Free 42 by Aaron Rosenberg

bothers me.”
    He could hear the other man’s uncertainty, so like his own. “How do you mean?”
    Jackie braced himself for the truth. “I don’t like needing help. I don’t like needing anyone but myself. I never have.”
    Smith sighed. “You are a hard case, Jack Robinson. Is it okay if I keep driving you, or should I let you out so you can walk?”
    Startled, Jackie glanced around, taking in the hordes of people still up at this hour, running this way and that. He had absolutely no idea where anything outside this car was, how to get anywhere, whom to ask for directions.
    Finally, he started laughing. After a minute, so did Smith. They both sat there for a minute chuckling, the tension between them finally swept away.
    â€œHey,” Jackie said suddenly. “You remember the last time we were at a red light? Down in Florida?”
    Smith laughed. “New York City now, baby. We’ve come a long way.”
    Jackie just nodded and craned his neck to peer up at the stars and the tall, gleaming buildings shutting them out. “And we got a long way to go.”
    Smith smiled and gave the Buick a little more gas, and they shot off into the night.

    The next morning, Rickey sat in his office, clutching that morning’s edition of the
New York Sun
. Parrott listened as Rickey read aloud from an article that had incensed him.
    â€œ ‘Branch Rickey cannot afford to upset team chemistry, and so the only thing keeping Robinson off the Dodgers now, plainly, is the attitude of the players. If it softens at the sight of Jackie’s skills, he’ll join the club sometime between April tenth and April fifteenth. Otherwise, Robinson will spend the year back in Montreal.’ ”
    Rickey hurled the paper down onto his desk. “For the love of Pete,” he shouted. “He batted six twenty-five in the exhibition games against them . . . us . . . them — against us! Judas Priest!”
    In the outer office, he heard the phone ring, but he ignored it. His secretary, Jane Ann, would handle it. That was what he paid her for, after all.
    â€œMaybe you could have Durocher hold a press conference,” Parrott suggested. “Demand that he get Robinson on his team.”
    Rickey calmed down a little. “Durocher. Of course; he’s my ace in the hole. Very good, Harold.” He knew there’d been a reason he’d stolen Harold away from the newspapers to be the Dodgers’ traveling secretary. He was a good man, and a sharp one. And he was right. Durocher could handle this for them.
    The phone was still ringing, Rickey realized, and he glanced toward his door. “Jane Ann!” he called. “Are you out there?” No one answered — perhaps she’d taken a bathroom break or run out to get a coffee. Well, the ringing was driving him mad, so there was nothing for it — Rickey leaned over and grabbed up the phone on his desk. “Branch Rickey,” he announced into the receiver. “You’re speaking to him . . . the commissioner of what? Oh, yes, put him on.” He dropped back into his chair and looked over at Parrott. “The commissioner of baseball.”
    â€œBranch, how are you?” Rickey could almost see Happy Chandler through the phone — the commissioner was a big, cheerful man with a large, flat head, hair carefully parted in the middle, and an ever-present jovial smile. But behind that smile he was all business, and Rickey could already guess he wasn’t calling with good news.
    Still, it was important to mind his manners, so he answered, “Fine. What can I do for you, Happy?”
    â€œBranch,” Happy said, as casually as if he were calling to talk about the weather, “how would you feel about losing Durocher for a year?”
    What?
Rickey frowned and switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I’m sorry, Happy, I thought you said ‘lose Durocher for a year.’