Civil Rights Slugger

It is among the most shameful scenes in American sports history: At a major league baseball park—Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, New York—a black player comes to bat. From the opposing dugout, white players, led by their manager, taunt the batter mercilessly. 

“Hey, boy,” they call him, a then-common way to belittle black men, “come and shine my shoes.” “Boy, why ain’t you picking cotton?”

The batter for the Brooklyn Dodgers is Jackie Robinson. A week before, on April 15, 1947, he had become the first black man to play major league baseball in the 20th century. The abuse leaves him so upset, he later writes, that he is “an easy out.” 

But late in the game, with the score tied, Robinson singles, races to third on an error, and scores on a hit. With that, the Dodgers beat the Philadelphia Phillies 1-0.

Then and in the months and years to come, Robinson made opponents eat their words. He sparked the integration of all professional sports in the U.S. and served as an inspiration for the civil rights movement. This April 15, as they do each year, all players in the majors will wear his number—42—to mark Robinson’s debut as a Dodger 70 years ago.

Yet Robinson’s journey wasn’t easy. “I know that I am a black man in a white world,” he later wrote. As good a player as he was, “I never had it made."

It is among the most shameful scenes in American sports history. At a major league baseball park—Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, New York—a black player comes to bat. From the opposing dugout, white players yell insults at him.

“Hey, boy,” they say, “come and shine my shoes.” “Boy, why ain’t you picking cotton?” (At the time, “boy” was a common way to belittle black men.)

The batter for the Brooklyn Dodgers is Jackie Robinson. A week before, on April 15, 1947, he had become the first black man to play major league baseball in the 20th century.

The abuse at Ebbets Field leaves Robinson very upset. He later writes that the taunts make him “an easy out.”

But late in the game, Robinson singles with the score tied. He races to third on an error and scores on a hit. With that, the Dodgers beat the Philadelphia Phillies 1-0.

Then and in the months and years to come, Robinson made opponents eat their words. He sparked the integration of all professional sports in the U.S. He also served as an inspiration for the civil rights movement.

On April 15, all players in the majors will wear Robinson’s number: 42. They will do so to mark his debut as a Dodger 70 years ago.

Yet Robinson’s journey wasn’t easy. “I know that I am a black man in a white world,” he later wrote. As good a player as he was, “I never had it made.”

When Robinson was born in 1919, barely half a century had passed since the Civil War (1861-65). His great-grandfather had been a slave. Pasadena, California, the city where Robinson grew up, was far from the Deep South of his ancestors. Still, blacks faced discrimination in almost every aspect of their lives there. 

But Robinson was proud and tough. He didn’t hesitate to insist that he was equal to whites. A couple of times, that got him into scrapes with cops who didn’t take kindly to black kids with attitude. 

Robinson was born in 1919. At the time, barely half a century had passed since the Civil War (1861-65). His great-grandfather had been a slave.

Robinson grew up in Pasadena, California. The city was far from the Deep South of his ancestors. Still, blacks faced discrimination in almost every aspect of their lives there.

But Robinson was proud and tough. He insisted that he was equal to whites. A couple of times, he got into arguments with cops who didn’t like black kids with attitude.

From the start, Robinson was a gifted athlete. He lettered in four sports at the University of California, Los Angeles. In March 1945, he won a spot playing shortstop in the Negro Leagues. Those pro teams of black players were completely separate from major league baseball, which, like other pro leagues in the United States, was still segregated. 

Then just a few months later, a scout from the major league Brooklyn Dodgers approached him. The Dodgers’ general manager, Branch Rickey, had heard reports about Robinson and wanted to meet.

Robinson was always a gifted athlete. He lettered in four sports at the University of California, Los Angeles. In March 1945, he won a spot playing shortstop in the Negro Leagues. Those pro teams of black players were completely separate from major league baseball. Like other pro leagues in the United States, major league baseball was still segregated.

Then just a few months later, a scout from the major league Brooklyn Dodgers approached him. The Dodgers’ general manager, Branch Rickey, had heard reports about Robinson. Rickey wanted to meet the star player. 

Rickey had a radical vision for integrating baseball—and building a championship Dodgers team in the process. There was a lot of untapped talent in the Negro Leagues, he believed. Somewhere there was a player who had the talent and courage to break the color line, as it was known. “I don’t know who he is, or where he is,” Rickey had said, “but he is coming.” 

Rickey’s search ultimately led him to Robinson, who came to Brooklyn in August 1945 to meet the baseball executive. Their first encounter in Rickey’s office has since become legend. Rickey confronted Robinson with every insult the player was likely to face. White pitchers would purposely throw balls at his head. Could he take it? 

“Mr. Rickey, are you looking for a Negro who is afraid to fight back?” Robinson asked. 

“Robinson, I’m looking for a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back,” Rickey replied. Retaliating, he believed, might set back the cause of integration for years.

The idea of not defending himself was contrary to everything Robinson believed. But he agreed to try it Rickey’s way. The men shook hands.

Rickey had a radical vision for integrating baseball. He also wanted to build a championship Dodgers team. He believed there was a lot of talent in the Negro Leagues. Somewhere there was a player who could break the color line, as it was known. “I don’t know who he is, or where he is,” Rickey had said. “But he is coming.”

Rickey’s search led him to Robinson. The player came to Brooklyn in August 1945 to meet the baseball executive. Their first encounter in Rickey’s office has since become legend. Rickey confronted Robinson with every insult the player was likely to face. White pitchers would purposely throw balls at his head. Could he take it?

“Mr. Rickey, are you looking for a Negro who is afraid to fight back?” Robinson asked.

“Robinson, I’m looking for a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back,” Rickey replied. He believed that retaliating might set back the cause of integration for years.

