I Never Had It Made: An Autobiography of Jackie Robinson Read online

  It was then he called me a prima donna and said I was behaving like a “crybaby” over a sore leg.

  That’s when Rachel’s rage broke. She started off saying she felt she had to express herself. She said she resented my being called a prima donna.

  “I’ve seen him play with sore legs, a sore back, sore arms, even without other members of the team knowing it,” Rachel declared. “Doing it not for praise, but because he was thinking about his team. Nobody worries about this club more than Jackie Robinson and that includes the owners. I live with him, so I know. Nobody gets up earlier than Jackie Robinson to see what kind of day it’s going to be, if it’s going to be good weather for the game, if the team is likely to have a good crowd. Nobody else spends more time worrying about Pee Wee Reese’s sore foot or Gil Hodges’ batting slump or Carl Erskine’s ailing arm. Jack’s heart and soul is with the baseball club, and it pains me deeply to have you say what you just said.”

  Rachel was just warming up.

  “You know, Mr. O’Malley,” she continued, “bringing Jack into organized baseball was not the greatest thing Mr. Rickey did for him. In my opinion, it was this: Having brought Jack in, he stuck by him to the very end. He understood Jack. He never listened to the ugly little rumors like those you have mentioned to us today. If there was something wrong, he would go to Jack and ask him about it. He would talk to Jack and they would get to the heart of it like men with a mutual respect for the abilities and feelings of each other.”

  Then, I told O’Malley that I could have made a lot of legitimate complaints about the crummy hotel we were living in and about a number of other things. “It doesn’t strike me as fair to have people who are sitting in comfort in an air-conditioned hotel lecture me about not complaining,” I said.

  O’Malley abruptly changed his tune. He began to apply the soft soap, telling us he had meant no harm and pleading with me to “just try to come out and play today.”

  He backed down because he had found out he couldn’t bully us. O’Malley never really let up. He continued to make anti-Rickey remarks that he knew would get under my skin, and he knew, because I had told him, that I would always be loyal to Mr. Rickey.

  My troubles continued. In 1953 I had unwittingly detonated an explosion. I appeared on a television program: Youth Wants to Know, moderated by Faye Emerson. During the show, where members of the studio audience ask unrehearsed questions, one young lady asked me if I thought the Yankees were discriminating in their hiring practices. It was a loaded question because the Yankees, at the time, had a lily-white team. I replied that the Yankee players were tops in my book as sportsmen and good guys. However, since I couldn’t duck the real thrust of her question, I added that I thought the Yankee front office was discriminating against blacks and pointed out that they were the only team in New York which had not hired even one.

  I had no idea—and I am sure that girl never dreamed—that her innocent question and my candid reply would cause all hell to break loose. The next day headline stories were published. A Cleveland writer tried to take me apart in an article in which he described me as a “soap box orator” and a “rabble-rouser.” Many hate letters, a lot of them anonymous, came into our club attacking me. When Commissioner Frick sent for me, I anticipated a strong verbal rebuke and possibly disciplinary measures. I was ready, however, because I had said what I meant. I told the commissioner as soon as I faced him that I would repeat what I had said to anyone who asked me the question again. If the Yankees were so concerned, why didn’t they answer in the only convincing way they could, by hiring some black players?

  The commissioner surprised me. He said he was not trying to protect or defend the Yankees. He merely wanted to get to the bottom of the matter because to do so was his responsibility. He agreed when I said that he might do well to request the script of the show and see what I had actually said. When we finished our talk, Commissioner Frick made a statement which I will never forget.

  “Jackie,” he said, “I just want you to know how I feel personally. Whenever you believe enough in something to sound off about it, whenever you feel strongly that you’ve got to come out swinging, I sincerely hope you’ll swing the real heavy bat and not the fungo.”

  Without that kind of support from some of the people in baseball who had power, I could not have made it, no matter how well I performed, no matter how loyal black people were. I am well aware that there were countless other whites, not as well-known or influential, who were in my corner.

  I remember the fans in Montreal who rocked the Louisville team by giving them a tremendous booing in retaliation for the way Louisville had heckled me when I played there. Those same Canadians made life for Rachel and me comfortable and warm with affection. They spared no effort in showing me that they were proud that I belonged to their home team. They were not black people.

  This is one of the reasons I cannot buy the “black only” package being peddled by segregationists who are white and separatists who are black. There are those who sincerely believe that the racial problem can be solved if an all-black society is created. They are flattering the black masses, making them believe an impossible dream will come true. The best opportunity for genocide the bigoted white man could have is to help blacks establish an all-black society in this country. It would be much more convenient to wipe out blacks if they were all collected in one place. It seems to me wrong—in fact, evil—for “leaders” to envision an all-black paradise, to mislead a people starving for hope.

