Branch Rickey, the beefy, bushy-browed boss of the old Brooklyn Dodgers, was at his histrionic best. Scowling at the young black ballplayer seated in his office, he portrayed in turn a bigoted umpire deliberately making bad calls, a haughty railroad conductor pointing to the Jim Crow car, and a hostile waiter snarling, "Nigger, you can't eat here." "Suppose they throw at your head," Rickey demanded. "Suppose you're fielding a ground ball, and a white player charges into you and sneers, 'Next time get out of my way, you dirty black bastard.' What do you do...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
