Jackie and Campy (10 page)

In October 1945 Effa Manley, owner of the Newark Eagles, offered Campanella the opportunity to earn some more money by playing in an exhibition series against a squad of barnstorming Major Leaguers. Campy had a few weeks before he was to leave for Venezuela, where he would barn
storm with a Negro League All-Star team, so he agreed to play. Manley’s Negro Leaguers lost the series, but Campanella played so well that he was approached by Charlie Dressen, a Dodgers coach who managed the Major League barnstormers. Unbeknown to the black catcher, Dressen and another Brooklyn coach, Clyde Sukeforth, had been scouting him for most of the season. Dressen informed Campanella that Branch Rickey wanted to see him the following morning at the Dodgers’ executive offices in New York.
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A few days later, when Campanella entered Rickey’s office, he was surprised to see the Dodgers’ president puffing on a cigar and poring through a thick loose-leaf binder filled with information about his personal and professional life. Looking up from his desk, Rickey greeted Campanella and then began his inquisition.

“What do you weigh?” he demanded.

“About 215,” replied Campy.

“Judas Priest!” roared Rickey. “You can’t weigh that much and play ball.”

Startled, Campanella paused to regroup. “All I know is that I’ve been doing it every day for years and it’s worked out fine.” Rickey, a brilliant actor, was trying to plant doubt in his visitor’s mind, hoping the tactic would make him more willing to sign.

“The one thing that puzzles me is your age,” he said, redirecting his remarks. “I have your age as 23. You sure this is your right age?”

Campanella had dropped out of high school at fifteen to begin his Negro League career, but his demeanor was that of a more seasoned veteran.

“Sure it’s my right age,” Campy insisted. “I’m 23. I was born November 19, 1921. I’ll be 24 next month.”

“You look older,” the Dodgers’ president retorted.

Campanella was noticeably annoyed. What right did Rickey have to question him about such personal matters? If he was interested in his ball playing, why didn’t he limit his investigation to his catching and hitting? “Mr. Rickey, I’ve been playing ball a long time,” he said in an abrupt way that indicated his patience had been exhausted.

Realizing the discomfort, Rickey came clean. “I’ve investigated dozens of players in the Negro Leagues,” he confessed. “I’ve tried to learn as much as I could about their personal habits, their family life, their early education, their social activities, practically everything there is to know about them. I know that you are a hard worker, and that you get along well with coaches and teammates. That’s why I brought you here.” Flattered by the compliment, the black catcher became less defensive.

“You like to play with me?” asked Rickey, taking a puff on his cigar.

Campanella had heard that the Dodgers’ executive was planning to start a Negro League team called the Brooklyn Brown Dodgers and assumed the offer applied to that club. “Mr. Rickey,” he said, “I’m one of the highest paid players in the colored leagues. I earn around three thousand a year, and I make around two thousand playing winter ball in Puerto Rico, Venezuela, and Cuba. I’ve worked for the same man for nine years. I like the man. I’m doing all right.” Indeed Campanella would have been foolish to abandon his current situation. He earned more money than most Negro Leaguers, and it didn’t make any sense to risk it all on another black team that might easily fold. Still, he promised to stay in touch and agreed not to sign a contract for the 1946 season until the two men spoke again.
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Once Campanella learned that Rickey had signed Jackie Robinson to a professional contract, however, he spent the entire barnstorming trip to Venezuela second-guessing himself. “Campanella was just living to get a chance with the Dodgers,” said Quincy Trouppe, who shared catching duties with Campy in Venezuela that off-season. “It was all he thought about and talked about.”
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For Robinson, the Negro League barnstorming trip to Latin America was more productive. To prepare him for the challenges he would face in organized baseball, Branch Rickey made arrangements to have him mentored by Gene Benson. At thirty-four, Benson, a flashy centerfielder with the Philadelphia Stars, was in the twilight of his career. He was well-respected in the black baseball world not only for his talent but for his strong sense of humility, an exceptional ability to turn the other cheek in the face of discrimination, and a soft-spoken manner that endeared him to younger Negro Leaguers. All of these qualities made Benson the perfect choice to become Robinson’s mentor.
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Over the course of the winter, Benson advised, assured, and encouraged Robinson, preparing him for the challenges he would face as the first African American in Major League Baseball. Years later Benson recalled:

Benson convinced Jackie that Negro League pitchers were more difficult to hit than those in the Majors because they were permitted to throw at the hitter and use the spitball. “Over our time together in Venezuela, I could see that Jackie had the determination and intelligence to make it in the Majors,” said Benson. “I saw that you needed to tell him something only once. He never forgot anything. He also carried himself like an ath
lete. Not only did he have great natural ability, but he respected that ability by the clean way he lived. He didn’t drink or smoke or hang out with the wrong crowd. If he got into a fight it was because of his strong sense of pride and it was provoked. Never did he start anything.”
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While Benson was preparing Robinson for his historic role, their teammates debated Jackie’s chances for success. None of them appeared to doubt his ability to perform on the field as much as his ability to tolerate Jim Crow:

While the Negro Leaguers won eighteen of the twenty games they played in Venezuela, not everyone was happy during the trip. Robinson was concerned about his ability to deal with the race-baiting he was sure to face in the Majors. One mistake on his part could set the course of integration back a decade or more. How would he tolerate the racist barbs that would shower him from the stands, especially in cities like Cincin
nati, St. Louis, and Philadelphia? Could he discipline himself to turn the other cheek when pitchers threw at his head or base runners spiked him with their cleats? On the other hand, Campanella spent the trip brooding over his missed opportunity, which affected his offensive performance; he batted just .211.
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In January 1946, when the team disbanded, Robinson returned to the United States, but Campanella remained in the Caribbean for the winter season. Not until March 1 did he receive a telegram from Rickey: “Please report to Brooklyn Office by March 10. Very important.”
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Hours later, Campy was off for New York.

4.

Breaking the Color Line

Jackie Robinson’s first test with racial discrimination came on February 28, 1946, when he and his wife, Rachel, boarded an American Airlines flight in Los Angeles for Daytona Beach, Florida, where the Dodgers held their spring training. The couple, married just eighteen days earlier, were bumped from the flight in New Orleans and their seats given to white passengers. Bumped from another flight in Pensacola, Florida, they chose to take a Greyhound bus to Daytona. When Jackie boarded the Greyhound, the driver called him “boy” and ordered the couple to the back of the bus. Robinson had no choice but to obey because of Rickey’s directive. “It would have been much easier to take a beating than to remain passive,” he recalled. “But I swallowed my pride and choked back my anger because I knew the result would mean newspaper headlines about an ugly racial incident and possible arrest for not only me but also for Rae. By giving in to my feelings I could have blown the whole major league bit.”
1

Thirty-six hours after they left Los Angeles, the newlyweds finally arrived at spring training, exhausted, frustrated, and angry. Robinson seriously considered quitting until Wendell Smith and Billy Rowe of the
Pittsburgh Courier
talked him out of it. “We calmed Jackie down,” recalled Rowe years later. “We tried to explain how important it was for him to shoulder the humiliation so that other black athletes could follow.”
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Unbeknown to Jackie, Branch Rickey had arranged for the two black journalists to help cushion the discrimination he would face that first season with the Montreal Royals, the Dodgers’ farm team. The Dodgers’ president also signed John Wright, a black pitcher, so Robinson would have a teammate in whom he could confide. Rickey himself appeared at the Dodgers’ training site to meet with all the players. Insisting that Robinson and Wright were “not signed because of political pressure,” he emphasized his belief that the two black players could “bring a winning team to Brooklyn” and urged the white ballplayers to “comport themselves like young gentlemen” toward their new teammates.
3
He had a harder time selling Royals manager Clay Hopper on the idea.

Hopper, a Mississippi cotton broker in the off-season, believed that blacks were inferior to whites. Although he had worked for Rickey since 1929, he reportedly begged the Dodgers’ president to reconsider giving him this assignment. During one of the early practice sessions, Rickey, standing alongside Hopper, watched as Robinson turned an extremely difficult double play, and observed that the action was “super human.” Hopper turned, looked his boss straight in the eye, and asked, “Do you really think a nigger’s a human being?” Rickey was stunned by the remark but chose to ignore it. “It reflected an inflexible attitude,” he recalled years later. “To think that the Negro race is inferior is the root of all prejudice in this country. And racial prejudice can only be met on its blind side. You can’t meet it with an argument. You only strengthen it if you do that. You must address prejudice in more subtle ways. Proximity was important. Once
he got to know Jackie Robinson, Hopper would understand the illogic of his prejudice towards Negroes.”
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Rickey also believed that having a southerner at the helm of the Royals would head off some dissension among the players and that he could trust Hopper to handle any situation that might arise.
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His instincts proved to be correct. By June the Royals manager had changed his opinion of Robinson, who admitted, “No one could outplay him at second base.”
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Still, Jackie felt that Hopper “never really accepted [him]” because “his prejudice against the Negro was so deeply ingrained.”
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At least Hopper gave him a chance. Robinson’s presence was not appreciated in racially charged Florida, and he was reminded of that fact wherever he tried to play that spring.

