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320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
After finishing I Never Had It Made today, I called my brother and asked to speak to my dad, and after a good laugh, he said, call 1-800-H.E.A.V.E.N. (oh how I wish I could) I know as sure as I'm sitting here that my dad was listening to the historic game on his transistor radio back on April 15, 1947 when Jackie Robinson made his major league debut as a Brooklyn Dodger. Why had I never asked him about it?
This amazing story of courage about a determined African-American baseball player in the face of racism, and his heroic Manager, Branch Rickey who changed baseball forever, is a powerful and enlightening read, and it encompasses so much more than the game. I did not know JR was in the military stationed in Honolulu leaving just two days prior to the Pearl Harbor bombing. I did not know he told Senator JFK he should look people in the eye when speaking. I did not know he had three children and lost one in a tragic accident, and I did not know about the old baseball term "choking up".......no no, not on the bat, but like kicking the dirt or throwing hands up in the air in frustration, apparently (back in the day) players would grab their throats in a choking motion whenever an umpire made a bad call favoring the home team. (of course, that would never happen now.......)
I love baseball, and now know when all Major League Baseball players wear the #42 on the backs of their jersey each April to honor Jackie Robinson, I will appreciate and remember all the obstacles and injustices this brave man endured even more.
Highly recommend! (and thanks dad for taking me to the games)
Jackie Roosevelt Robinson January 31, 1919 *** October 24, 1972
"I'm not concerned with you liking or disliking me....all I ask is that you respect me as a human being."
"I never had it made. I was a black man in a white world of baseball."
Update: September 15, 2015
42 is a great baseball movie that truly brings the 1940's back to life, and putting aside the beautiful homes with large wrap-around porches, vintage automobiles and the wonderful clothing of the time.....with the exception of the horribly ugly fat ties, the best part for me was experiencing the sights and sounds of fans in the old stadiums, players in wool uniforms, watching Harrison Ford do a bang-up job as Branch Rickey, and seeing a part of Jackie Robinson's life portrayed on screen.
Thank you GR's friend Julie for reviewing this book and bringing it to my attention!
It was probably the only day in history that a black man ran from a white mob with love instead of lynching on its mind.The restraint and class he exhibited were superhuman, but, thanks to his supportive relationship with Rickey, Robinson was always aware that it was pivotal he do so in the face of endless abuse for the pioneer role he had undertaken. It was the correct strategy to pursue, to the degree that Robinson's manager in Montreal, Clay Hopper—a Mississippi native with all of the inborn prejudices of the Deep South who had pointedly asked of Rickey while they were observing Robinson in tryouts Do you really think that a nigger is a human being?—shook hands with Robinson when he left the team and told him that he was a great ballplayer and fine gentleman. That's what constituted progress in the mid-forties. My sister-in-law is black, and the reality that, were she and my brother born but a generation prior, their marriage would have been not only difficult and dangerous, but illegal in certain states, leaves me incredulous and appalled. America (and that includes Canada, which is hardly exempt from prejudice and racism) has obviously come a long way since then, and Jackie Robinson's name can stand at a place of high honour among those who were instrumental in bringing about this vital state of affairs.
"He sat on that cot," Mr. Ricky said, "and was silent for a long time. Then he began to cry, tears he couldn't hold back. His whole body shook with emotion. I sat and watched him, not knowing what to do until he began tearing at one hand with the other--just as if he were trying to scratch the skin off his hands with his fingernails. I was alarmed. I asked him what he was trying to do to himself.
"It's my hands," he sobbed, "They're black. If only they were white. I'd be as good as anybody then, wouldn't I, Mr Rickey? If only they were white." (27)
As I write this twenty years later, I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world. In 1972, , in 1947, at my birth in 1919, I know that I never had it made. (xxiv)
But I still feel I owe--till every man can rent and lease and buy according to his money and his desires; until every child can have an equal opportunity in youth and manhood; until hunger is not only immoral but illegal; until hatred is recognized as a disease, a scourge, an epidemic, and treated as such; until racism and sexism and narcotics are conquered and until every man can vote and any man can be elected if he qualifies -- until that day Jackie Robinson and no one else can say he has it made. (269)