I Never Had It Made

Dedication

T
o my wife, Rachel,
to my children Sharon and David,
and to the memory of Jackie, Jr.

Contents

Dedication

 

Introduction - by Cornel West

Introduction - by Hank Aaron

Preface: Today by Jackie Robinson

The Noble Experiment

I - A Dream Deferred

II - The Noble Experiment

III - Breaking the Color Barrier

IV - The Major Leagues

V - “Just Another Guy”

VI - My Own Man

VII - The Price of Popularity

VIII - The Growing Family

IX - The Ninth Inning

After the Ball Game

X - New Horizons

XI - Campaigning for Nixon

XII - The Hall of Fame Award

XIII - Conflict at the Apollo

XIV - Crises at Home

XV - On Being Black Among the Republicans

XVI - Differences with Malcolm X

XVII - The Freedom Bank

XVIII - Hope and Disillusionment in White Politics

XIX - The Influence of Martin Luther King, Jr.

XX - Jackie's Prison

XXI - Politics Today

XXII - “. . . And He Was Free”

XXIII - Aftermath

XXIV - Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

Cornel West

T
hree fundamental events between March and June of 1947 in America changed the course of world history in the twentieth century. On March 12, 1947, President Harry Truman proclaimed in a historic speech before a special joint session of Congress the intention of the U.S. government “to support free peoples who are resisting subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures.” This, the famous Truman Doctrine, was declared in response to both the beginning of the collapse of the most powerful empire the world has ever seen (the British Empire) and the emergence of one of the most repressive, the Soviet Empire. In short, Truman announced the aim of the American Empire to police the world in the light of its democratic ideals and imperial interests.

On April 15, 1947, before 26,623 Americans (more than half of them black) at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, Jackie Robinson became the first African-American to play professional, major league baseball. In this historic opening game against the Boston Braves, a dignified and heroic descendant of American slaves and sharecroppers who wore number 42 on his Dodger uniform played first base in one of the sacred spaces of American culture. More even than either Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War, or Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights movement, Jackie Robinson graphically symbolized and personified the challenge to the vicious legacy and ideology of white supremacy in American history.

Soon afterward, on June 5, 1947, Secretary of State George C. Marshall delivered an address at Harvard University's graduation ceremonies, in which he put forward an American plan for European economic recovery with huge U.S. assistance in order to combat Soviet domination. The basic requirements of the Marshall Plan were U.S. influence over the internal budgets of the European recipient states and the disproportionate purchase of American exports for European recovery.

These three events represent the most fundamental processes of this century—the end of the Age of Europe (and the preeminence of its last great empire), the acceleration of the challenge to white supremacy (a pillar of European imperialism and American history), and the move of the American Empire to the center of the world-historical stage (in opposition to the Soviet Empire). In this way, a historic presidential speech, an unforgettable baseball game, and an influential commencement address take us to the very heart of the agony and anguish, the achievements and accomplishments, of our time.

With the surprising collapse of the Soviet Empire in 1989, the Truman Doctrine has run its course. And with the economic recovery of Europe—alongside the phenomenal growth of the U.S. economy—between 1947 and 1973, the Marshall Plan did what it set out to do. Despite the significant gains of the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s, the challenge to white supremacy in America remains incomplete, unfinished. That is why, today, the life and work, the achievements and suffering, of Jackie Robinson continue to speak to us with such power and poignancy.

In 1947, Jackie Robinson not only symbolized all of black America on trial in the eyes of white America and the expansion of the ideals of democracy, he also represented the best of a traditional black quest for dignity, excellence, and integrity. This quest was primarily a moral effort to preserve black sanity and spirituality in the face of white-supremacist barbarity and bestiality; it was a human attempt to hold on to dreams deferred and hopes dashed, owing mainly to slavery and Jim Crow in America. The deep and devastating effects of psychic scars, physical abuse, and material deprivation could not suffocate the black tradition of moral struggle and political resistance. When Jackie Robinson states that he “never had it made,” he means, in part, that he had to fight in a variety of ways and on a number of fronts to preserve both his sense of dignity and his integrity; and in part that he was able to fight primarily because of the love and support of those fighters who came before him and those who now stood by his side.

 

The most striking features of this marvelous book are its honesty, its courage, and its wisdom. Here is a great American hero who refuses to be a mythical hero. Instead, he tells the painful truth about himself as a human being—someone who, like all of us, needs love, struggles with insecurity, makes mistakes, revels in achievements, and weeps in sorrow. Here is a transracial figure beloved by blacks and whites who rails against the absurdities of white racism and the seductive security of black xenophobia. Here is a celebrity who takes us on a journey through the valleys and over the mountaintops of intimate relations with his family, friends, and mentors. Here is one of the greatest athletes of our century disclosing his developing sense of political engagement and community empowerment as a liberal Republican in a right-wing Republican party. Here is a black man and father—with a strong sense of his masculinity—who talks about his maturity in terms of lessons painfully learned from his loving mother, his brilliant and self-confident wife, his adventurous children, and his supportive father figures. I revelled in his exchanges—critical and respectful—with Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., Richard Nixon, William Buckley, Black Panther leaders, and Lewis Micheaux.

