The Real Story of Baseball's Integration That You Won't See in 42

The new film ignores the broad-based movement that helped make Jackie 
Robinson's arrival in baseball possible, as well as the first black 
major-leaguer's own activism.

Peter Dreier Apr 11 2013, 2:38 PM ET



WB
One of America's most iconic and inspiring stories—Jackie Robinson breaking 
baseball's color line in 1947—is retold in the film 42, which opens nationally 
this weekend. Even if you're not a baseball fan, the film will tug at your 
heart and have you rooting for Robinson to overcome the racist obstacles put in 
his way. It is an uplifting tale of courage and determination that is hard to 
resist, even though you know the outcome before the movie begins.

But despite bravura performances by relatively unknown Chadwick Boseman as 
Robinson and superstar Harrison Ford as Branch Rickey (the Brooklyn Dodgers' 
general manager who recruited Robinson and orchestrated his transition from the 
Negro Leagues to the all-white Major Leagues), the film strikes out as history, 
because it ignores the true story of how baseball's apartheid system was 
dismantled.


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The film portrays baseball's integration as the tale of two 
trailblazers—Robinson, the combative athlete and Rickey, the shrewd 
strategist—battling baseball's, and society's, bigotry. But the truth is that 
it was a political victory brought about by a social protest movement. As an 
activist himself, Robinson would likely have been disappointed by a film that 
ignored the centrality of the broader civil rights struggle.

That story has been told in two outstanding books, Jules Tygiel's Baseball's 
Great Experiment (1983) and Chris Lamb's Conspiracy of Silence: Sportswriters 
and the Long Campaign to Desegregate Baseball (2012). As they recount, Rickey's 
plan came after more than a decade of effort by black and left-wing journalists 
and activists to desegregate the national pastime. Beginning in the 1930s, the 
Negro press, civil rights groups, the Communist Party, progressive white 
activists, and radical politicians waged a sustained campaign to integrate 
baseball. It was part of a broader movement to eliminate discrimination in 
housing, jobs, and other sectors of society. It included protests against 
segregation within the military, mobilizing for a federal anti-lynching law, 
marches to open up defense jobs to blacks during World War II, and boycotts 
against stores that refused to hire African Americans under the banner "don't 
shop where you can't work." The movement accelerated after the war, when 
returning black veterans expected that America would open up opportunities for 
African Americans.

Robinson broke into baseball when America was a deeply segregated nation. In 
1946, at least six African Americans were lynched in the South. Restrictive 
covenants were still legal, barring blacks (and Jews) from buying homes in many 
neighborhoods—not just in the South. Only a handful of blacks were enrolled in 
the nation's predominantly white colleges and universities. There were only two 
blacks in Congress. No big city had a black mayor.

Martin Luther King Jr. once told Dodgers star Don Newcombe, another former 
Negro Leaguer, "You'll never know what you and Jackie and Roy [Campanella] did 
to make it possible to do my job."
It is difficult today to summon the excitement that greeted Robinson's 
achievement. The dignity with which Robinson handled his encounters with 
racism—including verbal and physical abuse on the field and in hotels, 
restaurants, trains, and elsewhere—drew public attention to the issue, stirred 
the consciences of many white Americans, and gave black Americans a tremendous 
boost of pride and self-confidence. Martin Luther King Jr. once told Dodgers 
star Don Newcombe, another former Negro Leaguer, "You'll never know what you 
and Jackie and Roy [Campanella] did to make it possible to do my job."


Jackie Robinson, right, and Martin Luther King, Jr. (Solipsis)
Robinson, who spent his entire major league career (1947 to 1956) with the 
Dodgers, was voted Rookie of the Year in 1947 and Most Valuable Player in 1949, 
when he won the National League batting title with a .342 batting average. An 
outstanding base runner and base stealer, with a .311 lifetime batting average, 
he led the Dodgers to six pennants and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1962.


* * *
42 is the fourth Hollywood film about Robinson. All of them suffer from what 
might be called movement myopia. We may prefer our heroes to be rugged 
individualists, but the reality doesn't conform to the myth embedded in 
Hollywood's version of the Robinson story.

In The Jackie Robinson Story, released in 1950, Robinson played himself and the 
fabulous Ruby Dee portrayed his wife Rachel. Produced at the height of the Cold 
War, five years before the Montgomery bus boycott, the film celebrated 
Robinson's feat as evidence that America was a land of opportunity where anyone 
could succeed if he had the talent and will. The movie opens with the narrator 
saying, "This is a story of a boy and his dream. But more than that, it's a 
story of an American boy and a dream that is truly American."

