By Jeffrey Page
Being a native of Bensonhurst and having spent my childhood in Queens, I know the Epic of Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey as well as I know the preamble to the Constitution, especially those parts about forming a more perfect union and establishing justice.

In the grim, un-American days before 1947 only white ballplayers could hit, throw and run in the major leagues. Black players were relegated to the lower paying Negro Leagues. This made for situations that clearly illustrate the madness of racism. Such as the fact that a white guy named Bill Bergen, played 10 seasons in the majors in the early part of the century, racking up a career batting average of .170 and managing to hit a grand total of two home runs. And such as the fact that Jackie Robinson retired after 10 years with a career batting average of .311 and 137 home runs. Bergen took playing in the big leagues for granted; Robinson could not.

I knew the story of Branch Rickey, the principal owner of the Dodgers, breaking the color line of the “national pastime” and signing Robinson to a major league contract. He believed integrated baseball would be good for the players and good for the sport. Still, I picked up Rickey’s recently published biography by Jimmy Breslin (“Branch Rickey,” Lipper/Viking, $19.95) because no one tells a story or expresses moral outrage better than the great Breslin. As in: “Then some editors told me they never heard of Rickey. Which I took as an insult, a disdain for what I know, as if it is not important enough for them to bother with.”

Breslin tells us about Rickey’s insistence that Jackie Robinson, one of the game’s great competitors, had to agree never to lose his cool for two seasons, no matter what kind of racist crap was yelled at him by people in the grandstands and in opposing dugouts. It might be Rickey’s biography, but recalling the agreement, I realized I was more interested in another telling of Robinson’s story.

Breslin reminds us that while he was an army officer at Fort Hood, Robinson was court-martialed on charges relating to his refusal to vacate a seat in the white section of a bus and move to the back. Breslin includes some of the testimony of Robinson’s accusers and of Jackie himself. I had never seen this before. It’s amazing stuff, especially when you consider the time, which was 1944 (11 years before Rosa Parks made her stand in Montgomery, Ala.) and the place, which was Texas.

“I want to tell you right now, sir, this private you got out there, he made a statement. The private over in that room. I told him that if he, a private, ever call me a nigger again, I would break him in two,” Lieut. Robinson said.

Later, Robinson’s lawyer questioned the private.

Did he call Robinson a nigger, the attorney asked.

Why, heavens to Betsy, no, the private said.

So then why did Robinson make that threat against you?

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” the private said.

It took the jury 30 minutes to acquit Robinson.

Despite this encounter with Jim Crow on the bus, Rickey was satisfied Robinson was his man for the Dodgers.

I learned something else in Breslin’s book and only wish there was more detail to his account of the story.

Early in Robinson’s major league career, the Dodgers were playing the Reds at Crosley Field in Cincinnati. (Other versions of the story say it occurred in Boston.) Robinson was being heckled mercilessly by a stadium full of yahoos who objected to a black player on their green field. At one point, Pee Wee Reese, the Dodger shortstop and Robinson’s long-time friend, walked over and put his arm on Jackie’s shoulder and the crowd shut up.

No photographs of this gesture are known to exist. But in 2005, 33 years after Robinson’s death, a statue of it was dedicated outside the Brooklyn Baseball Gallery in Coney Island. Breslin reports that the Brooklyn borough president turned to Robinson’s widow, Rachel, and said, “This is so wonderful. You must be thrilled,” to which Mrs. Robinson replied, “Yes, it is.” But that was not the case.

“She hated it,” Breslin says, and goes on to explain that Jackie and Rachel always detested being patronized by white people. “The pat on the shoulder by Reese was viewed as a wonderful thing, as if to say: See, we like you,” Breslin says.

He continues: “The true record of the years of Pee Wee Reese and Robinson is contained in a photo of the two walking off the field side by side after an inning. They were looking down, ballplayers going to the dugout. Reese’s white left hand was only inches away from Robinson’s black right hand, but neither of them noticed.”

Jeff can be reached at jeffrey@zestoforange.com.

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