42 by Aaron Rosenberg Page B

was the sports section of the
Herald Tribune
.
    â€œThe news isn’t good, sir,” Parrott warned.
    Ricky sighed and leaned back in his chair. Things had been going reasonably well, lately. Dixie Walker continued to shun Jackie, but wasn’t letting it interfere with his performance, and Rickey had just managed to trade the still-hostile Higbe to Pittsburgh for a bit of money and an Italian outfielder named Gionfriddo. Ah, well. He realized Parrott was waiting on him, and smiled. “Nevertheless it must be accepted calmly, Harold. What is it?”
    Parrott held up the newspaper so his boss could see the headline: “PLAYERS STRIKE.” “ ‘A National League players’ strike,’ ” he read out loud, “ ‘instigated by some of the Saint Louis Cardinals against the presence of Negro first baseman Jackie Robinson has been averted temporarily and perhaps permanently quashed.’ ” They both knew, though, that for it to have been started in the first place was a bad sign. And the Dodgers were playing the Cardinals next!
    Rickey shook his head. “Madness! What are they thinking?”
    Parrott didn’t have any answers for him. The rain continued to beat down, but now it sounded more like something dark banging against the door, trying to find a way in.

    Smith was waiting under an umbrella when the Cardinals pulled up to the Manhattan Hotel in their team bus. When the doors opened, the first person off was the manager, Eddie Dyer.
    â€œEddie,” Smith called out, “what’s all this talk about your Cardinals refusing to play?”
    Dyer sneered at him. “We’re here, aren’t we? We didn’t come to New York to go to Macy’s.”
    Right behind Dyer was Big Joe Garagiola, but all he said was “get lost” as he shoved past Smith. Stan Musial was a little more agreeable.
    â€œThis is big-league baseball, not English tea,” he told Smith. “Couple a’ guys might’ve popped off; it’s hot air.”
    But Smith saw the glares from many of the other players, and knew it was a lot more than that.

    Jackie sat at the training table, tending to his bat. The Dodgers had held practice despite the rain, and he didn’t want his wood to warp. He was wiping it down with rubbing alcohol when Rickey came in and sat down beside him, holding a newspaper.
    â€œNational League president Frick says this is America, and baseball is America’s game,” Rickey declared, waving the rolled-up newspaper. “He says one citizen has as much right to play as another.” A clap of thunder sounded outside, and Rickey winced as he continued, “Baseball will go on as planned once the rain stops.”
    Jackie eyed his bat rather than the man next to him. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Rickey?”
    Rickey laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Because my job is to win,” he answered. “I have an obligation to Brooklyn to put the best team on the field that I can. Your presence on the roster increases our chances of winning.”
    Now Jackie did glance up. “If this is winning,” he said, “I’d hate to see us on a losing streak.” The thing was, the Dodgers had been winning more games than not. But he didn’t believe for a second that was Rickey’s only reason for bringing him onto the team.
    Outside, the rain continued.

    Some of the other players were still in the locker room, changing into their street clothes, when Jackie gathered his things for a shower. He overheard Branca reading Reese something from the
New York Post
.
    â€œListen to this,” Branca said. “ ‘Right now Robinson is the loneliest man I have ever seen in sports.’ ” He threw the paper down. “Who’s this guy to say Jackie’s lonely?” he demanded. “He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve. Man’s got a fantastic game face. Take no prisoners. How does some