bread with him. I'd go to work with Daddy sometimes. Play baseball out on the lawn with Mr. Ford's grandchildren. We all had a real good time. But it was understood, if they got tired of playing ball and moved inside to the bowling alley or swimming pool, I was not invited or allowed. The grass was as far as I got. So, guess what? You're not the only one with something at stake here.”

Jackie thought about that. “If I start talking, will you stop?” he asked.

Smith laughed. “I'd be happy to.”

He stopped at a red light, and Jackie turned to face him more fully. “I apologize,” he told Smith. “You've supported me through this more than anyone besides Rae and Mr. Rickey. But I guess that's what bothers me.”

He could hear the other man's uncertainty, so like his own. “How do you mean?”

Jackie braced himself for the truth. “I don't like needing help. I don't like needing anyone but myself. I never have.”

Smith sighed. “You are a hard case, Jack Robinson. Is it okay if I keep driving you, or should I let you out so you can walk?”

Startled, Jackie glanced around, taking in the hordes of people still up at this hour, running this way and that. He had absolutely no idea where anything outside this car was, how to get anywhere, whom to ask for directions.

Finally, he started laughing. After a minute, so did Smith. They both sat there for a minute chuckling, the tension between them finally swept away.

“Hey,” Jackie said suddenly. “You remember the last time we were at a red light? Down in Florida?”

Smith laughed. “New York City now, baby. We've come a long way.”

Jackie just nodded and craned his neck to peer up at the stars and the tall, gleaming buildings shutting them out. “And we got a long way to go.”

Smith smiled and gave the Buick a little more gas, and they shot off into the night.

The next morning, Rickey sat in his office, clutching that morning's edition of the
New York Sun
. Parrott listened as Rickey read aloud from an article that had incensed him.

“ ‘Branch Rickey cannot afford to upset team chemistry, and so the only thing keeping Robinson off the Dodgers now, plainly, is the attitude of the players. If it softens at the sight of Jackie's skills, he'll join the club sometime between April tenth and April fifteenth. Otherwise, Robinson will spend the year back in Montreal.' ”

Rickey hurled the paper down onto his desk. “For the love of Pete,” he shouted. “He batted six twenty-five in the exhibition games against them . . . us . . . them — against us! Judas Priest!”

In the outer office, he heard the phone ring, but he ignored it. His secretary, Jane Ann, would handle it. That was what he paid her for, after all.

“Maybe you could have Durocher hold a press conference,” Parrott suggested. “Demand that he get Robinson on his team.”

Rickey calmed down a little. “Durocher. Of course; he's my ace in the hole. Very good, Harold.” He knew there'd been a reason he'd stolen Harold away from the newspapers to be the Dodgers' traveling secretary. He was a good man, and a sharp one. And he was right. Durocher could handle this for them.

The phone was still ringing, Rickey realized, and he glanced toward his door. “Jane Ann!” he called. “Are you out there?” No one answered — perhaps she'd taken a bathroom break or run out to get a coffee. Well, the ringing was driving him mad, so there was nothing for it — Rickey leaned over and grabbed up the phone on his desk. “Branch Rickey,” he announced into the receiver. “You're speaking to him . . . the commissioner of what? Oh, yes, put him on.” He dropped back into his chair and looked over at Parrott. “The commissioner of baseball.”

“Branch, how are you?” Rickey could almost see Happy Chandler through the phone — the commissioner was a big, cheerful man with a large, flat head, hair carefully parted in the middle, and an ever-present jovial smile. But behind that smile he was all business, and Rickey could already guess he wasn't calling with good news.

Still, it was important to mind his manners, so he answered, “Fine. What can I do for you, Happy?”

“Branch,” Happy said, as casually as if he were calling to talk about the weather, “how would you feel about losing Durocher for a year?”

What?
Rickey frowned and switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I'm sorry, Happy, I thought you said ‘lose Durocher for a year.' ”

“I did,” the commissioner replied. “He was seen in Havana with known gamblers.”

Rickey laughed. “Anyone who sets foot in Havana is seen with known gamblers.” Which was true, though he knew Durocher was worse about it than most. He was a great coach, but he did like his card games. Among other amusements.

“It's not just one thing,” Happy explained, “it's an accumulation. I received notice today from the Catholic Youth Organization, vowing a ban on baseball unless Durocher is punished for his moral looseness.”

“You're joking.” But Rickey could tell he wasn't. And he had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

Sure enough, Happy continued, “It's this business with the actress in California. She's recently divorced and Durocher is the cause. They may even be illegally married.”

Rickey shook his head. “Now I'm sure you're joking.” What was Durocher thinking? He'd tried to warn the man about seeing that actress, but did Leo listen? Of course not!

“I wish I were,” Happy said. He sounded as insincere as ever, though. Rickey knew that the commissioner had never been one of Durocher's biggest fans. It didn't help that Happy was a good friend of Larry MacPhail, the new Yankees owner — and that MacPhail and Durocher had been trading insults ever since the Yankees had stolen away two of their coaches. Leo had some pretty choice words for MacPhail, and now it looked like MacPhail may have called on his buddy to help him even the score. Though it apparently wasn't just about that feud, as Happy was quick to point out. “The CYO buy a lot of tickets, Branch. They draw a lot of water, and I can't afford to ruffle their feathers. Am I mixing metaphors there?”

Rickey sighed. “You know very well my organization is about to enter a tempest,” he admitted to Happy. “I need Durocher at the rudder. He's the only man who can handle this much trouble — who loves it, in fact. You're chopping off my right hand!”

But his plea fell on deaf ears. “I have no choice,” Happy claimed. “I'm going to have to sit your manager, Branch. Leo Durocher is suspended from baseball for a year.”

“You can't do that!” Rickey hollered into the phone, finally losing his temper. “Happy, you —” But he was talking to a dial tone. Rickey steadied himself, then glanced up at Parrott. “Trouble ahead, Harold,” he told his employee. “Trouble.”

Still, Rickey wasn't about to let losing Durocher derail his plans. That was why, the following morning, the ring of a phone woke Jackie in his hotel room.

“Hello?” he said after grasping for the receiver and getting it somewhere near his mouth.

“Mr. Robinson,” a woman replied, sounding far too awake for this early in the morning. “It's Jane Ann, in Mr. Rickey's office. He needs to see you right away. He has a contract for you to sign.”

That woke Jackie up in a hurry!

An hour later, he was sitting in Rickey's office, which looked the same as it had three years before. Even the goldfish were still there. He was staring at them when Rickey entered, carrying a contract in his hands. He set it down on the desk in front of Jackie and handed him a pen.