Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin Page A

catching or hitting, he focused only on what the pitcher was throwing, not the color of his opponent. Since his rookie season with the Dodgers in 1948, he had established himself unequivocally as the best catcher in the National League. In 1949 he led all catchers with a .287 batting average, twenty-two doubles, and twenty-two home runs.
    I couldn’t wait to tell my father that his favorite player would be coming to our town, so he would get tickets and take me with him. I begged my mother to take me to the train station so I could tell my father the dramatic news as soon as he stepped off the platform, As our car passed St. Agnes on the way to the station, however, it dawned on me that Campanella was scheduled to speak in the
Episcopal
church. “Oh, no!” I said. “It can’t be.” “What?” my mother asked. Close to tears, I announced that there was no hope of my going after all, since I was forbidden to set foot inthe Episcopal church. Campanella was coming to my town and I could not even go to see him. To my surprise, my mother simply said, “Well, let’s see, let’s wait and talk to Daddy.” When I explained the dilemma to my father, he said that he understood the church’s prohibition against participating in the service of another church, but he didn’t really believe it extended to attending a lecture by a baseball player in the parish hall. He was certain it would be proper for us to go and would get the tickets the following day.
    Reassured, I put my qualms aside until the big night arrived and the moment came to cross the threshold of the white clapboard church. A sudden terror took possession of me, and my knees began to tremble. Fearing that we would be struck dead in retaliation for our act of defiance, I squeezed my body against my father and let his momentum carry me past the door, through the sanctuary, and into the parish hall. At first, I tried to keep my eyes on the ground, but I soon found myself surveying the simple altar, small windows, and plain wooden pews, so much less ornate and imposing than ours. A podium had been set up in the hall with about 150 folding chairs, and we were lucky enough to find seats in the second row.
    The program opened with choral singing, which subsided as the black Baptist minister, Reverend Morgan Days, came forward to introduce the squat, powerful Campanella, dressed in a black shirt and a light jacket with broad lapels. His topic was not baseball, but “Delinquency and Sportsmanship.” Nonetheless, I tried to absorb every word. Children, he argued, were not born with prejudice but were infected with it by their elders. The only way to combat this cycle of bigotry was to bring kids of different races together early on in social and recreational programs. He had a surprisingly squeaky voice for a powerful-lookingman, but his message rang with such conviction that he received a standing ovation. When his presentation ended, Campanella stood around for half an hour shaking hands with everyone. There were a dozen things I wanted to say, but when he turned and took my hand, I managed only to thank him for being a Dodger and for coming to our town. The warmth of his broad smile was all I needed to know that this was a night I would never forget.
    My earlier fear returned, however, as I climbed into bed that night. The warnings of the nuns tumbled through my head, convincing me that I had traded the life of my everlasting soul for the joy of one glorious night when I held Roy Campanella’s strong hand in a forbidden church. Jumping out of bed, I got down on my knees and repeated every prayer I could remember, in the hope that each would wipe away part of the stain that the Episcopal church had left on my soul. I was distracted in school the following day, and again that night had difficulty falling asleep. It was a Friday night, and my parents were playing bridge with three other couples in the dining room, so I could not run downstairs and curl up on the porch