Jackie Robinson's life and book constitute an antiphonal “song of a great composite democratic individual.” This grand phrase of Walt Whitman captures the
jazz-like
character of Jackie Robinson—his noble experiment in which restraint and performance, improvisation, and discipline under severe pressure are exercised with excellence; his openness to others; his generosity to others, and his relentless self-criticism without recourse to self-pity and self-indulgence. And yet, his disillusionment with America is real. Robinson cannot stand and sing the national anthem or salute the flag. His deep patriotism and his hatred of white supremacy will not allow him to engage in such empty gestures of country-worship. He knows that “money is America's God” and that he is “a black man in a white world.”

Jackie Robinson's historic challenge to white supremacy in America was not an attempt to “prove” himself and his humanity to white America. Rather, it was to
be
himself, to allow his God-given humanity to be seen, acknowledged, and recognized by those who questioned it. He gained respect because he so deeply respected himself, because he respected black people and others. He willingly took on the awesome burden of symbolizing black humanity in the one arena of fairness in a country predicated, in part, on unfairness to black people. And he bore this burden with great dignity—not because he wanted to
be
somebody but, rather, because he was already a great
somebody
to be in a land where all black folk were nobody to most white people. This is why his grand example is, in the moving and wise words of George Will (with whom I rarely agree!), “One of the great achievements not only in the annals of sports, but of the human drama anywhere, anytime.” This book reveals why and how Jackie Robinson's life was an exemplary testimony of the black and human “Love Supreme”—the same moral and spiritual ideal toward which Martin Luther King, Jr., Fannie Lou Hamer, and John Coltrane asked us to aspire.

Harvard University
1995

Introduction

Hank Aaron

T
he first time I saw Jackie Robinson, he was playing baseball in Mobile, Alabama. He was touring at that time with the Brooklyn Dodgers. They had a farm team in Mobile, and they used to pass through. I just happened to be in the crowd; I was fourteen, maybe fifteen. I had had a vision, a vision that if things worked out, I probably would get to the big leagues before Jackie retired. As it turned out, I did get there. I played against him for three or four years before he retired.

I've always looked at Jackie as some kind of icon. He was a pillar of strength, and he gave me a lot of inner strength. I knew some of the things he had gone through; so, when I looked at him, I thought—not only is this man a great athlete, but he's a great man off the field for people like myself. When I think of my background, where I came from and what I had to go through, I think of those who gave me strength—my mother and father and a few outsiders. The outsiders were Jackie Robinson and people like Dr. King; those are the people who gave me the strength I needed to go forward.

Jackie Robinson gave all of us—not only black athletes, but every black person in this country—a sense of our own strength. However, because I was an athlete, I looked at Jackie a little differently. I followed every trail he had made. I wanted to emulate him in some way, which is one of the reasons why I speak so directly now about the injustice in baseball today: because Jackie Robinson gave me the strength to continue to do what he had done.

When Jackie got to the big leagues, he was told that he couldn't do certain things, that he couldn't be aggressive, that he couldn't respond to what was going on around him, that he had to keep his mouth shut. But, once he proved to everybody that he was a great baseball player and was allowed to talk—having earned the right to do whatever he wanted to do—many people saw a very different Jackie Robinson. Some now saw him as aggressive, demanding his own rights. They saw him as a kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But he wasn't; he was one person. He was quiet during those first years because he was told it had to be that way. If he had come into the majors and been aggressive when people were sliding into him and saying things most men would have responded to, had he been aggressive in that way, he would have delayed breaking the color barrier another ten or fifteen years. I think my style in the early days was similar to Jackie's. When I first got to the major leagues, I had nothing to say. The reason I didn't have anything to say is simply that I hadn't done anything. In order for people to listen to you, you have to have done something. I've been asked, “Now you've gotten to be a big mouth, talking about the injustice in baseball, but why didn't you speak out when you first got to the big leagues?” If I'd said the same thing when I first got to the majors, who would have reported it in the papers? Now that I've hit 755 home runs, people probably notice what I say a little bit more. That's what Jackie had to do; but he had to do it alone. He had to be patient while he proved himself. You have to marvel at a person like that, because he handled an awful lot inside himself all those years. I think this was a factor in his passing away at so young an age.

When I reached the big leagues, I didn't meet a single player who was sympathetic to what we were going through as black players. It's true that some of the players were aware of our situation, but I played with a lot of players who didn't give a damn. Things were going well for them, and they didn't want to shake the apple tree. But it wasn't just the players; the owners were not at all sympathetic to the black players. They were making a lot of money off the black players—we were drawing cards—and they took advantage of us. For example, they barnstormed us all through the South; the ballparks would fill with black people who didn't get a chance to see us on television. The owners did very well on those tours.

