Jackie Robinson was born on January 1, 1919 to a single mother, and lived in Pasadena, California. He attended John Muir Technical High, and earned varsity letters in football, basketball, baseball and track. He loved sports, though baseball surprisingly was not his strongest. Later, when he went to the UCLA, (University of California, Los Angeles), he received varsity letters there in those same sports. There, he also met Rachel Isum, his future wife.
A short while after Jackie left UCLA, Pearl Harbor was bombed. He was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, for basic military training. He became a second lieutenant in January, 1943. Jackie faced a lot of racism in the army, too, and was court marshaled when he refused to move to the back of a military bus. On November, 1944, he received an honorable discharge. It was then while waiting for the discharge that he met a former player of the Kansas City Monarchs, a Negro league team, and decided to join it. After returning home and beginning to play, Jack's skill caught Branch Rickey's attention. He had Jackie join the Montreal Royals, a minor league team in the Brooklyn club.
Jackie performed well in the Royals season, both in the sport and in keeping his promise not to fight back. So, Branch Rickey moved him up to the Dodgers for the next season. Before spring training, Jackie and Rachael had their first son, Jackie Jr.
Jack's teammates did not want him to join because it could threaten their jobs, and even went as far as to create a petition saying they wouldn't play with a black player. All but one signed, shortstop Pee Wee Reese. At one game against the Philadelphia Phillies, Jackie faced lots of terrible racism from the opposing team. Though Jackie almost lost his temper, it is said that this game united the Dodgers.
A short while after Jackie left UCLA, Pearl Harbor was bombed. He was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, for basic military training. He became a second lieutenant in January, 1943. Jackie faced a lot of racism in the army, too, and was court marshaled when he refused to move to the back of a military bus. On November, 1944, he received an honorable discharge. It was then while waiting for the discharge that he met a former player of the Kansas City Monarchs, a Negro league team, and decided to join it. After returning home and beginning to play, Jack's skill caught Branch Rickey's attention. He had Jackie join the Montreal Royals, a minor league team in the Brooklyn club.
Jackie performed well in the Royals season, both in the sport and in keeping his promise not to fight back. So, Branch Rickey moved him up to the Dodgers for the next season. Before spring training, Jackie and Rachael had their first son, Jackie Jr.
Jack's teammates did not want him to join because it could threaten their jobs, and even went as far as to create a petition saying they wouldn't play with a black player. All but one signed, shortstop Pee Wee Reese. At one game against the Philadelphia Phillies, Jackie faced lots of terrible racism from the opposing team. Though Jackie almost lost his temper, it is said that this game united the Dodgers.
Jackie continued playing for the Dodgers in the next season. It was that year that Branch Rickey lifted the heavy burden of "not to fight back". He said he could be himself now.
Later on, Jackie, assisted by Alfred Ducket, wrote an autobiography of his home life, baseball career, and life after retirement from MLB. Here is a section of a letter written by him to Michael Hamilburg a literary and talent agent for the Michael J. Hamilburg Agency in Los Angeles.
"October 10,
1970
Dear Mr. Hamilburg:
I believe that Al and I have pulled together sufficient material in the attached outline to give a good overview of the book you, he and I have been discussing-working title- I NEVER HAD IT MADE.
Almost a quarter century ago when I was chosen by Mr. Branch Rickey to be the first black man in major league base, I immediately became the target of three kinds of attention―hatred from some owners players, managers, coaches, press personnel, and some fans; encouraging will from some press personnel, some fans and some players. Third species of attention was curiosity from a vast body of all kinds of people who committed neither to my success or failure.
Almost a quarter century later, there is virtually, unanimously only one kind of attitude toward the many black players and stars of America’s favorite sport. There is no major league team which does not have black players, and the roar from the stands comes pouring forth, uninhabited by racism.
Within the span of these years, our country and the world have undergone many changes. So have I. I have engaged in three careers-business as vice president for personnel of a restaurant chain and founding Board Chairman of the highly successful Freedom Nation Bank in Harlem-civil rights as volunteer, traveling fund-raiser for the NAACP and fundraiser and supporter of the late Dr. Martin Luther King and lastly―politics as a campaigner for Hubert Humphrey, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon and Nelson Rockefeller.
