Jackie Robinson had the looks of a Denzel Washington, a Sidney Poitier. His UCLA education and Army officer’s status gave him standing. His friendship with Richard Nixon gave him connections. He was solicited for his opinions and his advice, paid well for his endorsements.
In the late 1940s, because of Robinson’s successful entrance into the Major Leagues, many people – white and black – were forced to confront the race issue. Pee Ree Reese, the Kentucky-bred shortstop, was enlightened enough to comment that, “Travelling in the South, I don’t think the advances there have been fast enough.”
Don Newcombe was a militant before anybody knew what that word meant. He had little use for white people. Pitching at Yankee Stadium was not a big deal to him because it had never seemed possible growing up. He rooted for black teams and black ballplayers. He wanted to drive a truck, because it symbolized freedom on the open road. He took to baseball because he had the ability and it was a chance for him to earn a good living.
Newcombe and Roy Campanella were both from New Jersey, but much different kinds of people. Newcombe was a dandy, a sharp dresser who enjoyed frequenting nightclubs. Campanella did not look like a ballplayer. He was the product of a mixed marriage and harbored no ill will towards white folks, even though he was well aware of the prejudice all around him. Newcombe, on the other hand, despised some of his teammates if he thought they were not supportive enough of him. It is remarkable, considering everything, that the mixed-race team put together by Branch Rickey was able, despite all these differences and pressures, to capture six pennants between 1947 and 1956.
But Campanella’s position – catcher – required him to be a team leader; a uniter, not a divider. He had to work with white pitchers, white umpires, white opposing batsmen. He had to be sharp and on his toes. Campy could not afford to let the jeers and catcalls of the fans, or the opposition dugout, rattle his cage. He could not engage in the on-field repartee of Robinson, who carried on nine-inning ridicule contests with Leo Durocher of the Giants.
Robinson would tell Durocher that he could “smell Larraine,” a reference to Leo’s actress wife, Larraine Day. Infuriated, Durocher would order his pitchers to throw at Robinson. Robinson would just duck, bunt down the line, spike the pitcher, the first baseman, the shortstop trying to turn a double play.
“My dick to you, Robinson,” Durocher would scream.
“Save it for Larraine,” retorted Robinson.
Campanella avoided this kind of strife. He would instead get in friendly discussions with opposing hitters. He knew which ones were not racist. Many of the white players were open to blacks, curious to the point of friendly conversation. There was a method to Campanella’s madness, which was to break his opponent’s concentration, although in a different way Robinson did the same thing.
Campy would carry on with hitters at the plate until they were headed back to the bench, a smile on their faces because they had shown their openness to a man of the colored race – until they realized Campy had been playing them for competitive purposes.
When Willie Mays came up, Campy was the best player in the National League, on his way to the Most Valuable Player award. Mays was in awe of this groundbreaking colored ballplayer, who had helped pave the way for younger players such as himself.
Campy would pepper Mays with questions.
“Where you from, Willie?”