  I am not a fanatical integrationist. I don’t think there is any particular magic in a white kid sitting next to a black kid in a classroom. I simply don’t want all-black classrooms and all-black schools in a system where the best teachers and the best equipment and the best administration go to the white school and the worst to the black. I see more value in making a ghetto school great enough to induce parents of all races to send their children to it. I also believe both black and white children can gain something by being able to relate to each other.

  I am opposed to enforced separatism and I am opposed to enforced segregation. The first freedom for all people is freedom of choice. I want to live in a neighborhood of my choice where I can afford to pay the rent. I want to send my children to school where I believe they will develop best. I want the freedom to rise as high in my career as my ability indicates. I want to be free to follow the dictates of my own mind and conscience without being subject to the pressures of any man, black or white. I think that is what most people of all races want. Unfortunately, it is not what black people in this country have. Until we do, we will continue to live in a farcical society, and the high principles on which America was founded will continue to be distorted. Finally, although I am opposed to complete separatism, there is a valid necessity for blacks to stand apart and develop themselves independently. We must have a sense of our own identity and we must develop an economic unity so we can built an independent power base from which to deal with whites on a more equal basis. This is what I tried to do later in my life when I got involved in the Freedom Bank venture. It is only through such accomplishments as these that we can negotiate from strength and self-respect rather than from the weak position of trying to be included in already existing white institutions.

  VIII

  The Growing Family

  After the birth of Sharon in 1950, our house in St. Albans had become increasingly inadequate. In addition to being too small, it was located right on the street without any room for privacy. Well-meaning people constantly harassed us. They would pull up in their cars, walk boldly into our front yard and start taking pictures. When they rang the bell, Rae would go to the door, dressed for housework, to find people insistent on taking her picture. Usually they would demand that Rae produce the children for a picture. If Rae insisted on the right to privacy, they would leave grumbling that the Robinsons were stuck up and didn’t appreciate what the public had done for them. Inevitably, the public both idolizes and abuses celebrities and their fa
milies. We understood and were grateful for their interest. On the other hand, anyone like me who can’t abide discourtesies, such as being expected to stop in the middle of a meal in a restaurant to sign an autograph, runs the risk of being called ungrateful. Usually, Rachel was very diplomatic with the intruders, but some of the liberties people took got on her nerves.

  By the time David was born on May 14, 1952, we were determined to leave Long Island and we wanted to either find or, preferably, build another house. Considering all the traveling I did in baseball, I was really blessed to be able to be home for the births of each of our three children. I came in from St. Louis in time for David’s arrival on the scene. Rachel had never had any trouble after births before, but this time she developed acute nephritis, which was quickly brought under control, but David had to be brought home before she was released. Willette Bailey, a family friend, was our salvation then. She agreed to become nurse for the new baby and generally help with the children. She continued to help us out for a number of years.

  While Rachel was house-hunting in 1952 and 1953, we became even more acutely aware that racial prejudice and discrimination in housing is vicious. It doesn’t matter whether you are a day laborer or a celebrity, as long as you are black. There were numerous instances which proved that. Once Rachel found property in Purchase, New York. We liked it so much that we wanted to put a deposit on it. Suddenly, it was taken off the market. In other cases, the places we could have bought zoomed upward in price when the owners learned my identity. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether we were being subjected to color prejudice or celebrity prejudice or both. Whatever the reason, being treated differently from others is very frustrating.

  We were having a bad time trying to find the kind of place we wanted. We were looking for a big house with rooms for each of our children. We wanted them to be able to play outdoors with plenty of space, a minimum of risk from traffic, and we wanted water that we could see and perhaps use for swimming and rowing. We passionately wanted our children to be educated in integrated schools.

  Our neighborhood associations at St. Albans had been pleasant and we had been proud to see that the blacks who had moved into the community were enhancing property values rather than depreciating them. They cared for their homes and grounds. They spent significant sums of money refurbishing inside and outside. However, there was one factor which alarmed us. Younger families were replacing older couples. Teachers, who were all white and older, were unhappy and unprepared to deal with black children or with the increase in the size of their classes. Remember, this was twenty years ago and the passion for integration in schools was growing to a fever pitch, culminating in the triumphant Supreme Court decision in 1954. Like so many parents then, we knew our children were growing up in a society where they would have to deal with people of all colors; therefore, we wanted them to learn about people of other races while they were still young. However, conditions in the school got worse, and it seemed to us that Jackie was not getting the education we wanted for him. This was the conflict we faced—wanting to be part of the great integration movement and yet fearing for our son’s education. When the school went on double sessions because of the overcrowding and shortage of teachers, we reluctantly withdrew Jackie and put him in a private school.