Since the Dodgers did not own a spring training facility, scheduling was subject to the whim of local municipalities, several of which turned down any event involving Robinson and Wright. In Sanford, Florida, for example, the police chief threatened to cancel games if Robinson and Wright did not stop training there. In Jacksonville the ballpark was padlocked shut without warning on game day by order of the city’s Parks and Public Property director. In DeLand a scheduled day game was called off, ostensibly because of faulty electrical lighting.
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After much lobbying of local officials by Rickey himself, the Royals were allowed to host a game involving Robinson in Daytona Beach.
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Jackie made his Royals debut at Daytona Beach’s City Island Ballpark on March 17, 1946, in an exhibition game against the team’s parent club, the Dodgers. Later in spring training, after some less than stellar performances, Robinson was shifted from shortstop to second base, allowing him to make shorter throws to first base.
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Robinson finally found some relief when the Royals broke camp and headed north for the regular season. Montreal was the most accepting of all the cities in the Dodgers’ farm system. Undoubtedly racial prejudice existed, but it was not as virulent as it was in the American South. In addition Quebec had a history of blacks playing professional baseball dating to the 1920s. Some joined integrated teams in the Provincial League and other independent leagues, while others belonged to an all-black team in Montreal. Placing Robinson at the Triple-A level in Montreal was yet another part of Rickey’s design to lessen the racial discrimination against him. Canadians quickly accepted him, seeming to cheer his every move on the playing field. They nicknamed him the “Dark Destroyer” for his
hitting prowess and the “Colored Comet” for his extraordinary speed on the base paths.
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“I owe more to Canadians than they’ll ever know,” said Robinson. “They were the first to make me feel my natural self and spared no effort in showing me that they were proud that I belonged to their home team.”
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Teammates also began to warm to him.

On April 18, 1946, when Robinson, making his professional debut against the Jersey City Giants, hit a three-run homer, teammate George Shuba greeted him at home plate with a handshake.
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Up to that point, none of the Royals had made any real effort to be friendly to him, though the four hits, four runs, three
RBI
s, and two stolen bases he contributed to the Royals’ 14–1 win that day certainly broke the ice.
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A few weeks later, after pitcher John Wright was released by the Dodgers, Robinson was assigned a new roommate, Al Campanis. Campanis, a middle infielder, quickly endeared himself to Jackie by helping him make the transition from shortstop to second base.
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Naturally Robinson’s success in the field improved his relationship with his teammates, who could not help but admire his talent. By June he was batting .340 with forty-three hits and seventeen stolen bases in thirty-six games.
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Two months later he had improved his batting average to .371 due to a ten-game streak where he collected twenty-two hits in thirty-nine at-bats. Defensively he had committed just seven errors at second base. Mel Jones, Montreal’s general manager, explained that 20 percent of Robinson’s hits came off bunts from either side of the plate. “Because he gets such a fast jump, he beats out many of the bunts without a play even being made,” said Jones. “Robinson can run faster than 75% of the players in the majors today. He can bunt better than 90% of them. He has good hands, a trigger-quick, instinctive baseball mind and an accurate arm. What makes him a big timer is that he never makes any play around second base look hard, not even the difficult ones.”
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But Robinson’s success on the diamond only served to provoke opponents. Throughout the 1946 season he endured racist remarks from opposing players and their fans and humiliating treatment in the South. Pitchers threw at his head. Runners spiked him and spit at him on the base paths. Never did he retaliate. By season’s end the constant pressure and abuse had taken its toll; his hair began to turn gray, he suffered with chronic stomach trouble, and some thought he was on the verge of a ner
vous breakdown. Finding himself unable to sleep or eat, he went to a doctor, who concluded that he was suffering from stress. “You’re not having a nervous breakdown,” the physician told him. “You’re under a lot of stress. Stay home and don’t read any newspapers, and don’t go to the ballpark for a week.” Jackie, his wife remembered, stayed home for one day. The problem, she said, “came from his not being able to fight back.” It was, as Rickey had warned him, “the cross that you must bear.”
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Despite the tension and distractions, Robinson led the International League with a .349 batting average and .985 fielding percentage that season and was named the league’s Most Valuable Player.
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He also led the Montreal Royals to victory over the Louisville Colonels in the Little World Series, though seven of eight hits he collected in the best-of-seven-game series came in Montreal.
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After the final game, Manager Clay Hopper, who once said that Robinson was “less than human” because he was a “nigger,” approached Jackie, shook his hand and said, “You’re a real ballplayer and a gentleman. It’s been wonderful having you on the team.”
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Grateful Royals fans chased after Robinson, hoisted him on their shoulders, and carried him to the locker room. Moved by the scene, Sam Maltin of the
Pittsburgh Courier
wrote, “It was probably the only day in history that a black man ran from a white mob with love, instead of lynching on its mind.”
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The movement for integration was off to a successful beginning.

