Jackie and Campy (14 page)

Despite all the abuse he took from opposing teams and their fans, Jackie Robinson managed to restrain his fury, channeling the anger into his play. The fire inside still burned white-hot, but instead of striking back at the bigots who provoked him with racial epithets it drove him to excel not only for himself but for his race. He might even have learned that the measure of a man could be found just as much in personal discipline as in physical retribution for an injustice. In the process he had not only proven that he belonged in the Major Leagues but had opened the door for other black ballplayers.

5.

Teammates

Before the 1947 season was over, four more Negro Leaguers appeared in the Majors. Larry Doby of the Newark Eagles joined the Cleveland Indians in early July, becoming the first to break the color barrier in the American League.
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Later that month the St. Louis Browns signed Willard Brown, an outfielder, and Harry Thompson, an infielder, both of whom played for the Kansas City Monarchs. When St. Louis played the Boston Red Sox on July 20, it was the first time black players appeared in a Major League game together.
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And on August 26 Dan Bankhead, formerly a pitcher with the Memphis Red Sox, appeared for the Brooklyn Dodgers and hit a home run against the Pittsburgh Pirates in his first Major League at-bat.
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Throughout the remainder of the ’47 campaign, these black ballplayers suffered the same indignities that Jackie Robinson experienced, but with little media attention and even less support from teammates and Major League Baseball. While their presence might have threatened the white baseball establishment, it was clear that Branch Rickey had made some valuable allies.

Bill Veeck, owner of the Cleveland Indians, broke the color line in the American League by signing Larry Doby and established himself as a genuine proponent of integration. His purported bid to purchase the Philadelphia Phillies and stock the team’s roster with star Negro Leaguers five years earlier no longer appeared to be an idle bluff. Veeck had now confirmed the permanence of integration in Major League Baseball. Richard Muckerman, owner of the St. Louis Browns, was a recent convert to the cause, though his intentions were strictly financial. Muckerman, owner of a perennial cellar dweller, was attracted by the novelty of black players to draw increasing numbers of fans. Noting that National League attendance was up by 15 percent, he couldn’t help but consider the financial rewards of integration. Brown and Thompson were signed to increase the gate. But regardless of their intentions, Muckerman and Veeck integrated their teams with the support of the black leagues. Unlike most of Rickey’s signings, Veeck acknowledged the validity of Negro League contracts by negotiating with Abe and Effa Manley, owners of the Newark Eagles, to
secure Doby’s services. Muckerman did the same with the Kansas City Monarchs. This was an important step at a time when Negro League owners felt that their businesses were being threatened by the white baseball establishment.
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Emboldened by Robinson’s success both on the playing field and at the gate, Rickey signed an additional sixteen Negro Leaguers. His prize catch was Roy Campanella, who continued to excel in the Brooklyn farm system. In 1947 Campy was promoted to Montreal, where his .273 batting average, 13 home runs, 75
RBI
s, and remarkable .998 fielding average earned him the International League’s Most Valuable Player Award.
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He also proved to be an outstanding catcher.

Campy’s calm demeanor made him a natural catcher. Like all good backstops, he had soft hands and a relaxed upper body that allowed him to receive the ball instead of stabbing at it. Pitchers who relied on breaking balls loved to throw to him because his soft hands and stationary position behind the plate accentuated the movement of the ball, giving the hurler a better chance for a called strike. At five feet nine and a weight that ranged between 200 and 215 pounds, Campanella possessed the ideal body type for a catcher. He was built like a fireplug, stocky and durable, which enabled him to stay low in the strike zone to give a target, receive pitches, and block errant throws. He was also smart. He knew his pitchers’ strengths and weaknesses, not just their repertoire of pitches but which ones would be most effective that day. He also knew the strengths and weaknesses of opposing batters and their idiosyncrasies, like whether they were first-pitch hitters or tended to work the count. Campy knew the umpires too: whether they had a high or low strike zone, how much bench-jockeying they were willing to tolerate, and how flexible they were in calling a game. Armed with this knowledge, he was adept at readjusting the infield or outfield when necessary to defend against a particular offensive situation. With all of the mental and physical demands, the catcher is the natural leader of a baseball team. Catching is also the most exhausting position on the field.
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Yet Campanella was extremely durable and loved the position.

