42 by Aaron Rosenberg Page A

he said. “I guess I can live with the change.”
    Rickey considered him for a second. “Well,” he drawled, “the Red Sox just offered Ted Williams, but I’ll see what I can do.” That wasn’t even remotely true, of course — Williams was ten times the player Bragan was, and they both knew it.
    Bragan nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Rickey.”
    After he left, Rickey and Parrott just looked at each other. They were both stunned. One of the men behind the petition to keep Jackie from playing now wanted to be Jackie’s teammate? What an amazing thing!

    Jackie finally stepped out from under the stands and was shocked to find Rachel there. “You shouldn’t have waited,” he told her.
    She graced him with a sweet smile. “They haven’t made a day long enough that I wouldn’t wait for you.”
    Jackie couldn’t help but laugh at her attitude. “Give these boys time,” he retorted. “It’s a three-game series.” He turned serious again. “I don’t care if they like me; I didn’t come here to make friends. I don’t even care if they respect me. I know who I am; I got enough respect for myself. But I do not want them to beat me.”
    Rachel took his hand and grasped it fiercely. “They are never going to beat you.”
    He sighed. “They’re taking their best shot. I don’t want you coming tomorrow. I don’t want you to watch that, them beating me.”
    She just gripped his hand tighter. “Wherever you are, I am, too. Look at me, Jack.” He did, though reluctantly. “I have to watch. So our hearts don’t break. Plus, I already bought a scorecard.” She held it up. His name was the only one filled in. “And I put your name on it. See? Jack Robinson.”
    He laughed and reached out for her other hand, twirling her around.
    â€œI did good the day I met you,” he told her.
    Rachel grinned up at him. “Baby, you hit a home run.”

    The next day, the Phillies scored a run at the top of the first. Jackie stepped up to bat in the bottom half. And sure enough, Chapman was there to bait him.
    â€œHey, porch monkey!” he called. “Hey, Robinson! Hey, boy! You know why you’re here?”
    Motion from the Dodgers dugout caught Jackie’s eye, and he turned in time to see Stanky launching himself forward. The fiery little guy headed straight for Chapman, who was still talking.
    â€œYou’re here to draw those nigger dollars at the gate for Rickey!” he was saying. Then he spotted Stanky coming toward him full tilt.
    â€œSit down,” Jackie heard Stanky snarl as he closed the distance. “Sit down, or I’ll sit you down.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Stank?” Chapman asked.
    â€œYou’re the problem, you disgrace!” Stanky replied, his voice carrying across the field. “What kind of man are you? You know he can’t fight! Pick on someone who can fight!”
    The two of them glared at each other for a minute. Finally, Chapman threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Jesus.” He returned to his dugout, and, suddenly free from distraction, Jackie hit a strong single.
    Reiser was next, and he banged out a home run. Jackie jogged around the bases. When he reached the dugout, he sought out Stanky and plopped down next to him.
    â€œThanks,” he told the second baseman.
    Stanky shook his head. “For what? You’re on my team. What am I supposed to do?” He rose to his feet and walked away, but not without muttering, “I gotta look in the mirror, too.”
    Jackie watched him go, and smiled. Today was turning out to be a pretty good day.

R ickey was sitting in his office, watching rain beat down against the windows, when Parrott rushed in. The younger man was soaking wet and clutching a newspaper he’d evidently cradled to keep from being destroyed. As he dropped into a chair, Rickey saw that it