Remember Jackie Robinson

Before April 15, 1947, there was a famous saying about baseball: the grass is green, the dirt is brown and the players are white. Fifty years ago this week, a rookie first bagger for the Brooklyn Dodgers stepped into the batters box in Ebbets field and changed the face of the game forever. Acting Commissioner Bud Selig explained the significance of Jackie R. Robinson's act, saying that for most of its time baseball has believed in the principle that no player is above the game, except Jackie Robinson.

Robinson's act, coming seven years before the Supreme Court struck down "separate but equal," anticipated the coming of the civil rights movement and had an impact on his team, his sport, his race and, most importantly, his country. He opened the door for Willie Mays, Ken Griffey, Jr. and countless others to enter and compete on the same playing field with all of the best players in the world.

However, people consistently over-look how he shattered the myth that the South had a monopoly on racism. The North prided itself in being more tolerant than the South. Yet when Robinson entered the field, he was incessantly mocked and jeered in the North where all of the major league teams were located. Pitchers threw inside to intimidate him; fans released black cats onto the field; opposing players repeatedly attempted to spike him, once causing a seven-inch gash on Robinson's leg. Moreover, countless teams tried organizing boycotts to prevent Robinson from playing on their fields.

Robinson's teammates were no better. With the exception of players like Pee Wee Reese and Dodger president Branch Rickey, whites on the team left Robinson alone to struggle against racial hatred and intolerance. Off the field, Robinson was subjected to the perpetual threat of violence hanging over his head. A weaker man would have understandably crumbled under the pressure and perhaps delayed the racial integration for years. Had Robinson been a mediocre player his actions would have been amazing enough. Yet Jackie Robinson was one of the most outstanding players to ever play the game. His decade in the majors was a portrait of excellence: a World Series, an MVP trophy, the Rookie of the Year Award (since named the Jackie Robinson Award), a six-time All-Star and, finally, a Hall-of-Famer on the first ballot. How should baseball remember a man who was more than a pioneer, one who was a truly talented player?

First, I am glad that baseball has decided to dedicate this season to Robinson. Nevertheless, I think we should not forget that it was Robinson who broke the color barrier, it was not baseball who welcomed Robinson with open arms. I get the impression that the recent celebrations of Robinson's remarkable feat tend to have the look-how-we-let-Jackie-Robinson-integrate-baseball feel to it. While there were some men like Rickey, the ruling brass of baseball did not look to kindly on having a black player in the majors. Robinson's class and integrity was enough to gain the respect of some of the most stubborn racists. Baseball's--and Nike's--present preoccupation with selling Robinson's image tends to place the emphasis on Jackie Robinson the symbol over Jackie Robinson the man, the one who was not given but fought for and own the right to play baseball.

This bifurcation is exacerbated because Robinson played so long ago. Jackie Robinson the man fought for equality on and off the field. As a lieutenant in the Army, Robinson was court-martialed for refusing to relinquish his seat to a white man on a bus. He was vindicated later when he was acquitted and honorably discharged. Additionally, wherever he traveled with the Dodgers he refused to frequent segregated hotels, in many instances forcing many hotels to summarily integrate. After retiring from baseball, he founded the first African-American owned bank in New York City and served as a model of leadership for recognizable civil rights leaders such as Martin Luther King, Jr. and Jesse Jackson. Baseball today must not forget Robinson's act. Players like Barry Bonds and Albert Belle should try to act with even half the discipline and self-respect that Robinson displayed throughout his career. It is no coincidence that perhaps baseball's greatest ambassador off the field, Mo Vaughn of the Red Sox, wears #42 in honor of Robinson. What some of today's unappreciative players, black and white, need is the attitude Robinson once displayed in an interview. "I'm not concerned with you liking me or disliking me. All I ask is that you respect me as a human being," he said. How many players in the showboating '90s demand respect by their very presence? Robinson's quiet dignity and untiring quest for equality should be a legacy to people other than the players alone.

The group that has done the least to live up to Robinson's spirit are the very people making flowery speeches about what Robinson meant to the game, namely the owners and administrators who run Major League Baseball. In Robinson's final public appearance, at the 1972 World Series, he urged baseball to allow the integration that he initiated on the field to reach the front office and the dugout. Although Robinson died without ever seeing an African-American manager, Frank Robinson became the first manager three years later.

Unfortunately, the statistics show that the job is far from finished: of the 234 managerial hirings since Frank Robinson, only ten have been African-Americans (a five percent clip). There has been only one African-American general manager in the history of the game. It is obviously not a question of quality since this general manager, Bob Watson, helped build the World Series winners in New York. Finally, there have never been any African-American owners or team presidents. What is most distressing of all is the notion, as expressed by then Dodger vice-president Al Campanis 10 years ago, that blacks lacked "the necessities" to become managers or front-office workers. Regardless of what African-Americans (and Latinos) accomplish, they are still seen as men in baseball uniforms, and not in business suits.

When President Ronald Reagan posthumously awarded Robinson the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1986, he stated that Robinson "struck a mighty blow for equality, freedom and the American way of life. Jackie Robinson was a good citizen, a great man, and a true American champion."

What Reagan neglected to mention was that in 1947, segregation, racism, and racial animosity was the "American way of life." Although today things have obviously improved on the field, baseball's management is still reflective of that "American way of life" that Reagan referred to. With people like Campanis (Robinson's former teammate and personal friend) in baseball's hierarchy still professing the genetic incapacity for African-Americans to be general managers, commissioners and coaches, baseball has not truly learned from Jackie Robinson's courage, sacrifice and legacy. I pray that baseball can take this special season and build on it for the next century, especially behind the scenes. That is the greatest honor baseball could ever pay to one of its greatest ambassadors and my role model, Jackie R. Robinson: by honoring his dying wish and his legacy.

Sozi T. Sozinho is a senior living in Leverett House.