and see them until nine o’clock on Friday or Saturday evenings. If we went walking, we confined our strolls to the halls and front porch of the dormitory. There were no dances, no picture shows, no college shows. We had a good lecture course, and it was a big event when a musical performance was given. The fellows wore dress suits, if they had them, and the girls wore formal dresses.”
Poor, without a high school diploma, a product of country-schoolhouse education and largely self-taught, Rickey was ill prepared for some of the academic challenges of Ohio Wesleyan. He was at a particular disadvantage in classical studies. His knowledge of Latin, prior to his university days, had come from rote study of one Latin book. He knew the meanings of most words, but admitted that “what Cicero or someone had meant when he put those words together was a mystery to me.”
Called to recite one day in Prof. Johnny Grove’s class, Rickey stammered through a passage, embarrassed in front of the other students, most of whom were from big-city high schools and knew much more than he. When Rickey had completed his self-conscious recitation, the old professor peered at him over his glasses. “Whose Latin grammar did you study, Mr. Rickey?”
“Grove’s Latin Grammar,” said Rickey, sheepishly.
The class erupted. Rickey immediately realized that the little black Latin book that he had studied so diligently back home had been written . by the professor standing before him. One pudgy student was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. Rickey, crestfallen, stood in front of the room thinking, “When the next Hocking Valley train goes south, I’ll be on it.”
Professor Grove finally silenced the students and asked Rickey to remain after class. Alone in the classroom, Rickey and the professor sat at the desk in front of the room. “Mr. Rickey,” the professor asked, “what’s the difference between a gerundive and a verbal noun?” The question posed no problem for the eager student, and the answer satisfied Professor Grove.
“Mr. Rickey, you need some special work in translation. Come in to see me here tomorrow morning a half hour before class.”
Rickey attended Professor Grove’s special early-morning tutoring sessions until the professor said, “I think you are now prepared to recite. Get ready for tomorrow.”
Rickey recalled the happy ending: “I don’t think I went to bed at all that night. I knew that lesson from beginning to end. And then horribile dictu! He forgot to call on me. Next day, he did call on me. I was prepared. . . . And the class applauded. It was almost more embarrassing than the first day. ‘Well,’ Professor Grove said to the class, ‘I think you will agree with me that Mr. Rickey has made considerable progress in his study of Latin.’”
Branch’s spare time was taken up by athletic endeavors aimed at earning money to meet his educational expenses. At that time, collegians were allowed to engage in professional sports. Rickey played semipro baseball in the summer and football in the fall.
As a member of the backfield of the Shelby, Ohio, football team, he earned up to $150 a game. But in 1902, a double fracture of his leg ended his football career, and he decided to concentrate exclusively on baseball.
He became the catcher for the Laramie, Wyoming, baseball team in 1903, was moved up to Dallas in July, and a month later was promoted to the Cincinnati Reds. As backup catcher to Heinie Peitz, Rickey was placed in charge of the catcher’s mask; Peitz looked after the chest protector. The Reds had just one of each for the team.
At the conclusion of a Saturday game, Rickey handed the catcher’s mask to Peitz. “Look after it, Heinie,” he said. “I won’t be here tomorrow. It’s a Sunday.”
The manger of the Reds was Joe Kelley, a tough former member of the Baltimore Orioles. “What’s that?” he shouted to Rickey. “What do you mean you won’t be here
Poor, without a high school diploma, a product of country-schoolhouse education and largely self-taught, Rickey was ill prepared for some of the academic challenges of Ohio Wesleyan. He was at a particular disadvantage in classical studies. His knowledge of Latin, prior to his university days, had come from rote study of one Latin book. He knew the meanings of most words, but admitted that “what Cicero or someone had meant when he put those words together was a mystery to me.”
Called to recite one day in Prof. Johnny Grove’s class, Rickey stammered through a passage, embarrassed in front of the other students, most of whom were from big-city high schools and knew much more than he. When Rickey had completed his self-conscious recitation, the old professor peered at him over his glasses. “Whose Latin grammar did you study, Mr. Rickey?”
“Grove’s Latin Grammar,” said Rickey, sheepishly.
The class erupted. Rickey immediately realized that the little black Latin book that he had studied so diligently back home had been written . by the professor standing before him. One pudgy student was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. Rickey, crestfallen, stood in front of the room thinking, “When the next Hocking Valley train goes south, I’ll be on it.”
Professor Grove finally silenced the students and asked Rickey to remain after class. Alone in the classroom, Rickey and the professor sat at the desk in front of the room. “Mr. Rickey,” the professor asked, “what’s the difference between a gerundive and a verbal noun?” The question posed no problem for the eager student, and the answer satisfied Professor Grove.
“Mr. Rickey, you need some special work in translation. Come in to see me here tomorrow morning a half hour before class.”
Rickey attended Professor Grove’s special early-morning tutoring sessions until the professor said, “I think you are now prepared to recite. Get ready for tomorrow.”
Rickey recalled the happy ending: “I don’t think I went to bed at all that night. I knew that lesson from beginning to end. And then horribile dictu! He forgot to call on me. Next day, he did call on me. I was prepared. . . . And the class applauded. It was almost more embarrassing than the first day. ‘Well,’ Professor Grove said to the class, ‘I think you will agree with me that Mr. Rickey has made considerable progress in his study of Latin.’”
Branch’s spare time was taken up by athletic endeavors aimed at earning money to meet his educational expenses. At that time, collegians were allowed to engage in professional sports. Rickey played semipro baseball in the summer and football in the fall.
As a member of the backfield of the Shelby, Ohio, football team, he earned up to $150 a game. But in 1902, a double fracture of his leg ended his football career, and he decided to concentrate exclusively on baseball.
He became the catcher for the Laramie, Wyoming, baseball team in 1903, was moved up to Dallas in July, and a month later was promoted to the Cincinnati Reds. As backup catcher to Heinie Peitz, Rickey was placed in charge of the catcher’s mask; Peitz looked after the chest protector. The Reds had just one of each for the team.
At the conclusion of a Saturday game, Rickey handed the catcher’s mask to Peitz. “Look after it, Heinie,” he said. “I won’t be here tomorrow. It’s a Sunday.”
The manger of the Reds was Joe Kelley, a tough former member of the Baltimore Orioles. “What’s that?” he shouted to Rickey. “What do you mean you won’t be here
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