By the spring of 1948 Rickey knew that his prize backstop was ready for the Majors. Although Campy was promoted to Brooklyn on April 1, the only playing time he saw was in the outfield. Rickey had other plans
for him. He knew Campanella couldn’t make it as an outfielder, so he’d be forced to demote him to Triple-A St. Paul after a month. “I know you can make the Dodgers as a catcher,” Rickey told him, “but I want you to help me do something bigger, something very important to me, to you, and to baseball. I want you to become the first colored ballplayer in the American Association. I am going to option you to our farm club at St. Paul, to pioneer the Negroes into the American Association.”
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As incentive, Rickey increased Campanella’s salary to $1,500 over the $5,000 Major League minimum. Not that it mattered much to Campy; he had waited a lifetime to reach the Majors, and now that dream was “being interrupted by a seemingly unnecessary departure to play another season in the minors.”
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“Mr. Rickey,” Campanella replied with obvious disappointment, “I’m a ballplayer, not a pioneer.”
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Heeding the counsel of his parents and his Negro League managers, however, Campy refused to create controversy. Demoted to St. Paul on May 15, he was extremely discouraged and it affected his performance. In his first game, on May 22, he went hitless in four at-bats, striking out twice. In the field he made a throwing error on a pick-off attempt. But he rebounded the very next week against the Minneapolis Millers, smashing three homers and a triple and fielding his position flawlessly in the three-game series. By the end of June he was hitting .325 with eleven home runs and thirty-nine
RBI
s and had earned a trip back to Brooklyn.
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As Campanella was tearing up the pitching in the American Association, the Dodgers were floundering in last place, and Robinson was still far from the impressive play he had shown the previous season. He had reported to spring training twenty pounds overweight that season, thanks to a winter on the banquet circuit. Neither Leo Durocher, who returned to manage the team after a one-year suspension, nor Rickey was happy about the weight gain and let him know it. Having traded Eddie Stanky to the Boston Braves, they planned to move Robinson from first to second base, a more natural position for him.
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But the additional weight made it difficult for him to make the transition to a middle infielder. Durocher put Robinson through “furious physical paces” in order to lose the extra weight. Often he ordered a coach to take a bucket of balls and hit endless grounders to the overweight infielder. “Jackie came to camp hog fat,” recalled Durocher, “and I let him know I was unhappy. What really made
me mad was that he kept insisting he wasn’t overweight. When I finally was able to get him on the scales, the needle went up to 216 pounds. The previous year he had come in at 195.”
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Durocher’s boot-camp approach only served to make Robinson resentful. He showed no sign of losing the weight and entered the season eighteen pounds heavier than in his rookie year.
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When Brooklyn lost their home opener to the Philadelphia Phillies 10–2, Jackie was severely criticized by the press. Noting that the additional weight had resulted in a strained back, making it difficult for him to throw, Herbert Goren of the
New York Times
wrote that Robinson “cost the Dodgers at least three runs in the opener.” In the second inning, with two outs and runners on first and third, the Phillies executed a double steal. Catcher Gil Hodges threw to second on a decoy. Robinson “cut off the throw and tried to nail Richie Ashburn [the Phils’ speedy center fielder] at home.” It was “an accurate but weak throw,” and Ashburn beat the tag, scoring the first run of the game. Next “two straight base hits found their way through the right side of the infield.” Neither was “hit hard,” but Robinson “couldn’t come up with either one.” After missing a third grounder, some of the Dodgers’ fans stood up and yelled, “We want Stanky back!”
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Robinson struggled to play second base throughout the spring. The weight problem not only resulted in a sore back but made it almost impossible to get to hard-hit balls in the hole or run the bases as effectively as he had the previous year. Durocher, believing in the power of negative motivation, benched him and made Gene Mauch, a utility infielder, the Dodgers’ second baseman. Rickey went a step further and vented his frustration to the press. On May 26 the
New York Daily Mirror
reported that the Dodgers’ president, displeased by the weight problem, placed Robinson on waivers, giving the impression that he was on the trading block.
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Rickey was bluffing. He had forty-eight hours to remove Robinson’s name from the waiver list, which is exactly what he did. Jackie finally got the message and took off the weight.
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But his patience with Rickey’s “no striking back” ban was wearing thin.

