Free I Never Had It Made by Jackie Robinson Page A

if I thought I could “make it with these white boys.” I said I hadn’t had any crucial problems making it with white fellow athletes in the service or at UCLA or at Pasadena. One of the newsmen asked what I would do if one of the white pitchers threw at my head. I replied that I would duck. Noting that I was a shortstop, another newsman made the assumption that this automatically meant I wanted to replace the popular Brooklyn Dodger shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. I pointed out that Pee Wee Reese was after all with the Brooklyn Dodgers and I was trying to make the Montreal Royals. I was not in a position to go after another man’s job on another team—I was going to concentrate on securing my berth with Montreal. This confrontation with the press was just a taste of what was to come. They frequently stirred up trouble by baiting me or jumping into any situation I was involved in without completely checking the facts before rushing a story into print.
    Clyde Sukeforth, the scout who had taken me to Mr. Rickey, was in camp at Sanford. I was glad to see him. Clyde introduced me to Clay Hopper, the Montreal manager. I had been briefed about Hopper. What I had heard about him wasn’t encouraging. A native of Mississippi, he owned a plantation there, and I had been told he was anti-black. There was no outward sign of prejudice in his manner, however, when we first met. Hopper told me I could take it easy, just hit a few and throw the ball around. This relaxed activity—or, rather, lack of activity—went on all that first day and the next. The evening of the second day, the stunning and discouraging word came that Mr. Rickey had ordered me back to Daytona Beach where I had originally reported. Naturally, I was worried about this sudden shift. Officially, I was told I was being sent ahead to Daytona a few days before the rest of the club was to arrive so that Rachel and I would have a chance to settle down. The truth I learned from Wendell Smith when en route to Daytona, was that my presence with the club in Sanford had already created racial tensions. Local civic officials had decided that mixing black and white players was apt to create trouble.
    Shortly after Branch Rickey had signed me for Montreal, he had signed John Wright, a black pitcher, for the farm club. Johnny was a good pitcher, but I feel he didn’t have the right kind of temperament to make it with the International League in those days. He couldn’t withstand the pressure of taking insult after insult without being able to retaliate. It affected his pitching that he had to keep his temper under control all the time. Later I was very sad because he didn’t make the Montreal team.
    All during that spring training period in Daytona, I was conscious every minute of every day, and during many sleepless nights that I had to make good out there on that ball field. I was determined to prove to our manager, Clay Hopper, that I could make the grade. Perhaps it is a good thing that I didn’t know about Hopper’s initial reaction to me. Hopper had begged Mr. Rickey not to send me to his club.
    â€œPlease don’t do this to me,” he had pleaded. “I’m white and I’ve lived in Mississippi all my life. If you do this, you’re going to force me to move my family and my home out of Mississippi.” Clay Hopper began to come around only after I demonstrated that I was a valuable property for the club.
    During this time of trial, while my fellow players were not overtly hostile to me, they made no particular effort to be friendly. They didn’t speak to Wright or to me except in the line of duty, and we never tried to engage them in conversation. They seemed to have little reaction to us, one way or the other.
    But the generosity and friendliness of one white teammate during those early days with Montreal stands out vividly. A young and talented player, Lou Rochelli, had been—until my arrival—the