  Meanwhile, just when our house-hunting was at its most discouraging, a newsman from the Bridgeport Herald in Bridgeport, Connecticut, stepped into the picture. He was working on a series on housing discrimination and had heard we were having trouble locating. He telephoned Rachel and asked to interview her. After the interview, he did a major piece about all the obvious, subtle, and sophisticated methods that had been used to tell us, “We don’t want you for a neighbor.” His article made it appear that the North Stamford, Connecticut community had been exceptionally guilty. This wasn’t really accurate and it did not reflect what Rae had said about that particular community, but it was most effective in mobilizing North Stamford ministers who did not appreciate being pictured as racists and were prepared to assist. We received several offers to inspect properties in North Stamford and surrounding areas. Some were white elephants in Greenwich which the owners were trying to unload on anyone. We had to turn them down. One real estate man, either ill-intentioned or ignorant, had spread the rumor that we didn’t really want to buy a house since we had turned down a few that had been offered us; that we were actually agitators trying to stir up racial trouble.

  Tom Gaines, a liberal builder and developer, and a group of ministers, apparently in reaction to the newspaper piece, set up a committee in North Stamford to fight housing bias. Andrea Simon, one of the key members, phoned Rachel and said the ministers on the committee would like to talk to her at a meeting at the Simon home. Rachel very quickly disposed of the rumor that we were agitators when she met with the committee. The ministers agreed to take up the issue with their congregations.

  A real estate broker had been invited by Andrea Simon to attend the meeting. Immediately afterwards he arranged to show Rachel and Andrea available properties. The first few places were interesting but lacked one or more of the elements we desired. Finally, the broker said she had one more place, but she was reluctant to show it. She felt it was exactly what Rae and I were looking for. However, she didn’t want Rae to see it and get excited about it only to find that we couldn’t have it. She said the builder had a financial problem and that the banks and local merchants would have to be checked before we could have it.

  The minute she arrived at the place, Rachel fell in love with it. The expanse of land, the beautiful private lake, the majestic trees—and the foundations for the house to be built on—all were perfect. The builder after a talk with the broker an-nounced that we had a deal. A year’s search was over.

  We bought the Stamford property in 1954 but were unable to occupy it until 1955. There were some fascinating developments involving the builder. He was a character—lovable but sometimes difficult. He had his problems and we had ours.

  Rachel and I have constantly tried to assess how wise we were in depriving our children of black companionship. When we were in St. Albans, the private nursery school we sent Jackie to was all-white at first. I think we were unaware of how detrimental that was to him. We were simply determined to send our children to a good school. We hoped Jackie’s school would become better balanced racially than it did. Then, when we moved to North Stamford, which was predominantly white at the time, we fervently hoped that other black families would follow us. We wanted our children in good schools, and we wanted the neighborhoods and schools to be integrated so they could have black companionship. This did not occur soon enough for our children.

  We now realize how much being “the only black” can hurt. In talks with us as they grew up, our children made us realize what a heavy burden had been placed on them. Sharon, as well as David and Jackie, went through a loss of identity. Parents often don’t know what their youngsters are exposed to—the name-calling, the slights, the feeling of being excluded, even the feeling of being patronized, and the realization that there is nobody in your class or school who looks like you. We learned belatedly that a “good school” involves much more than excellent teaching.

  When the time came for Rachel to take Jackie, Jr., to school in Connecticut she was deeply concerned. She says she began to recognize some of the hesitation that black parents in the South are subject to: wondering whether or not to put their children in white schools. In addition to being the only black youngster in the school, our son would face other serious disadvantages. In the private school on Long Island, said to be a very fine one, he had learned to print but not to write, and he could scarcely read. Socially and academically, he was going to have adult-sized barriers to climb. Rachel says, in no uncertain terms, that if we had it to do all over again, she would elect to remain in an all-black community rather than go through the frustrating year-long search to find an integrated community and then finally to have to settle for an all-white community. We thought we
were pioneering. Today, blacks are moving into the suburbs at a rapid rate. That wasn’t true eighteen years ago when our kids needed it. We did better with Sharon and David when their school time came along because by that time we were more aware. But when Jackie first entered school, it was different. The builder promised us our home would be ready by the time school opened. We had already moved out of our old house, and our dear friends, Andrea and Richard Simon, had loaned us their summer home in Stamford. Jackie had been friends with the Simons’ son for some time. They were the same age and he had been visiting them all summer. But the Simons went back to Riverdale when we took over their place temporarily. So Jackie had to go it alone.

  Jackie’s first day of school is a day Rachel will never forget. When she arrived at the Martha Hoyt School with our son, the other kids were all standing in line. They had just alighted from the bus and were ready to go into the school. As Rae went up the steps, she could hear them whispering. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was obvious that they were discussing Jackie. It was a long climb up those steps to where the principal stood. Rachel hoped desperately that Jackie couldn’t hear the comments about this strange, little colored boy who had arrived on the scene. Rae kept hoping she would see at least one other black kid in the school. There were none and there were no other public schools near us. This meant there was no choice and Jackie had to go to Martha Hoyt. Rae was sure that first day that Jackie sensed that the whispers and stares meant he was somehow different and that he was aware of the tension surrounding him and his mother.