While Robinson was making converts in Montreal, Roy Campanella was proving his mettle in the low minors. Rickey planned to assign Campy and Don Newcombe, a pitcher for the Newark Eagles, to one of the Dodgers’ lower level teams. Since three of the organization’s five Class B teams operated in segregated states in the South, the only real possibilities were Danville, Illinois, and Nashua, New Hampshire. Initially Rickey hoped to start the two players at Danville, in the Three-I League, composed of Minor League teams in Illinois, Indiana, and Iowa. But the general manager there didn’t want them. When Buzzie Bavasi, the young general manager at Nashua, was asked about the prospect of having two black players on his roster, he replied, “If they can play ball better than what we have, then we don’t care what color they are.”
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Had Bavasi expressed any reservation, Rickey would have been forced to scrap his plans. The young general manager’s willingness to accept the two black players not only endeared him to Rickey but enhanced his own position in the organization
as a trusted advisor. Bavasi would play an instrumental role in the future of the franchise as it entered a critical phase in the integration process.

Campanella took a significant pay cut to join the Dodgers’ farm system. Rickey signed him at $185 per month for the 1946 season. The contract amounted to a total of $1,017.50, about $400 less than what he earned the previous year playing in the Negro Leagues and the Caribbean. But Campy was on his way to realizing a lifetime dream, and he knew that if he “made good,” the Dodgers “would make up some of the deficit in other ways.”
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“Making good” also meant more than achieving success on the playing field.

Though Rickey did not prepare Campanella and Newcombe as carefully as he did Robinson, he made clear to them that they would have to prove they “could be gentlemen off the field,” “get along with teammates,” and “handle [themselves] at team meetings and hotels.” He also expected them to “avoid disputes” and ignore “taunts from opposing players and fans.”
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Shortly before they left for New Hampshire, Campanella and Newcombe met with Robinson in New York to discuss the upcoming season. “The three of us got together because we were embarking on this new idea and we had to have a sort of game plan to find out how we were going to operate as players,” recalled Newcombe.
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Throughout the season the three players stayed in touch, providing encouragement for each other, sharing advice, and comparing experiences.

According to Jules Tygiel, author of
Baseball’s Great Experiment
, Rickey signed Campanella and Newcombe as a “second line of attack in his master plan for integration.” While Robinson’s performance with the Dodgers’ top farm club in Montreal would capture national attention, the black battery-mates would begin a level lower, in Class B, “progress through the farm system in Robinson’s wake,” and eventually follow him to the Brooklyn club, the “dark heart of Rickey’s envisioned dynasty.”
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This “second line of attack” was more than a matter of chronology, though. If Robinson’s college and military credentials made him the ideal pioneer to break the color line, Campanella’s talent, experience, and knowledge of the game made him the ideal ballplayer to prove that integration was no mistake. A catcher is the quarterback of a baseball team, the leader on the field. Not only does he call all the pitches, but as the only player who faces the entire field, he must be able to identify any vulnerability in the defense
and realign it in a moment’s time. To do that, a catcher must have an encyclopedic knowledge of the game, its strategy, and the opposing hitters’ strengths and weaknesses. Campanella possessed all of these skills and more. As a veteran backstop in the Negro Leagues, he had already worked with some of the finest black pitchers in the game. It was no coincidence that Rickey paired him with Newcombe, a young power pitcher, who had the potential to be an outstanding hurler. If mentored properly, and away from the limelight, Newcombe might become the pitching ace of a future Brooklyn Dodgers dynasty.