the court-martial. Word came back that it was about Robinson refusing to sit in the back of a bus in Fort Hood, Texas.
âHe has spirit!â Rickey said with great enthusiasm when he learned the details. âI want you to see Jackie Robinson play shortstop,â he told Sukeforth. âHe is with the Kansas City team in the Negro league. They are playing at Comiskey Park on the weekend. I want to know about his arm. He certainly is a prospect.â
Rickey, obsessed, made many phone calls about Robinson. Each time, some old guy on the other end of the line told him that, yes, Robinson could play in the major leagues. Rickey told Sukeforth, âGeorge Sisler says he never saw anybody protect the plate with two strikes as well as Robinson can. Andy High thought he is the best bunter he ever saw. I want you to talk to him and see if he can come to Brooklyn with you. If he canât, tell him I would be glad to come out and see him.â
Clyde Sukeforthâs business trip by train to Chicago was so much more than a search for a baseball player. He was not traveling merely to see a baseball player, even a great player, for even these are merely bodies that one day run fast and then run slow before fading into memory. Sukeforth took the train to Chicago and arrived at Comiskey Park on the night of August 24, 1945. He bought a box seat and a program for the Negro League game between the Lincoln Giants and the Kansas City Monarchs. The Kansas City team was coming out of the dugout, and Sukeforth tried to pick Robinson out by his uniform number but decided that the program was usually wrong because the players kept changing. He heard somebody say Robinsonâs name, and Sukeforth leaned over the rail of the box seat and called to the player.
Sukeforth said right away that he represented Branch Rickey, who was starting a black team. Robinson had soured on Kansas City and listened attentively, although not with great expectations. Then Sukeforth asked Robinson to show him his throwing arm. Robinson hesitated. He had tumbled onto his shoulder a few days before and the arm was still tender. Besides, why did Rickey really want to know about it?
Sukeforth said that Rickey wanted Robinson to come to Brooklyn, but if he couldnât, then Rickey would be pleased to come out to see him.
And with that, everything was different. Standing in the lights of a major league field, rented for the night by blacks, wearing the uniform of a team only blacks knew, Robinson felt a bolt of excitement. Whatever this was about, this fellow Sukeforth made it pleasant. Here was a white man who didnât seem to notice skin color. Robinson observed that Sukeforth spoke quietly when he said that Rickey would travel to see him. He could feel he was being told the truth.
Robinson said he would meet Sukeforth at his hotel, the Stevens, after the game. Sukeforth got to the hotel first and told the desk he was having a guest and then he tipped the elevator operator $2 so he wouldnât balk when a black man rode up. This was only one of the reasons Rickey trusted Sukeforth to handle this job.
Immediately, Sukeforth always said, he knew what he had on his hands. He had read a pound of paper on Robinson. It told of a man born in Cairo, Georgia, which at that time, the late 1910s, was just about the bottom of the country. His mother, Mallie, cleaned houses for white women. When her fifth child, Jackie, was born, she pushed her sharecropper husband to earn more than his $12 a month pay. He sure did. He also ran away.
The mother took her five children on a Jim Crow train to Pasadena, California. Nine days and nights with a baby in your lap and four others writhing about you. She was able to fit her family into a house on Pepper Street, where they were the only black family. The Northern big-city racism came down on them in rocks and screams.
Jackie Robinson came up moody and combative on the streets of Pasadena. The cops actively disliked
âHe has spirit!â Rickey said with great enthusiasm when he learned the details. âI want you to see Jackie Robinson play shortstop,â he told Sukeforth. âHe is with the Kansas City team in the Negro league. They are playing at Comiskey Park on the weekend. I want to know about his arm. He certainly is a prospect.â
Rickey, obsessed, made many phone calls about Robinson. Each time, some old guy on the other end of the line told him that, yes, Robinson could play in the major leagues. Rickey told Sukeforth, âGeorge Sisler says he never saw anybody protect the plate with two strikes as well as Robinson can. Andy High thought he is the best bunter he ever saw. I want you to talk to him and see if he can come to Brooklyn with you. If he canât, tell him I would be glad to come out and see him.â
Clyde Sukeforthâs business trip by train to Chicago was so much more than a search for a baseball player. He was not traveling merely to see a baseball player, even a great player, for even these are merely bodies that one day run fast and then run slow before fading into memory. Sukeforth took the train to Chicago and arrived at Comiskey Park on the night of August 24, 1945. He bought a box seat and a program for the Negro League game between the Lincoln Giants and the Kansas City Monarchs. The Kansas City team was coming out of the dugout, and Sukeforth tried to pick Robinson out by his uniform number but decided that the program was usually wrong because the players kept changing. He heard somebody say Robinsonâs name, and Sukeforth leaned over the rail of the box seat and called to the player.
Sukeforth said right away that he represented Branch Rickey, who was starting a black team. Robinson had soured on Kansas City and listened attentively, although not with great expectations. Then Sukeforth asked Robinson to show him his throwing arm. Robinson hesitated. He had tumbled onto his shoulder a few days before and the arm was still tender. Besides, why did Rickey really want to know about it?
Sukeforth said that Rickey wanted Robinson to come to Brooklyn, but if he couldnât, then Rickey would be pleased to come out to see him.
And with that, everything was different. Standing in the lights of a major league field, rented for the night by blacks, wearing the uniform of a team only blacks knew, Robinson felt a bolt of excitement. Whatever this was about, this fellow Sukeforth made it pleasant. Here was a white man who didnât seem to notice skin color. Robinson observed that Sukeforth spoke quietly when he said that Rickey would travel to see him. He could feel he was being told the truth.
Robinson said he would meet Sukeforth at his hotel, the Stevens, after the game. Sukeforth got to the hotel first and told the desk he was having a guest and then he tipped the elevator operator $2 so he wouldnât balk when a black man rode up. This was only one of the reasons Rickey trusted Sukeforth to handle this job.
Immediately, Sukeforth always said, he knew what he had on his hands. He had read a pound of paper on Robinson. It told of a man born in Cairo, Georgia, which at that time, the late 1910s, was just about the bottom of the country. His mother, Mallie, cleaned houses for white women. When her fifth child, Jackie, was born, she pushed her sharecropper husband to earn more than his $12 a month pay. He sure did. He also ran away.
The mother took her five children on a Jim Crow train to Pasadena, California. Nine days and nights with a baby in your lap and four others writhing about you. She was able to fit her family into a house on Pepper Street, where they were the only black family. The Northern big-city racism came down on them in rocks and screams.
Jackie Robinson came up moody and combative on the streets of Pasadena. The cops actively disliked
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