42 by Aaron Rosenberg Page B

room, but he cut them off before they could get beyond the word
petition
.
    â€œLook, it’s like this,” he told them bluntly. “I got a wife, a baby, and I got no money. I don’t want to step in anything.” He directed his next words straight at Walker, as the senior member of the foursome. “Skip me, Dix, I’m not interested.”
    â€œWhat if they put him at shortstop?” Walker demanded.
    But Pee Wee just shrugged. “If he’s man enough to take my job, I suppose he deserves it.”
    Higbe snorted. “Not a chance!”
    â€œHe does not have the ice water in his veins for big league baseball,” Walker argued.
    But Reese wouldn’t budge. “So let him show what he’s got,” he answered. “Robinson can play or he can’t. It’ll all take care of itself.”
    They had better luck with Pennsylvania-bred Carl Furillo. Despite being the son of immigrants himself, Furillo had no qualms at all. “Give me the pen,” he said at once, and signed the second he had it in hand. Higbe grinned. One more to their roster.

    Later that night, Durocher’s phone rang. He sighed and answered it.
    â€œYes, Mr. Rickey?” He didn’t even have to ask who it was. Who else would call him at this hour?
    â€œHave our friends in the press gone to sleep yet?” Rickey asked.
    Durocher peered at the clock. “We are the only people awake on this entire isthmus, Mr. Rickey.”
    Rickey’s voice took on a sharper tone. “A deliberate violation of the law needs a little show of force. I leave it to you. Good night, Leo.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Rickey.” Durocher didn’t have to ask what his boss was talking about. They’d both heard the chatter earlier today. He knew what some of his players had been up to. And, as he levered himself up out of bed, he vowed that it would stop right now.

    Twenty minutes later, Durocher stood in the hotel kitchen in his bathrobe, arms crossed, glaring as his players and coaches filed in. All of them were bleary-eyed, in various states of dress, wondering why he’d gotten them up so early and why he’d gathered them here, of all places.
    But Durocher had picked the kitchen for four reasons: It was big, it was deserted, it was away from prying eyes, and it had things like the soup pot he grabbed now and heaved across the room.
Wham!
That got their attention!
    â€œWake up, ladies!” he bellowed at them. “Wake up!” He stared down any attempt to talk back. “It’s come to my attention that some of you fellas don’t want to play with Robinson. That you even got a petition drawn up that you’re all gonna sign. Well, boys, you know what you can do with your petition? You can eat it, for all I care!”
    It was Walker who found his voice first. “C’mon, Leo . . .” he started.
    Durocher hit him with the full force of his glare. “ ‘Come on’ what?”
    â€œBallplayers gotta live together, shower together,” Walker argued. “It’s not right to force him on us. Besides, I own a hardware store back home, and I —”
    â€œNo one cares about your hardware store, Dix!” Durocher cut him off. “And if you don’t like it, leave! Mr. Rickey’ll be happy to make other arrangements for you.”
    Studying them all, Durocher suddenly stalked toward Higbe. He’d heard that the pitcher had been the one to start all this. Higbe gulped as the coach approached, but Durocher didn’t flatten him, much as he wanted to. Instead, he turned so he could bellow at his whole team, Higbe most of all.
    â€œI don’t care if he’s yellow or black or has stripes like a zebra,” he shouted, his words echoing off the sinks and shelves and stoves. “If Robinson can help us win — and everything I’ve seen says he can — then he’s gonna play for this ball club. Like it, lump it, make your