42 by Aaron Rosenberg

Jackie stared right back as he deliberately took a huge lead off first.
    Leonard didn’t even hesitate. He fired toward first. The ball was fast, all right, but Jackie was faster. After being declared safe, he stood again. He didn’t bother to brush the dirt from his uniform.
    Finally, Leonard gave Reiser his attention. And the instant he pitched, Jackie took off toward second. Reiser swung and missed, and the Phillies catcher immediately lobbed the ball to second, but his aim was off and the ball went wide. Jackie put on a burst of speed and rounded the corner to third.
    â€œLook,” the Phillies third baseman said to him after Jackie had stopped there, “I’m sorry. I want you to know; what goes on here, it don’t go for me.”
    Jackie nodded ever so slightly. He didn’t want to lose his anger right now, but it was nice to know that not every Philly player was like Chapman.
    He got ready to run again but wound up not having to — Reiser struck out, but Hermanski cracked a single to left and Jackie was able to trot home, barely breathing hard. He glared at Chapman as he passed, but the Phillies manager spat on the ground, clearly unmoved. Still, he didn’t look happy.

    â€œYou fellas are making too big a deal out of this,” Chapman declared in the visitors’ locker room a short while later. “He scored. We lost. One to nothing.” He took a sip of his drink.
    â€œDo you think you were a little hard on Robinson?” one of the reporters asked.
    Chapman shook his head. “We treat him the same way we do Hank Greenberg,” he claimed, “except we call Hank a kike instead of a coon. When we play exhibitions against the Yankees, we call DiMaggio the Wop. They laugh at it. No harm, it’s forgotten after the game ends.” He tossed his empty beer can aside.
    â€œDon’t you think this was maybe one foot over the line?” a different reporter insisted.
    Chapman barked out a laugh. “Hey, let’s get the chips off our shoulders and play ball,” he said easily. “It’s a game, right?”

    Rickey was lost in thought when Parrott walked into his office. “I’m going in that Philly dugout tomorrow,” the young traveling secretary charged, “and wringing Chapman’s neck!” Rickey surprised him by bursting out laughing. “Did I say something funny?”
    Rickey took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes. “When I first told you about Jackie,” he pointed out, “you were against it. Now all of a sudden you’re worrying about him. How do you suppose that happened?”
    Parrott studied his feet. “Well, any decent-minded person —”
    His boss cut him off. “
Sympathy
, Harold, is a Greek word. It means ‘to suffer.’ ‘I sympathize with you’ means ‘I suffer with you.’ This Philadelphia manager has done me a service.”
    â€œA service?” Parrott stared at him.
    His tone made Rickey laugh again. “Is there an echo in here? Yes, he’s creating sympathy on Jackie’s behalf.
Philadelphia
, by the way, is Greek for ‘brotherly love.’ ”
    The buzz of the intercom interrupted him. “Bob Bragan to see you, Mr. Rickey,” Jane Ann warned.
    That made Rickey’s good mood sour. “What does he want?” He stabbed a button on the intercom. “Send him in.”
    He straightened some papers on his desk and pretended to be busy as Bragan entered.
    â€œWhat do you want, Bragan?” Rickey barely looked up.
    â€œI’d like not to be traded, sir, if it isn’t too late,” Bragan answered.
    Now Rickey was paying attention. “What about Robinson?”
    Bragan had been staring at the floor, but now he looked up and met Rickey’s eyes. “I’d like to be his teammate.”
    Rickey frowned. “Why?”
    Bragan shrugged and looked away again. “The world’s changing,”