Read Online The Era, 1947-1957: When the Yankees, the Giants, and the Dodgers Ruled the World by Roger Kahn - Free Book Online
Authors: Roger Kahn
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much of the night trying to help their child sleep.
At Ebbets Field the next day, Robinson walked up to bat in the first inning feeling better than he had the day before.
“Hey, Jungle Bunny,” Ben Chapman shouted. “You go out and get yo-sef some white pussy last night?”
Stanky and a few other ballplayers told newspapermen what was going on. Branch Rickey, informed by his new manager, Burt Shotton, telephoned the commissioner, Happy Chandler. Something had to be done, Rickey said, in the name of decency.
Chandler had suspended Leo Durocher for a year, ostensibly for living loosely. What punishment, then, would be appropriate for William Benjamin Chapman, Klansman without a hood?
Chandler considered at length. Then he ordered Chapman to grant an interview to Wendell Smith, a congenial black sportswriter for the black newspaper the
Pittsburgh Courier
.
No suspension. Not even a fine. Just a suggestion that Chapman ease up and an order that he spend one hour in civil conversation with a Negro.
Dan Parker wrote a column in the
Daily Mirror
criticizing Chapman’s “guttersnipe” language. But generally the press persisted in its belligerent neutrality. This account, from
The Sporting News
of May 7, 1947, is characteristic:
Jackie Robinson’s position in the major leagues and the manner in which he will be treated by the Philadelphia Phillies was clarified in a straight from the shoulder interview from Ben Chapman. . . .
“ We treat Robinson the same as we do Hank Greenberg of the Pirates, Clint Hartung of the Giants, Connie Ryan of the Braves,” Chapman said.
“ When I came into the big leagues, pitchers threw at me, dusted me off, pegged at my head, my legs. I was dangerous.
“ Robinson can run. He can bunt. He’s dangerous.
“ When I came into the league, they wanted to see if I would lose my temper and forget to play ball. They tried to break my morale. They played baseball for keeps. That’s the way we’re going to play with Robinson.
“ If Robinson has the stuff, he’ll be accepted in baseball, the same as the Sullivans and the Grodzickis. All I expect him to do is prove it. Let’s get the chips off our shoulders and play ball.”
I mean to suggest that at this point, early in the 1947 season, the issue of Robinson’s success — the question of integrated baseball — was seriously in doubt. (So, indeed, was Robinson’s mental health.) Oddly, his most vociferous ballfield supporter at that time was Eddie Stanky, the second baseman from Philadelphia who had moved to Mobile and who years later himself needled Robinson in unpleasant ways. But in May 1947 something deep and good was touched within Eddie Stanky, a combative, thin-lipped, verbal ballplayer with limited physical skills and limitless fire. “Those guys [the Phillies] are a disgrace,” Stanky told the New York newspapermen. “They know Robinson can’t fight back. There isn’t one of them who has the guts of a louse.” After Chapman’s behavior moved Stanky to Jackie Robinson’s side, other Dodgers, notably Pee Wee Reese, quickly followed. Some — Bobby Bragan, Hugh Casey, Cookie Lavagetto, and Dixie Walker — did not.
The issue still was in doubt. Herb Pennock, the general manager of the Phillies, had been the leading left-handed pitcher on the 1927 New York Yankees, a team that remains the benchmark of baseball excellence. Tall, lean, dignified, Pennock was nicknamed “The Squire of Kennett Square,” after the Pennsylvania town where he was born.
The Dodgers were scheduled to begin a series in Philadelphia on May 9 and Pennock telephoned Branch Rickey to impose conditions. “You just can’t bring the nigger here with the rest of your team, Branch,” Pennock said. “We’re not ready for that sort of thing yet in Philadelphia. We won’t be able to take the field [at Shibe Park] against your Brooklyn team, if that boy is in uniform.”
Major league rules require that both sides field a team for every scheduled
At Ebbets Field the next day, Robinson walked up to bat in the first inning feeling better than he had the day before.
“Hey, Jungle Bunny,” Ben Chapman shouted. “You go out and get yo-sef some white pussy last night?”
Stanky and a few other ballplayers told newspapermen what was going on. Branch Rickey, informed by his new manager, Burt Shotton, telephoned the commissioner, Happy Chandler. Something had to be done, Rickey said, in the name of decency.
Chandler had suspended Leo Durocher for a year, ostensibly for living loosely. What punishment, then, would be appropriate for William Benjamin Chapman, Klansman without a hood?
Chandler considered at length. Then he ordered Chapman to grant an interview to Wendell Smith, a congenial black sportswriter for the black newspaper the
Pittsburgh Courier
.
No suspension. Not even a fine. Just a suggestion that Chapman ease up and an order that he spend one hour in civil conversation with a Negro.
Dan Parker wrote a column in the
Daily Mirror
criticizing Chapman’s “guttersnipe” language. But generally the press persisted in its belligerent neutrality. This account, from
The Sporting News
of May 7, 1947, is characteristic:
Jackie Robinson’s position in the major leagues and the manner in which he will be treated by the Philadelphia Phillies was clarified in a straight from the shoulder interview from Ben Chapman. . . .
“ We treat Robinson the same as we do Hank Greenberg of the Pirates, Clint Hartung of the Giants, Connie Ryan of the Braves,” Chapman said.
“ When I came into the big leagues, pitchers threw at me, dusted me off, pegged at my head, my legs. I was dangerous.
“ Robinson can run. He can bunt. He’s dangerous.
“ When I came into the league, they wanted to see if I would lose my temper and forget to play ball. They tried to break my morale. They played baseball for keeps. That’s the way we’re going to play with Robinson.
“ If Robinson has the stuff, he’ll be accepted in baseball, the same as the Sullivans and the Grodzickis. All I expect him to do is prove it. Let’s get the chips off our shoulders and play ball.”
I mean to suggest that at this point, early in the 1947 season, the issue of Robinson’s success — the question of integrated baseball — was seriously in doubt. (So, indeed, was Robinson’s mental health.) Oddly, his most vociferous ballfield supporter at that time was Eddie Stanky, the second baseman from Philadelphia who had moved to Mobile and who years later himself needled Robinson in unpleasant ways. But in May 1947 something deep and good was touched within Eddie Stanky, a combative, thin-lipped, verbal ballplayer with limited physical skills and limitless fire. “Those guys [the Phillies] are a disgrace,” Stanky told the New York newspapermen. “They know Robinson can’t fight back. There isn’t one of them who has the guts of a louse.” After Chapman’s behavior moved Stanky to Jackie Robinson’s side, other Dodgers, notably Pee Wee Reese, quickly followed. Some — Bobby Bragan, Hugh Casey, Cookie Lavagetto, and Dixie Walker — did not.
The issue still was in doubt. Herb Pennock, the general manager of the Phillies, had been the leading left-handed pitcher on the 1927 New York Yankees, a team that remains the benchmark of baseball excellence. Tall, lean, dignified, Pennock was nicknamed “The Squire of Kennett Square,” after the Pennsylvania town where he was born.
The Dodgers were scheduled to begin a series in Philadelphia on May 9 and Pennock telephoned Branch Rickey to impose conditions. “You just can’t bring the nigger here with the rest of your team, Branch,” Pennock said. “We’re not ready for that sort of thing yet in Philadelphia. We won’t be able to take the field [at Shibe Park] against your Brooklyn team, if that boy is in uniform.”
Major league rules require that both sides field a team for every scheduled
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