Although the ban was still in effect in 1948, Robinson became increasingly confrontational whenever he perceived a racial snub. After all the bigotry he had suffered in his rookie year, he did not make much if any distinction between a brush-back pitch or a take-out slide—which were
accepted tactics among Major Leaguers—and racial abuse. He tended to treat any aggressive play directed at him as a racial affront. “At the beginning of the season, Jackie was still a reasonably quiet young man,” recalled Durocher. “I wanted him to stay that way. But as the season progressed, he became more combative. My advice to him was when pitchers knock you down, take it as a compliment. Just get back up and keep your mouth shut.”
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It was sound advice. The Dodgers couldn’t afford to have Robinson ejected from the game; his bat was too valuable. To appease him, Durocher, taking a gentler approach, promised to support Robinson if he was knocked down by an opposing hurler. He proved to be good to his word.

Shortly after their talk, the Dodgers played the St. Louis Cardinals in a four-game series at Ebbets Field. In the first game, a Redbirds pitcher threw at Robinson, sending him to the ground. Robinson jumped to his feet ready to explode, but Durocher interceded and convinced him to return to the batter’s box and hit. The next time Stan Musial, the Cards’ star hitter, stepped to the plate, Durocher ordered his pitcher to throw at him. Not only did the Brooklyn hurler level Musial with his first delivery, but the second one sent him sprawling as well. Musial, realizing that the payback was in order, didn’t complain. But in the next inning he stopped Durocher, who was coaching third base, on the field and complained, “Hey Leo, I don’t have the ball out there. I didn’t throw at Robinson.”

“Stan, old boy,” replied Durocher, “you better tell your manager to let Robinson alone. As far as I know, I’ve got twenty-five players, too. Robinson is one of my best. You’re the best player I know on the Cardinals. For every time he gets a knockdown pitch, it looks to me like you’re going to get two.” Apparently Musial delivered the message to his manager since Robinson was left alone for the remainder of the series. It also helped that Jackie paced the Dodgers in a come-from-behind win, going four for four with a grand slam in the ninth inning of that first game.
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To be sure, Robinson continued to experience knockdown pitches, physical abuse on the base paths, and racial epithets from the opposing dugouts throughout the 1948 season, though not as frequently as the previous year. Opponents were learning that the more they tried to provoke him, the better he played. In Philadelphia, for example, Robinson was the object of vitriolic bench-jockeying and responded with a base-stealing spree, including a swipe of home. “There was no doubt as to Jackie’s tal
ent,” said pitcher Robin Roberts, who had been promoted to the Phillies in the spring of 1948. “From the first time I faced him that year it was clear that he was not only an exceptional base runner but also a solid hitter and an all-around ballplayer. I was so nervous just being called up to the big leagues that I had quite enough to worry about just trying to keep him off the base paths.”
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Center fielder Richie Ashburn, also promoted to the Phillies that season, downplayed the racial overtones of the Phillies’ bench jockeying. “[Manager Ben] Chapman wasn’t the only one riding Robinson,” he said. “Everyone on our team got on him, including me. And being from Nebraska I didn’t have any racial feelings one way or the other. Heck, I was in there to play baseball and beat somebody, and most players were in there for the same reason.”
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But in a column he wrote for the
Philadelphia Bulletin
in 1973, Ashburn publicly apologized for his role in the Phillies’ Robinson-bashing during that season. He admitted that his purposeful spiking of the Dodgers’ second baseman on the base paths was done more out of peer pressure and to follow Chapman’s orders than for himself. “I felt sorry for Jackie,” he wrote. “Major league baseball is tough enough under ideal conditions, but Jackie had to battle the fans and the press as well as our club, which was exceptionally tough on him. Maybe I should have said something, but I wasn’t a crusader. I was just a kid then, trying to beat the Dodgers.”
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