“These guys just don’t get it,” grumbled Branch Rickey, without realising that his grandson was listening. “These New York politicians just wanna line their pockets with the new Dodgers stadium. Tough shit for them! Soon enough the Brooklyn Dodgers are gonna be playing their home games in Los Angeles!” he cried. “Meantime we gotta play in this shithole. We’re going to California...” he murmured. “Goddamnit, what the hell was that, asshole?” he yelled, leaping from his chair with surprising alacrity for a man of his build.
“What happened, grandpa?” asked his grandson, curious.
The stadium was going wild with boos and cries aimed at the Dodgers’ opponents. Branch Rickey watched the stands; the Dodgers fans were at fever pitch, brandishing banners and signs with their idol’s names on them. They couldn’t lose at home, especially not when the opposing team was from the West coast. Branch Rickey was not just a grandfather, he was also the owner of the Dodgers. His team was based in Brooklyn, New York State, where the local politicians had refused to give their approval to build a new stadium for his team. But Branch Rickey never settled for less; he was in it for the show, which meant his team winning their games in their own stadium. Where was the home advantage if you didn’t have a home?
“What you just saw doesn’t happen often, kiddo. Jackie Robinson hit that ball so hard it split open. He’s incredible, how hard he hits it. He’s the black guy. That’s right kiddo, it’s a rare thing to see a ball split in half when you’re watching a round of baseball.”
“Which one’s Robinson?” the grandson asked.
“The black guy, can’t you see him?” said the grandfather, taking a drag on his cigar.
“Do you think the Dodgers will win the series this year?”
“I don’t know. We did last year. Sure would be something to win it twice in a row. Never been done before. What do you think?”
“I want a hot dog,” pleaded the grandson.
“Wait until this innings is over,” his grandfather insisted.
Jackie Robinson was the first African-American to play for a Major League Baseball team. Branch Rickey had insisted the Dodgers sign him. His motivations were moral, above all else – the grandfather was a devoted Methodist, and an ardent defender of social justice. Robinson was an exceptional player; a lightning sprinter whose intensity galvanised the whole team. He’d earned his shot at the big leagues, and a chance to play without judgement or discrimination. He’d be an example to all African Americans, and maybe one day all teams would have black players and it would be totally normal, and fully accepted. Maybe one day they wouldn’t even stop to think about skin colour before signing a player. Branch Rickey had an eye for talent, wherever it came from, and was always ready to defend his ideals: “A good player is a good player. The more open we are, the more players we get to choose from, and the more unbeatable we become! Tolerance is what will make us the best! Why limit ourselves with prejudice?” he’d explained to his team in the run-up to Jackie Robinson’s arrival.
Alan Alfredo Geday