Free Perfect: Don Larsen's Miraculous World Series Game by Lew Paper Page B

drew enormous crowds wherever he played. Some of it no doubt was curiosity; some of it certainly reflected support from the black community; but much of it was a tribute to the excitement that Robinson generated on the field. It was not merely his ability to steal bases (which he did with regularity, leading the league with twenty-nine). It was primarily the fire he ignited both before and after he got on base.
    The opposing team’s players knew that they could not relax if Jackie Robinson was at the plate. Would he try a surprise bunt down the third-base line? Or would he swing for the seats, as he could easily do (hitting forty-eight extra-base hits in 1947, including twelve home runs—tying him for the team lead in that department)? And what would happen when he got on base? If he reached first base, he would dart back and forth, yelling at the pitcher and daring him to throw the ball to first base. (“You can’t pick me off,” Jackie would shout. “I’ll steal second on you!”) He would use the same tactics even when he was on third base, and there were many times during his career (nineteen, to be exact) when he actually did steal home. And even if Robinson did not attempt a steal, his daring tactics could still succeed as the pitcher, flustered by the constant distraction, would balk or throw a wild pitch or otherwise fail to concentrate on the batter at the plate.
    It was, all in all, high entertainment—at least for everyone other than the opposing team. “Jackie Robinson,” said Hall of Fame radio announcer Bob Wolff, “was the most exciting ballplayer that I’ve ever covered. From the moment he got on base, the whole ballpark came alive. There was a drama going on no matter what else was happening. The pitcher started to fidget. The shortstop started to move in a little bit. The second baseman got closer to second. Everything—the whole panorama of the game changed.” Opposing players agreed that Robinson could indeed change the dynamics of the game. “Robinson was,” said Pittsburgh Pirates slugger Ralph Kiner, “the only player I ever saw who could completely turn a game around by himself.” And so the Dodgers were glad to have the former UCLA star in the lineup. “As long as he was in the game,” said Dodger pitcher Rex Barney, “you had a chance to win. He played baseball with such abandon.”
    By the time the season ended, Robinson had amply justified Rickey’s faith in him. He played in all but three of the Dodgers’ games, batted .297, and won the first major-league Rookie of the Year award (which would later be divided between rookies in the American and National Leagues). And, as Leo Durocher had predicted in spring training, Robinson had led his team into the World Series for the first time since 1941. But more important—from Robinson’s perspective, at least—he had won the respect of his teammates, including those who had opposed his inclusion on the team in spring training. As the Dodgers moved toward the pennant in late September, Dixie Walker—author of the failed petition against Robinson—told The Sporting News that, with the possible exception of catcher Bruce Edwards, no other player had “done more to put the Dodgers up in the race as Robinson has.”
    When he reported for spring training in 1948, Robinson was twenty-five pounds over his initial playing weight of 195. For those who knew him, the excess weight was no surprise. Robinson loved food. (“His attack on a wedge of apple pie, topped with two scoops of vanilla ice cream,” said one sportswriter, “was an exercise in passion.”) Durocher, having returned as manager, made Robinson endure stringent workouts and eating restrictions.
    While he struggled to control his weight, Robinson also had to wrestle with the racism that he still encountered as the Dodgers moved through their exhibition schedule in the South. At one point, Shotton held a meeting in the clubhouse to explain that someone had threatened to