In 1990 TNT released a made-for-TV movie, The Court Martial of Jackie Robinson, 
starring Andre Braugher, which focused on Robinson's battles with racism as a 
soldier during World War II. In 1944, while assigned to a  training camp at 
Fort Hood in segregated Texas, Robinson, a second lieutenant, refused to move 
to the back of an army bus when the white driver ordered him to do so, even 
though buses had been officially desegregated on military bases. He was court 
martialed for his insubordination, tried, acquitted, transferred to another 
military base, and honorably discharged four months later. By depicting 
Robinson as a rebellious figure who chafed at the blatant racism he faced, the 
film foreshadows the traits he would have to initially suppress once he reached 
the majors.

HBO's The Soul of the Game, released in 1996, focused on the hopes and then the 
frustrations of Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson, the two greatest players in the 
Negro Leagues, whom Branch Rickey passed up to integrate the majors in favor of 
Robinson, played by Blair Underwood. Rickey had long wanted to hire black 
players, both for moral reasons and because he believed it would increase 
ticket sales among the growing number of African Americans moving to the big 
cities. He knew that if the experiment failed, the cause of baseball 
integration would be set back for many years. Rickey's scouts identified 
Robinson—who was playing for the Negro League's Kansas City Monarchs after 
leaving the army—as a potential barrier-breaker. Rickey could have chosen other 
Negro League players with greater talent or more name recognition, but he 
wanted someone who could be, in today's terms, a role model. Robinson was 
young, articulate and well educated. His mother moved the family from Georgia 
to Pasadena, California in 1920 when Robinson was 14 months ago.  Pasadena was 
deeply segregated, but Robinson lived among and formed friendships with whites 
growing up there and while attending Pasadena Junior College and UCLA. He was 
UCLA's first four-sport athlete (football, basketball, track, and baseball), 
twice led the Pacific Coast League in scoring in basketball, won the NCAA broad 
jump championship, and was a football All-American. Rickey knew that Robinson 
had a hot temper and strong political views, but he calculated that Robinson 
could handle the emotional pressure while helping the Dodgers on the field. 
Robinson promised Rickey that, for at least his rookie year, he would not 
respond to the inevitable verbal barbs and even physical abuse he would face on 
a daily basis.

In 1997, America celebrated Robinson with a proliferation of conferences, 
museum exhibits, plays, and books. Major League Baseball retired Robinson's 
number—42—for all teams. President Bill Clinton appeared with Rachel Robinson 
at Shea Stadium to venerate her late husband.

But the next Hollywood movie about Robinson didn't arrive until this year's 42, 
written and directed by Brian Helgeland (screenwriter of L.A. Confidential and 
Mystic River), under the auspices of Warner Brothers and Legendary Pictures. 
The real story of baseball's integration has plenty of drama and could have 
easily been incorporated into the film.

* * *
Starting in the 1930s, reporters for African-American papers (especially 
Wendell Smith of the Pittsburgh Courier, Fay Young of the Chicago Defender, Joe 
Bostic of the People's Voice in New York, and Sam Lacy of the Baltimore 
Afro-American), and Lester Rodney, sports editor of the Communist paper, the 
Daily Worker, took the lead in pushing baseball's establishment to hire black 
players. They published open letters to owners, polled white managers and 
players (some of whom were threatened by the prospect of losing their jobs to 
blacks, but most of whom said that they had no objections to playing with 
African Americans), brought black players to unscheduled tryouts at spring 
training centers, and kept the issue before the public. Several white 
journalists for mainstream papers joined the chorus for baseball integration.

Progressive unions and civil rights groups picketed outside Yankee Stadium the 
Polo Grounds, and Ebbets Field in New York City, and Comiskey Park and Wrigley 
Field in Chicago. They gathered more than a million signatures on petitions, 
demanding that baseball tear down the color barrier erected by team owners and 
Commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis. In July 1940, the Trade Union Athletic 
Association held an "End Jim Crow in Baseball" demonstration at the New York 
World's Fair. The next year, liberal unions sent a delegation to meet with 
Landis to demand that major league baseball recruit black players. In December 
1943, Paul Robeson, the prominent black actor, singer, and activist, addressed 
baseball's owners at their annual winter meeting in New York, urging them to 
integrate their teams. Under orders from Landis, they ignored Robeson and 
didn't ask him a single question.