The idea of not defending himself went against everything Robinson believed. But he agreed to try it Rickey’s way. The men shook hands.    

Robinson’s first year on the Dodgers was just as tough as Rickey had warned. “As a batter, Robinson was thrown at almost daily,” baseball reporter Roger Kahn later wrote. Players hurled the most vile insults at him. Sometimes the insults came from his own team.

When the Dodgers traveled in the South, Robinson couldn’t sleep in the same hotels as white players, who socialized without him. One reporter who spent time with the team wrote, “Robinson is the loneliest man I have ever seen in sports.”

Yet Robinson remained strong. “He felt the weight of black people on his shoulders,”  his wife, Rachel, later told Ken Burns, who made a documentary about Robinson.

And no one could deny that Robinson won ball games. He brought a new, aggressive style of running the bases to the game. At the end of his first season, the Dodgers won the National League championship. Robinson was given an honor brand-new to baseball, Rookie of the Year. 

Even teammates who had opposed his joining the team came to accept him as their own. Dodgers outfielder Fred “Dixie” Walker, an Alabamian who had threatened to quit at the start of the season rather than play with a black man, remarked, “He is everything Branch Rickey said he was.”

Robinson’s first year on the Dodgers was tough. “As a batter, Robinson was thrown at almost daily,” baseball reporter Roger Kahn later wrote. Players hurled nasty insults at him. Sometimes the insults came from his own team.

When the Dodgers traveled in the South, Robinson couldn’t sleep in the same hotels as white players. They socialized without him. “Robinson is the loneliest man I have ever seen in sports,” wrote a reporter.

Yet Robinson remained strong. “He felt the weight of black people on his shoulders,” his wife, Rachel, later told Ken Burns. Burns made a documentary about Robinson.

And no one could deny that Robinson won ball games. He brought a new, aggressive style of running the bases to the game. At the end of his first season, the Dodgers won the National League championship. Robinson won Rookie of the Year. That was an honor brand-new to baseball.

Even teammates who had opposed his joining the team came to accept him. Dodgers outfielder Fred “Dixie” Walker had threatened to quit at the start of the season rather than play with a black man. But he later said that Robinson “is everything Branch Rickey said he was.”

Throughout the U.S., blacks looked to Robinson as a test of how much freedom America would allow them. That was especially true of other ballplayers, such as outfielder Monte Irvin, one of the first blacks to join the New York Giants. “Every day that he played, he pushed that door open just a little wider for the rest of us who were waiting to get through,” Irvin said. 

The door stayed open. In July 1947, the Cleveland Indians signed Larry Doby, the first black player in the American League. Soon, nearly every major league team was following suit. Baseball never looked back.

Robinson’s fight for equality also helped usher in the civil rights movement of the 1950s and ’60s (see timeline, below), which he actively supported. In 1962, Martin Luther King Jr. called the baseball player’s journey one of the movement’s inspirations. “Robinson was a sit-inner before sit-ins, a freedom rider before freedom rides,” King said.

Throughout the U.S., blacks looked to Robinson as a test of how much freedom America would allow them. That was especially true of other ballplayers, such as outfielder Monte Irvin. He was one of the first blacks to join the New York Giants. “Every day that he played, he pushed that door open just a little wider for the rest of us who were waiting to get through,” Irvin said.

The door stayed open. In July 1947, the Cleveland Indians signed Larry Doby. He was the first black player in the American League. Nearly every major league team soon followed suit. Baseball never looked back.

Robinson’s fight for equality also helped usher in the civil rights movement of the 1950s and ’60s. In 1962, Martin Luther King Jr. called the baseball player’s journey one of the movement’s inspirations. “Robinson was a sit-inner before sit-ins, a freedom rider before freedom rides,” King said.

Robinson played 10 seasons, a brief career for a top player. But his importance to major league baseball lives on. In 1962, he was the first black player elected to its Hall of Fame. In 1997, his number was permanently retired throughout the majors, the only time that has been done.

Yet before he died in 1972, Robinson expressed frustration that his breakthrough had not led to broader changes in society. “I cannot possibly believe I have it made while so many of my black brothers and sisters are . . . denied their dignity,” he wrote in his autobiography.

Nearly 50 years since his death, America remains divided by race. Last year, the Pew Research Center reported that black workers make only 75 percent of what whites make in hourly earnings. African-Americans are at least twice as likely to live in poverty, a result of many decades of segregation in housing. And in one study, 43 percent of blacks said they doubted they would ever achieve equality in the U.S.  

To filmmaker Burns, this divide is a sign that all of Robinson’s struggles to address such issues remain relevant today: “If [Robinson] were still alive, he would be fighting for all of these things.”

Robinson played 10 seasons. This is a brief career for a top player. But his importance to major league baseball lives on. In 1962, he was the first black player elected to its Hall of Fame. In 1997, his number was permanently retired throughout the majors. This is the only time that has been done.

Yet before he died in 1972, Robinson expressed frustration that his breakthrough had not led to bigger changes in society. “I cannot possibly believe I have it made while so many of my black brothers and sisters are . . . denied their dignity,” he wrote in his autobiography.

Nearly 50 years since his death, America remains divided by race. Last year, the Pew Research Center reported that black workers make only 75 percent of what whites make in hourly earnings. African-Americans are at least twice as likely to live in poverty. This is a result of many decades of segregation in housing. And in one study, 43 percent of blacks said they doubted they would ever achieve equality in the U.S. 

To filmmaker Burns, this divide is a sign that all of Robinson’s struggles to address such issues remain relevant today: “If [Robinson] were still alive, he would be fighting for all of these things.”