Branch Rickey by Jimmy Breslin Page B

and misrepresented again!”
    When he sat down it was reported that there was tremendous applause. Maybe, but that speech did not succeed with Rachel Robinson. Many years later, she said, “That speech. It was racist. I’d like to forget it.”
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    At the start of spring training, Robinson is still with Montreal, but everybody knows this is a fake. The Dodgers were training at an old military base in Panama for an exhibition game against a team of Carribean all-stars. Most knew that Robinson was only days away. The manager, Leo Durocher, spent a day going around and telling one player after another, “Isn’t it great we’re going to have Robinson? He can get a pennant for us.” Leo did not like the reactions. He heard a whisper that Dixie Walker was starting a petition against Robinson. Leo went to bed and thought for a long time. If these imbeciles give their petition to Rickey, he figured, they are making the thing official. It’ll break this club up. I’m supposed to get World Series money this year. These fucks and their petition are going to take money out of my pocket.
    He swung out of bed. “Get everybody up!”
    There were two ways of addressing ballplayers at this time.
    One was Rickey’s indirection, verbal subterfuge, calling for a religious book, a story about Ty Cobb, anything to delay and confuse and soften the path.
    Then there was Durocher’s way. Right now, he stands in the big military base kitchen, with players seated on steam tables and chopping blocks. No newspaper people were present. They needed their sleep. But everybody who was there, from Durocher down, told of his speech so frequently that it became an official final score.
    â€œI hear some of you fellas don’t want to play with Robinson,” he said, “and that you have a petition drawn up that you are going to sign. Well, boys, you know what you can do with that petition. You can wipe your ass with it. Mister Rickey is on his way down here and all you have to do is tell him about it. I’m sure he’ll be happy to make other arrangements for you.
    â€œI hear Dixie Walker is going to send Mister Rickey a letter asking to be traded. Just hand him the letter, Dixie, and you’ll be gone. Gone! If this fellow is good enough to play on this ball club—and from what I’ve seen and heard, he is—he is going to play on this ball club and he is going to play for me.
    â€œI’m the manager of this ball club and I’m interested in one thing,” he continued. “Winning. I’ll play an elephant if he can do the job, and to make room for him I’ll send my own brother home. So make up your mind to it. This fellow is a real great ballplayer. He’s going to win pennants for us. He’s going to put money in your pocket and money in mine. And here’s something else to think about when you put your head back on the pillow. From everything I hear, he’s only the first—ONLY THE FIRST, BOYS. There’s many more coming right behind him and they have the talent and they gonna come to play. These fellows are hungry. They’re good athletes and there’s nowhere else they can make this kind of money. They’re going to come, boys, and they’re going to come scratching and diving. Unless you fellows wake up and look out, they’re going to run you right out of the ballpark. So I don’t want to see your petition and I don’t want to hear any more about it. The meeting is over—go back to bed.”
    When Rickey reached Panama he had a morning meeting with Dixie Walker, which angered him plenty, and then another with Bobby Bragan, young and sullen, a reserve catcher from Fort Worth. He stood alongside Rickey with his fists clenched and his face contorted. He came from a contractor’s household where he answered black workers at the back door asking for a two- or three-dollar advance on their pay.
    â€œAre you