National Endowment for the Humanities
In 1945, Isadore Muchnick, a progressive member of the Boston City Council, 
threatened to deny the Red Sox a permit to play on Sundays unless the team 
considered hiring black players. Working with several black sportswriters, 
Muchnick persuaded the reluctant Red Sox general manager, Eddie Collins, to 
give three Negro League players—Robinson, Sam Jethroe, and Marvin Williams—a 
tryout at Fenway Park in April of that year. The Sox had no intention of 
signing any of the players, nor did the Pittsburgh Pirates and Chicago White 
Sox, who orchestrated similar bogus auditions. But the public pressure and 
media publicity helped raise awareness and furthered the cause.

Other politicians were allies in the crusade. Running for re-election to the 
New York City Council in 1945, Ben Davis—an African-American former college 
football star, and a Communist—distributed a leaflet with the photos of two 
blacks, a dead soldier and a baseball player. "Good enough to die for his 
country," it said, "but not good enough for organized baseball." That year, the 
New York State legislature passed the Quinn-Ives Act, which banned 
discrimination in hiring, and soon formed a committee to investigate 
discriminatory hiring practices, including one that focused on baseball. In 
short order, New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia's established a Committee 
on Baseball to push the Yankees, Giants, and Dodgers to sign black players. 
Left-wing Congressman Vito Marcantonio, who represented Harlem, called for an 
investigation of baseball's racist practices.

This protest movement set the stage for Robinson's entrance into the major 
leagues. In October 1945, Rickey announced that Robinson had signed a contract 
with the Dodgers. He sent Robinson to the Dodgers' minor-league team in 
Montreal for the 1946 season, then brought him up to the Brooklyn team on 
opening day, April 15, 1947.

The Robinson experiment succeeded—on the field and at the box office. Within a 
few years, the Dodgers had hired other black players—pitchers Don Newcombe and 
Joe Black, catcher Roy Campanella, infielder Jim Gilliam, and Cuban outfielder 
Sandy Amoros—who helped turn the 1950s Dodgers into one of the greatest teams 
in baseball history.

* * *
Viewers of 42 will see no evidence of the movement that made Robinson's—and the 
Dodgers'—success possible. For example, Andrew Holland plays Pittsburgh Courier 
reporter Wendell Smith, but he's depicted as Robinson's traveling companion and 
the ghost-writer for Robinson's newspaper column during his rookie season. The 
film ignores Smith's key role as an agitator and leader of the long crusade to 
integrate baseball before Robinson became a household name.

Robinson recognized that the dismantling of baseball's color line was a triumph 
of both a man and a movement. During and after his playing days, he joined the 
civil rights crusade, speaking out—in speeches, interviews, and his 
column—against racial injustice. In 1949, testifying before Congress, he said: 
"I'm not fooled because I've had a chance open to very few Negro Americans."

Robinson viewed his sports celebrity as a platform from which to challenge 
American racism. Many sportswriters and most other players—including some of 
his fellow black players, content simply to be playing in the majors—considered 
Robinson too angry and vocal about racism in baseball and society.

Robinson viewed his sports celebrity as a platform from which to challenge 
American racism. Many sportswriters and other players—including some of his 
fellow black players—considered Robinson too angry and vocal about racism.
When Robinson retired from baseball in 1956, no team offered him a position as 
a coach, manager, or executive. Instead, he became an executive with the Chock 
Full o' Nuts restaurant chain and an advocate for integrating corporate 
America. He lent his name and prestige to several business ventures, including 
a construction company and a black-owned bank in Harlem. He got involved in 
these business activities primarily to help address the shortage of affordable 
housing and the persistent redlining (lending discrimination against blacks) by 
white-owned banks. Both the construction company and the bank later fell on 
hard times and dimmed Robinson's confidence in black capitalism as a strategy 
for racial integration.

In 1960, Robinson supported Hubert Humphrey, the liberal Senator and civil 
rights stalwart from Minnesota, in his campaign for president. When John 
Kennedy won the Democratic nomination, however, Robinson shocked his liberal 
fans by endorsing Richard Nixon. Robinson believed that Nixon had a better 
track record than JFK on civil rights issues, but by the end of the 
campaign—especially after Nixon refused to make an appearance in Harlem—he 
regretted his choice.

During the 1960s, Robinson was a constant presence at civil rights rallies and 
picket lines, and chaired the NAACP's fundraising drive. Angered by the GOP's 
opposition to civil rights legislation, he supported Humphrey over Nixon in 
1968. But he became increasingly frustrated by the pace of change.


