42 by Aaron Rosenberg Page A

Rickey,” Durocher said. “Winning’s the only thing that matters. Is he a nice guy?”
    Rickey chuckled. “If by ‘nice’ you mean soft, no, not particularly.”
    Durocher nodded. “Good. He can’t afford to be. Nice guys finish last.”
    â€œSo, you have no objections to him?” Rickey asked.
    â€œNone whatsoever,” Durocher managed to reply.
    â€œSo, why do you think this is a pipe dream?” Rickey liked Durocher, even if he had an eye for the ladies. He admired the man’s willingness to stand up and speak his mind, but sometimes that forthrightness got on his nerves.
    â€œI mean it ain’t gonna happen,” Durocher explained. “The Dodgers are never gonna demand Robinson be brought up from Montreal. Ballplayers are conservative.”
    Rickey shook his head. “A team full of tough war veterans? Immigrants’ sons? Boys from impoverished corners of the country?” If any team was likely to accept a black player among them, it would be his Dodgers!
    But Durocher just shrugged. “It. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.”
    â€œYou really believe they won’t accept him?” Rickey asked. “Once they see how he plays, how he can help them win?”
    The coach laughed. “I’m not saying they won’t accept him: I’m saying they won’t ask for him. I’m saying Robinson’s good medicine, but they’re not gonna like the taste.” He shoved another forkful of food into his mouth. “Boy, this is good fish.”
    Rickey just sat and watched him eat. He had a sinking suspicion Durocher might be right.

    In another room at the hotel, a few of Durocher’s Dodgers were gathered around a small desk. One of them, Higbe, was writing something on a piece of hotel stationery while his teammates Bragan, Walker, and Hugh Casey looked on. All of them were veterans of the team, and what’s more, all of them originally hailed from the South.
    â€œWhy do you think Rickey’s got us playing spring games in Panama?” Alabama-born Bragan asked the others. “He wants to get us used to Negro crowds. He wants more of them than us. He’s hoping it’ll get us more comfortable being around Robinson.”
    Higbe, who was from South Carolina, cleared his throat. The others stopped their chatter, and then he read them what he’d written: “We, the undersigned Brooklyn Dodgers, will not play ball on the same field as Jackie Robinson.”
    He signed it and handed the pen to Bragan, who added his name. Georgia boy Casey signed it next, with a flourish. He offered the pen to Walker, who, like Bragan, was from Alabama, but Walker didn’t take it right away.
    The others looked at one another. They knew the more names they had, the more power their petition would hold. And Walker was one of the mainstays of the team. His name carried weight.
    Casey waved the pen. “If you wanna make your mark, Dixie,” he joked, “we can witness it.”
    They all laughed, including Walker — and he took the pen and signed the paper.
    Next, the quartet knocked on Eddie Stanky’s door.
    â€œC’mon in!” he shouted.
    They stepped inside and found their teammate soaking his right elbow in a bucket of ice. “What’s going on?” he asked.
    Higbe answered. “Got a petition goin’ on, Stank.”
    â€œTo keep Robinson up in Montreal where he belongs,” Bragan added.
    â€œOh.” Stanky pondered that. “Did Pee Wee sign it?” he asked finally. Pee Wee Reese was the team captain.
    Higbe shook his head. “Ain’t asked him yet. What difference does it make?”
    Stanky shrugged. “None, just wonderin’.” He studied his teammates. Walker couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Finally, Stanky indicated his arm. “Can’t sign now. I’m indisposed. Could I catch up with you later?”
    After him, they went to Pee Wee’s