not eager to rush into it.” And so she made it clear that there would be no wedding until she completed her studies at UCLA in the spring of 1945 and he got a job to support them.
Ironically, before he had left the service, another GI had talked to Robinson about opportunities that might be available with the Kansas City Monarchs, one of the Negro leagues’ top teams. Jackie tried out in the spring of 1945 and received an offer to play for $400 a month. Anxious to succeed in his new job, Robinson made his mark in the Negro leagues that summer. He played shortstop, posted an impressive .345 batting average, and won wide recognition for his superlative talents. But he was not happy. Playing with the Monarchs meant constant travel in old buses and cars, dingy rooms in dilapidated hotels, and greasy food from segregated restaurants. It was, Robinson later said, “a pretty miserable way to make a buck.”
Fate then intervened in the guise of Branch Rickey, the sixty-four-year-old general manager and part owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Rickey was a lawyer who had devoted his life to baseball, and he had a dream: to integrate the major leagues. It was a dream that had evolved from his days as a coach for the Ohio Wesleyan University baseball team in the early 1900s. Rickey had taken the team to South Bend, Indiana, for a game against Notre Dame, but the hotel resisted when he tried to register the black player on the team. In a compromise, Rickey agreed to share his room with the young player and sent him up the stairs while Rickey completed the arrangements. When he entered the room, Rickey saw the black student sitting on the bed in a state of despair and pulling at the skin on his hand. “Damned skin,” the student cried. “If I could only rub it off.” Then and there Rickey decided that he would do something about segregation in baseball.
It would not be easy. Segregation was an accepted part of baseball life at that juncture, and Rickey had to bide his time. In the meantime, he enjoyed considerable success as a field manager and general manager for the St. Louis Browns in the American League and then the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League, introducing many innovations (like a minor-league farm system where young players could be nurtured) and fielding Cardinal teams that won nine pennants and six World Championships in twenty-five years. But Cardinal owner Sam Breadon decided not to renew Rickey’s contract after the 1942 season, and the rotund sextagenerian found a new home with the Brooklyn Dodgers, who had won the pennant in 1941 and were beginning to look like perennial contenders.
As he aged, Rickey no doubt sensed that time was running out on his dream of integrating baseball, but there remained one unyielding obstacle: Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis. He had been appointed as baseball commissioner in 1920 in the wake of the Black Sox Scandal (when eight players on the Chicago White Sox were accused of fixing the 1919 World Series). Landis ruled the game with the proverbial iron fist, and he had an unwavering view about blacks in baseball—it would never happen under his watch. But Landis died in November 1944, and former United States senator Albert B. Chandler was chosen to replace him.
Rickey could not have been more pleased. When asked about the growing pressures to allow blacks to play in the major leagues, Chandler responded, “If a black boy can make it in Okinawa and Guadal canal, hell, he can make it in baseball.” Upon reading that quotation, Rickey began to move forward with his plans to integrate baseball.
There was no shortage of talented black players from whom to choose, but the first player had to be special. However much Chandler supported equality in baseball, there remained a stronghold of opposition to having black players in the major leagues. There would be resistance, there would be pressure, and there would be no assurance of success. The first black player would therefore
Ironically, before he had left the service, another GI had talked to Robinson about opportunities that might be available with the Kansas City Monarchs, one of the Negro leagues’ top teams. Jackie tried out in the spring of 1945 and received an offer to play for $400 a month. Anxious to succeed in his new job, Robinson made his mark in the Negro leagues that summer. He played shortstop, posted an impressive .345 batting average, and won wide recognition for his superlative talents. But he was not happy. Playing with the Monarchs meant constant travel in old buses and cars, dingy rooms in dilapidated hotels, and greasy food from segregated restaurants. It was, Robinson later said, “a pretty miserable way to make a buck.”
Fate then intervened in the guise of Branch Rickey, the sixty-four-year-old general manager and part owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Rickey was a lawyer who had devoted his life to baseball, and he had a dream: to integrate the major leagues. It was a dream that had evolved from his days as a coach for the Ohio Wesleyan University baseball team in the early 1900s. Rickey had taken the team to South Bend, Indiana, for a game against Notre Dame, but the hotel resisted when he tried to register the black player on the team. In a compromise, Rickey agreed to share his room with the young player and sent him up the stairs while Rickey completed the arrangements. When he entered the room, Rickey saw the black student sitting on the bed in a state of despair and pulling at the skin on his hand. “Damned skin,” the student cried. “If I could only rub it off.” Then and there Rickey decided that he would do something about segregation in baseball.
It would not be easy. Segregation was an accepted part of baseball life at that juncture, and Rickey had to bide his time. In the meantime, he enjoyed considerable success as a field manager and general manager for the St. Louis Browns in the American League and then the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League, introducing many innovations (like a minor-league farm system where young players could be nurtured) and fielding Cardinal teams that won nine pennants and six World Championships in twenty-five years. But Cardinal owner Sam Breadon decided not to renew Rickey’s contract after the 1942 season, and the rotund sextagenerian found a new home with the Brooklyn Dodgers, who had won the pennant in 1941 and were beginning to look like perennial contenders.
As he aged, Rickey no doubt sensed that time was running out on his dream of integrating baseball, but there remained one unyielding obstacle: Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis. He had been appointed as baseball commissioner in 1920 in the wake of the Black Sox Scandal (when eight players on the Chicago White Sox were accused of fixing the 1919 World Series). Landis ruled the game with the proverbial iron fist, and he had an unwavering view about blacks in baseball—it would never happen under his watch. But Landis died in November 1944, and former United States senator Albert B. Chandler was chosen to replace him.
Rickey could not have been more pleased. When asked about the growing pressures to allow blacks to play in the major leagues, Chandler responded, “If a black boy can make it in Okinawa and Guadal canal, hell, he can make it in baseball.” Upon reading that quotation, Rickey began to move forward with his plans to integrate baseball.
There was no shortage of talented black players from whom to choose, but the first player had to be special. However much Chandler supported equality in baseball, there remained a stronghold of opposition to having black players in the major leagues. There would be resistance, there would be pressure, and there would be no assurance of success. The first black player would therefore
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