"I cannot possibly believe," he wrote in his autobiography, I Never Had It 
Made, published shortly before he died of a heart attack at age 53 in 1972, 
"that I have it made while so many black brothers and sisters are hungry, 
inadequately housed, insufficiently clothed, denied their dignity as they live 
in slums or barely exist on welfare."

In 1952, five years after Robinson broke baseball's color barrier, only six of 
major league baseball's 16 teams had a black player. It was not until 1959 that 
the last holdout, the Boston Red Sox, brought an African American onto its 
roster. The black players who followed Robinson shattered the stereotype—once 
widespread among many team owners, sportswriters, and white fans—that there 
weren't many African Americans "qualified" to play at the major league level. 
Between 1949 and 1960, black players won 8 out of 12 Rookie of the Year awards, 
and 9 out of 12 Most Valuable Player awards in the National League, which was 
much more integrated than the American League. Many former Negro League 
players, including Willie Mays, Henry Aaron, Don Newcombe, and Ernie Banks, 
were perennial All-Stars.

But academic studies conducted from the 1960s through the 1990s uncovered 
persistent discrimination. For example, teams were likely to favor a 
weak-hitting white player over a weak-hitting black player to be a benchwarmer 
or a utility man. And even the best black players had fewer and less lucrative 
commercial endorsements than their white counterparts.

In the 16 years he lived after his retirement in 1956, Robinson pushed baseball 
to hire blacks as managers and executives and even refused an invitation to 
participate in the 1969 Old Timers game because he did not yet see "genuine 
interest in breaking the barriers that deny access to managerial and front 
office positions." No major league team had a black manager until Frank 
Robinson was hired by the Cleveland Indians in 1975. The majors' first black 
general manager—the Atlanta Braves' Bill Lucas—wasn't hired until 1977.

* * *
Last season, players of color represented 38.2 percent of majo- league rosters, 
according to a report by the Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport at the 
University of Central Florida. Black athletes represented only 8.8 percent of 
major-league players—a dramatic decline from the peak of 27 percent in 1975, 
and less than half the 19 percent in 1995. One quarter of last season's 
African-Americans players were clustered on three teams—the Yankees, Angels, 
and Dodgers. Their shrinking proportion is due primarily to the growing number 
of Latino (27.3%) and Asian (1.9%) players, including many foreign-born 
athletes, now populating major league rosters.

But there are also sociological and economic reasons for the decline of black 
ballplayers. The semi-pro, sandlot, and industrial teams that once thrived in 
black communities, serving as feeders to the Negro Leagues and then the major 
leagues, have disappeared. Basketball and football have replaced baseball as 
the most popular sports in black communities, where funding for public school 
baseball teams and neighborhood playgrounds with baseball fields has declined. 
Major league teams more actively recruit young players from Latin America, who 
are typically cheaper to hire than black Americans, as Adrian Burgos, in 
Playing America's Game: Baseball, Latinos, and the Color Line (2007) and Rob 
Ruck, in Raceball: How the Major Leagues Colonized the Black and Latin Game 
(2012) document.

Among today's 30 teams, there are only four managers of color—three blacks (the 
Reds' Dusty Baker, the Astros' Bo Porter, and the Rangers' Ron Washington) and 
one Latino (the Braves' Fredi Gonzalez). (Two of last season's Latino 
managers—the Indians' Manny Acta, and Ozzie Guillen of the Marlins—were fired). 
One Latino (Ruben Amaro Jr. of the Phillies) and one African American (Michael 
Hill of the Marlins) serve as general managers. (White Sox GM Ken Williams, an 
African American, was promoted to executive VP during the off-season.) Arturo 
Moreno, a Latino, has owned the Los Angeles Angels since 2003. Basketball great 
Earvin "Magic" Johnson, part of the new group that purchased the Los Angeles 
Dodgers last year, is the first African-American owner of a major league team.

Like baseball, American society—including our workplaces, Congress and other 
legislative bodies, friendships, and even families—is more integrated than it 
was in Robinson's day. But there is still an ongoing debate about the magnitude 
of racial progress, as measured by persistent residential segregation, a 
significantly higher poverty rate among blacks than whites, and widespread 
racism within our criminal justice and prison systems.

As Robinson understood, these inequities cannot be solved by individual effort 
alone. It also requires grassroots activism and protest to attain changes in 
government policy and business practices. 42, misses an opportunity to recap 
this important lesson. Robinson's legacy is to remind us of the unfinished 
agenda of the civil rights revolution and of the important role that movements 
play in moving the country closer to its ideals.

[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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