On the playing field, Jackie Robinson was a tremendous athlete. He was a big man, but gifted in his running. You would think a person his size couldn't move, but he ran very well. And he was a very good second baseman. He had a great deal of enthusiasm, which was communicated to the other players on his team. He didn't like to lose! He wanted to win at any cost, and he instilled this in his teammates. He knew what it took to get those guys geared up to play a championship season—152 games. He could bring out the enthusiasm in a crowd just by taking infield practice. He knew exactly what it would take to excite the fans—his presence alone on the field would do it.

Who knows what Robinson's stats would have been if he hadn't been the first black player in the major leagues. This man was under tremendous pressure, pressure most people didn't know about or couldn't understand, if they did. People say, don't ever criticize another person until you walk a mile in their shoes. I haven't walked that mile, but I've walked half a mile in those shoes, and in just that half mile I understood exactly what kind of pressure Jackie Robinson had to deal with. He probably would have hit a lot more home runs, stolen more bases, been an even better ballplayer if it hadn't been his fate to have to endure that pressure, not only on the field, but off the field as well. In fact, he was often under more pressure off the field than he was on. If he had gone into a bar, the morning papers would have reported that he had gotten drunk—although Jackie didn't drink at all. If he happened to speak to a woman, sportswriters claimed he was dating her.

I'll never forget the first time I was in Jackie's presence off the field. It was in a room in Nashville, Tennessee, with Jackie, Don Newcombe, Roy Campanella, and a few other Dodgers; they were playing cards. I was only about nineteen at the time, and I was standing by the wall looking at these guys seated at the table. I was in awe of all of them. After a while I went to get something to eat. I returned three hours later. They were still in the room, playing cards. “Don't you ever go out?” I asked. They said, no, because Jackie would immediately be the center of attention, and people were always trying to make something out of nothing. It wasn't until much later that I understood that fully.

What Jackie Robinson represents today is a complicated issue. I'm sure many of the black players know what he did, but it's possible that some of the younger players don't know that he was the man responsible for their being in the major leagues. I don't know this to be true, but it would really disturb me if I went into a locker room and found a black player who didn't know what players like Jackie Robinson, Larry Doby, and Don Newcombe did forty or fifty years ago. Things were very tough back in those days—and it was Jackie Robinson who paved the way. Many of these young black athletes are making all kinds of money, much more money than they're ever going to spend. But I wonder how many of them would take it upon themselves to contribute to The Jackie Robinson Foundation, which provides fellowships to send black kids to school. It goes a little further than just baseball. This man paved the way for a lot of athletes to be where they are today. I'm not aware of such contributions being made, but this would be a way for today's athletes to show their appreciation for a man who stood tall when he had to stand up.

As I've said many times (and I'll say it again) Jackie Robinson was a pillar of strength to me. It meant an awful lot to know that there was somebody before me who paved the way, who gave me an opportunity to play the big leagues. When I was going through the things I had to go through—doubting myself—I knew this was only the tip of the iceberg of what Jackie Robinson had gone through. I said to myself I would be doing him an injustice if I quit. And this gave me the strength to continue.

When I think about Jackie Robinson, there is something that bothers me a great deal, which shows what baseball is all about. At the end of his career, Jackie was traded to the Giants. At the last moment, after all the things he'd done for the Dodgers, after everything he had suffered, they found it necessary to trade a man of his stature, a man who
was
the Dodgers. I thought at the time: Stan Musial was never traded; Ted Williams was never traded. We're talking about someone who was very special, who should have always had a place with the Dodgers. It should have been understood that this man started with the Dodgers and that he would end up with the Dodgers. Certain people you never trade, and Jackie Robinson should never have been traded.

Even before he retired, Jackie Robinson was involved in politics. He was always concerned about what was going to happen to blacks in this country. His involvement with the NAACP and other civil rights organizations merely demonstrated that his skills and concerns went further than the baseball diamond. I will never forget Jackie's last speech, especially the end of it. He said baseball will always have its head buried in the sand until it can find the strength and the vision to have a black man coaching at third base. This was in Cincinnati and he was half blind by then; it was the last time I heard him speak.

It's as clear now as it was then that Jackie Robinson was the right man for the right job—intelligent, educated—I think that's what we needed. There were so many temptations put before him. He was a man on trial—not only on the field. But off the field as well, and he had the skills to survive and transcend this ordeal.

I'm often asked if I miss the game. But I don't miss anything at all about baseball. I had a very good career. I did just about everything I wanted to do in baseball, and I am satisfied with my accomplishments. Now my life has changed, it's a new life for me. I played baseball for twenty-three years, and I owe it in part to Jackie Robinson, who gave me the strength I needed and the opportunity to play—the chance to do everything I could do.

Atlanta, Georgia
1995