children on hot summer days, were marked “White” and “Colored.” So were toilet facilities. No leading Southern hotel or restaurant accepted blacks. A black man couldn’t even buy a beer at a working-class bar. In refined Southern social circles the term nigger was shunned, but neither did you hear the then acceptable word Negro. Southern ladies and gentlemen referred to blacks as “nigras,” pronounced NEE-gras. Nowhere, except at a Klan meeting or a lynching, was Southern bigotry more evident than at the ballparks.
During Robinson’s 10 major-league springs the Dodgers played in a wide variety of Southern ballparks. To cite a few, the spring cavalcade brought them to Hartwell Field in Mobile, Pelican Stadium in New Orleans, Ponce de Leon Park in Atlanta, Sulphur Dell in Nashville and LaGrave Field in Fort Worth. These parks varied in size and appearance. The one constant was segregation. Good seats were available only to whites. This rule was enforced not merely by ushers, but was also supported by state troopers carrying pistols.
When the Dodgers and Braves came to Pelican Stadium one April day in 1953, the sections reserved for whites did not sell out. The black stands were overflowing. Gathering notes, I was standing on the field with Robinson, who was playing catch with Reese whenthe Louisiana troopers made a decision. They opened up a few corridors of empty white seats to black fans. The blacks swarmed in, then burst into cheers for the white troopers.
Robinson stopped playing catch. “You stupid bastards,” he shouted. “Don’t cheer those fucking cops. They’re only giving you what’s rightly yours.” He continued shouting until Reese said in his gentle way, “Jack. Did you come out here to warm up or make a speech?”
At Hartwell Field no seats were available for black fans. Attendants strung rope in center field and the blacks who wanted to see the Dodgers play the Braves had to see it standing behind rope. Of course this changed the dimensions of the playing field and distorted the game. Any ball hit into the outfield crowd, but not over the fence, became a ground-rule double.
The cynosure of neighboring eyes was Jackie Robinson. He fouled a pitch. Strike one. The white fans cheered. A curve bounced. Ball one. Now, from behind the ropes, came a cheer from the blacks. The high-decibel competitive cheering persisted and grew louder. I had found a seat in the press box, which was supported by slim poles and had walls of glass. I thought suddenly,
When the race riot starts and the poles get knocked down, how many reporters will be killed by shards of glass?
Nor was I alone in anxiety. George “Shotgun” Shuba, who was playing left field, said he began considering how, when the riot began, he could climb the wall behind him to escape.
There was no riot, just another uncomfortable afternoon of racism. Then we all boarded an (integrated) dining car to eat shrimp cocktail and steaks before moving to our berths or into the (integrated) club car for cards or reading or chatter. But the next day, when we debarked in Montgomery, the racism surrounded all of us again, as strong and virulent as ever. I think a good description of life with the Dodgers in the South back then is contained in the current psychological term “bipolar.” We had a pleasant integrated existence in the train. Then as soon as we stepped off—raw apartheid.
But beyond our shuttling through what the crusading sports editor Stanley Woodward called “the Hookworm Belt,” something beautiful was happening. Like it or not the racists saw—they had to see—that right there before their eyes on the ball fields blacks and whites were working together and usually, since the Dodgers won most of the time, working together in triumph.
“And even beyond that,” Rickey said, proudly, “in the daily papers. A box score tells you who made hits and who scored runs. It does not tell you anything about a man’s religion nor does it
During Robinson’s 10 major-league springs the Dodgers played in a wide variety of Southern ballparks. To cite a few, the spring cavalcade brought them to Hartwell Field in Mobile, Pelican Stadium in New Orleans, Ponce de Leon Park in Atlanta, Sulphur Dell in Nashville and LaGrave Field in Fort Worth. These parks varied in size and appearance. The one constant was segregation. Good seats were available only to whites. This rule was enforced not merely by ushers, but was also supported by state troopers carrying pistols.
When the Dodgers and Braves came to Pelican Stadium one April day in 1953, the sections reserved for whites did not sell out. The black stands were overflowing. Gathering notes, I was standing on the field with Robinson, who was playing catch with Reese whenthe Louisiana troopers made a decision. They opened up a few corridors of empty white seats to black fans. The blacks swarmed in, then burst into cheers for the white troopers.
Robinson stopped playing catch. “You stupid bastards,” he shouted. “Don’t cheer those fucking cops. They’re only giving you what’s rightly yours.” He continued shouting until Reese said in his gentle way, “Jack. Did you come out here to warm up or make a speech?”
At Hartwell Field no seats were available for black fans. Attendants strung rope in center field and the blacks who wanted to see the Dodgers play the Braves had to see it standing behind rope. Of course this changed the dimensions of the playing field and distorted the game. Any ball hit into the outfield crowd, but not over the fence, became a ground-rule double.
The cynosure of neighboring eyes was Jackie Robinson. He fouled a pitch. Strike one. The white fans cheered. A curve bounced. Ball one. Now, from behind the ropes, came a cheer from the blacks. The high-decibel competitive cheering persisted and grew louder. I had found a seat in the press box, which was supported by slim poles and had walls of glass. I thought suddenly,
When the race riot starts and the poles get knocked down, how many reporters will be killed by shards of glass?
Nor was I alone in anxiety. George “Shotgun” Shuba, who was playing left field, said he began considering how, when the riot began, he could climb the wall behind him to escape.
There was no riot, just another uncomfortable afternoon of racism. Then we all boarded an (integrated) dining car to eat shrimp cocktail and steaks before moving to our berths or into the (integrated) club car for cards or reading or chatter. But the next day, when we debarked in Montgomery, the racism surrounded all of us again, as strong and virulent as ever. I think a good description of life with the Dodgers in the South back then is contained in the current psychological term “bipolar.” We had a pleasant integrated existence in the train. Then as soon as we stepped off—raw apartheid.
But beyond our shuttling through what the crusading sports editor Stanley Woodward called “the Hookworm Belt,” something beautiful was happening. Like it or not the racists saw—they had to see—that right there before their eyes on the ball fields blacks and whites were working together and usually, since the Dodgers won most of the time, working together in triumph.
“And even beyond that,” Rickey said, proudly, “in the daily papers. A box score tells you who made hits and who scored runs. It does not tell you anything about a man’s religion nor does it
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