Beautiful things and bad things have happened to me. I have been reinforces in some of my early convictions. I have changed my mind about others. I have been called blessed by some people of both races and damned by others of
both races. I have been labeled militant, radical, conservative and even Uncle Tom. I have not got of life all I wished or deserved. But who does? I have been most fortunate. I owe a great deal to baseball but I gave a great deal to the game. Baseball has made magnificent strides and set the tempo for other facets of our society to do the same. But baseball is still quite imperfect as I shall
prove in the chapter, “There Are No More Mr. Rickeys.” I love baseball and ―even though I do, in fact BECAUSE I do, ―I will continue to criticize it. I love this country. It has done a lot for me. In this country, I, grandson of a slave, son of a sharecropper, rose to the Hall of Fame. As I say, this country has done a lot for me and I have done in return, the best it has let me do for it. That is why I do not have to wave flags or have stickers on my car or wear patriotic cufflinks or armbands on my sleeve. I do not have to leave this country at the suggestion of some third generation European who wants to compare grandfathers―his who came here seeking freedom and immediately enslave others for his own advancement―and mine who was brought here in chains in the stinking hold of a ship. This is my land as much as it is his. And it is his, too. With the land, I’ve been told, Americans inherit the legacy of free speech, free expression, of the right to dissent. I always intend to indulge that freedom.
I once put my freedom into mothballs for a season, accepted humiliation and physical hurt and derision and threats to my family in order to do my bit to help make a lily white sport a truly American game. Many people approved of me for that kind of humility. For them, it was the appropriate posture for a black man. But when I straightened up my back so oppressors could no longer ride upon
it, some of the same people said I was arrogant, argumentative and temperament. What they call arrogant, I call confidence. What they call argumentative, I categorize as articulate. What they label temperamental, I cite as human.
I paid more than my dues for the right to call it like I see it. And I could care less if people like me, so long as they respect me. The only way I know how to deserve respect ―even if one does not receive it ―is to be honest enough with oneself, to be honest with others. This is the cardinal principle I have kept in mind making plans for this book.”
"October 10,
1970
Dear Mr. Hamilburg:
I believe that Al and I have pulled together sufficient material in the attached outline to give a good overview of the book you, he and I have been discussing-working title- I NEVER HAD IT MADE.
Almost a quarter century ago when I was chosen by Mr. Branch Rickey to be the first black man in major league base, I immediately became the target of three kinds of attention―hatred from some owners players, managers, coaches, press personnel, and some fans; encouraging will from some press personnel, some fans and some players. Third species of attention was curiosity from a vast body of all kinds of people who committed neither to my success or failure.
Almost a quarter century later, there is virtually, unanimously only one kind of attitude toward the many black players and stars of America’s favorite sport. There is no major league team which does not have black players, and the roar from the stands comes pouring forth, uninhabited by racism.
Within the span of these years, our country and the world have undergone many changes. So have I. I have engaged in three careers-business as vice president for personnel of a restaurant chain and founding Board Chairman of the highly successful Freedom Nation Bank in Harlem-civil rights as volunteer, traveling fund-raiser for the NAACP and fundraiser and supporter of the late Dr. Martin Luther King and lastly―politics as a campaigner for Hubert Humphrey, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon and Nelson Rockefeller.
Beautiful things and bad things have happened to me. I have been reinforces in some of my early convictions. I have changed my mind about others. I have been called blessed by some people of both races and damned by others of
both races. I have been labeled militant, radical, conservative and even Uncle Tom. I have not got of life all I wished or deserved. But who does? I have been most fortunate. I owe a great deal to baseball but I gave a great deal to the game. Baseball has made magnificent strides and set the tempo for other facets of our society to do the same. But baseball is still quite imperfect as I shall
prove in the chapter, “There Are No More Mr. Rickeys.” I love baseball and ―even though I do, in fact BECAUSE I do, ―I will continue to criticize it. I love this country. It has done a lot for me. In this country, I, grandson of a slave, son of a sharecropper, rose to the Hall of Fame. As I say, this country has done a lot for me and I have done in return, the best it has let me do for it. That is why I do not have to wave flags or have stickers on my car or wear patriotic cufflinks or armbands on my sleeve. I do not have to leave this country at the suggestion of some third generation European who wants to compare grandfathers―his who came here seeking freedom and immediately enslave others for his own advancement―and mine who was brought here in chains in the stinking hold of a ship. This is my land as much as it is his. And it is his, too. With the land, I’ve been told, Americans inherit the legacy of free speech, free expression, of the right to dissent. I always intend to indulge that freedom.
I once put my freedom into mothballs for a season, accepted humiliation and physical hurt and derision and threats to my family in order to do my bit to help make a lily white sport a truly American game. Many people approved of me for that kind of humility. For them, it was the appropriate posture for a black man. But when I straightened up my back so oppressors could no longer ride upon
it, some of the same people said I was arrogant, argumentative and temperament. What they call arrogant, I call confidence. What they call argumentative, I categorize as articulate. What they label temperamental, I cite as human.
I paid more than my dues for the right to call it like I see it. And I could care less if people like me, so long as they respect me. The only way I know how to deserve respect ―even if one does not receive it ―is to be honest enough with oneself, to be honest with others. This is the cardinal principle I have kept in mind making plans for this book.”