Read Online Branch Rickey by Jimmy Breslin - Free Book Online Page B

was there as third-base coach to history.
    They entered Rickey’s large office, which had a fish tank and a blackboard with the names in chalk of every member of the Dodgers organization, down to infielders in Olean, New York, Class D.
    Rickey sat behind a large desk. Sukeforth said, “Mister Rickey, this is Jack Roosevelt Robinson of the Kansas City Monarchs. I think he is the Brooklyn kind of player.”
    Rickey put down his cigar and stood up and shook hands. He then sat, and Robinson sat facing him. Off to the side was Sukeforth.
    Rickey stared at Robinson.
    And stared.
    Robinson stared back.
    Their eyes cast across a moat of deep silence.
    The lawyer in Rickey took over.
    â€œDo you have a contract?”
    â€œNo, players only work game by game in the Negro League.”
    â€œDo you have anything written or in conversation that ties you to Kansas City?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œDo you have a girl?” Rickey asked.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘I think so’?”
    â€œBaseball keeps me away so much that I don’t know if she’s still waiting for me.”
    â€œDo you love her?”
    â€œI love her very much.”
    â€œMarry her.”
    He told Robinson that baseball was a hard life and a player had best have a strong home life. Rickey now had the cigar waving, the eyebrows coming together, the eyes piercing even more than before.
    â€œDo you know why we brought you here?”
    Robinson said he understood it was for some new Negro baseball team or league.
    â€œNo,” Rickey told him. “That is not why we went to Chicago for you. You were brought here, Jack Robinson, to play for the Brooklyn organization. We see you starting in Montreal.”
    Robinson became numb. “Montreal?”
    â€œIf you can make it, which everybody says you can. If you make good there, then we’ll try you with the Brooklyn Dodgers.”
    There was more silence. Good, Sukeforth remembered thinking. This puts it where it should be. Everybody knows Robinson’s color. We want them talking only about his ability. Sukeforth could think and figure in the silence. Robinson was in clean shock.
    Rickey was waving his cigar. With a wave of a cigar he could cure the wound of a lifetime. He was sure of Robinson’s baseball ability. He had a pile of reports on Robinson by the most famous scouts, men who could look through a sandlot’s dust and see a World Series player. Now Rickey had to learn about the rest. Robinson could control a bat and hit behind a runner. But could he control himself under insults and even assaults and put the attackers to shame? That Sukeforth brought him here said much about his character. But Rickey needed to know even more. It would be easier not to attempt this, he thought.
    Robinson couldn’t open his mouth. Suddenly, Rickey thumped the desk. “I want to win. I want ballplayers who can win for us. Are you one of them? Do you think you can win for us?”
    Robinson had been suspicious of this whole thing. Who was Rickey and what was his record with blacks? But that was before. Now he knew he had to talk; he could not ignore Rickey and what he was saying.
    Rickey pounded the desk again.
    â€œCan you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI don’t know if you have the guts.”
    â€œI’m not afraid of anybody,” Robinson said.
    â€œI’m looking for a ballplayer with the guts not to fight back.” Off came Rickey’s jacket. Now he was the evangelist, the minister roaring and whispering to upturned faces. I know this boy has a soul, Rickey said to himself in this surge of emotion. I am going to bring it forth.
    Now Rickey becomes a room clerk. “ ‘We got no room for you, boy. Not even in the coal bin downstairs where you belong.’ How would you handle that, Jack Robinson?”
    â€œI guess I go elsewhere.”
    Now Rickey is a headwaiter who knows that Robinson has just come off a