“Here’s Greenboig,” he said.
And Michael then told the rabbi about Hank Greenberg, who spent all of his life with the Tigers in Detroit and was one of the greatest of all hitters. One year he hit 58 home runs, only 2 less than Babe Ruth’s 60. Michael didn’t know as much about the American League as he did about the National, but he knew these things from reading the newspapers, and he explained that Greenberg had been in the air corps out in India or someplace and this was his first year in the National League and might be his last.
“Okay, this I understand,” the rabbi said, rising slowly to gaze across the field at the tiny, distant figure of Hank Greenberg. The rabbi stood so proudly that Michael thought he was going to salute. Greenberg lined two balls against the left-field wall. He hit two towering pop-ups. Then, as the rabbi sat down, he hit a long fly ball to center. The Pittsburgh outfielders watched it, tensed, then saw where it was going and stepped aside, doffing their caps and bowing.
The ball bounced off Abe Stark’s sign.
There was a tremendous roar, with shocked pigeons rising off the roof of the ballpark, and everybody was standing and the outfielders were laughing.
“He hits the sign!” the rabbi shouted exultantly. “He wins the suit!”
The guys behind them were also laughing and discussing the sign, as batting practice ended and the Pirates trotted off the field.
“Dey can’t give ‘im da suit from battin’ practice,” one of them said.
“Wait a minnit, Jabbo, wait a minnit. Look at dat sign. Does it say, Hit Sign Win Suit, except in battin’ practice?”
“No, but Ralph, da outfield went in da dumpeh! Dey let da ball go pas’ dem! Dey di’n’t even try.”
“I say Greenboig gets da suit, whatta ya bet?” said the one named Louis.
The debate was erased by another roar, as the Dodgers took the field and everyone in Ebbets Field stood to cheer. Two Negro men arrived at their aisle, carrying programs. One was very dark and wore a Dodger cap. The other was pale-skinned and wore a Hawaiian shirt and had field glasses hanging from his neck.
“Scuse me, pardon us,” said the man in the Dodger cap. They were in the third and fourth seats. The one with the field glasses sat beside Michael. He glanced at the I’M FOR JACKIE button and smiled.
“Great day for baseball,” he said.
“Sure is,” Michael said.
“Enjoy da game,” Rabbi Hirsch said.
A group of young men came up the aisle, laughing, posing, about six of them, and took seats across the aisle on the right, a few rows higher than Michael and the rabbi. They wore T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up over their shoulders and tight pegged pants. None of them wore a hat, and their Vaselined hair glistened in the light. They were all smoking cigarettes, and one held a pint bottle in a paper bag. They reminded Michael of the Falcons.
For a moment he felt a coil of fear in his stomach. But he turned away and gazed down at the field. This was Ebbets Field in broad daylight, not a dark street beside the factory. The Dodgers ambled to their positions. And Holy God, there was Pete Reiser! Going out to left field! Back from the dead. Furillo was in center and Gene Hermanski in right. But Pistol Pete Reiser was with them, down there on the grass. Michael pointed him out to Rabbi Hirsch.
“He looks okay, boychik,” the rabbi said. “Maybe some prayers helped. And maybe some hits he’ll get.”
The outfielders were right below them, casually tossing a ball while the cheers faded and the organ played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Branca was throwing warm-ups to catcher Bruce Edwards. And the infielders were firing the ball, from Eddie Stanky to Spider Jorgensen at third, from Jorgensen to Pee Wee Reese at short, and from Reese to Robinson.
“He looks cool,” said the man beside Michael, peering through the field glasses, talking to his friend. “Real relaxed. Like he been playin’ the damned position all his life.”
Everybody stood for the national anthem. The Negroes put their hands over their hearts. The men behind Michael took off their union caps, and Michael whispered to the rabbi to take off his hat. The anthem ended and there were shouts of “play ball” and the game started. Branca retired the first two Pirates on ground balls.
“He’s got good stuff, dis kid,” the union guy named Jabbo said. “Pray for your paisan, Ralphie.”
“Let’s see what he does wit’ Kiner.”
Kiner hit the first pitch into the upper deck. Foul by a foot. The whole park groaned at the crack of the bat. Michael explained foul balls to the rabbi, and then Branca struck out Kiner and everybody applauded.
“Scared da crap outta me wit’ dat foul ball,” the one called Louis said. “I thought it would land in Prospeck Park.”
“In Prospeck Park, it’d still be foul, Louis.”
Reese led off for the Dodgers and grounded out. That brought up Robinson. There was an immense roar. The two Negro men stood up and applauded proudly.
“Here we go,” said the one with the field glasses.
Robinson dug in, his bat held high, facing the pitcher. And he was hit with the first pitch, twisting to take it on the back. The crowd booed.
“They ain’t wastin’ no time today,” the man with the field glasses said. “Gah-damn!”
A voice came bellowing from the right. One of the young toughs. Wearing a black T-shirt.
“Don’t hit him in the head: you’ll break the ball!”
His friends laughed. The Negro with the baseball cap glanced at them and then returned his attention to the field.
“Forget it, Sam,” the one with the field glasses said. “Don’t you be gettin’ riled, now, hear me?”
Rabbi Hirsch was staring intently at the field. Hank Greenberg was playing first base for the Pirates, and Robinson seemed to be talking to him. “I wish I could hear them,” Rabbi Hirsch said. “I wish I could know what Henry Greenberg says to Jackie Robinson. A letter I should write him.” Then Robinson took a lead off first, hands hanging loose, legs wide, focused on the pitcher. The pitcher glanced over his left shoulder at first, went into his windup, and before the ball reached the catcher’s mitt, Robinson stole second. The place exploded. Michael’s heart pounded. This was Robinson, doing what he had to do. They hit him with a pitch? Okay: steal second, and up yours, schmuck.
“Dat’s da way,” the union guy named Louis shouted. “Good as a double!”
“Hold on to your hat, Sam,” the Negro with the field glasses said, smiling broadly.
Robinson was jittering off second base now, the number 42 on his back, taking short pigeon-toed steps, wary, alert, drawing a stare from the pitcher, waiting, now drawing the throw, and abruptly stepping back on the bag. The batter was Furillo. As Robinson did his dance, Furillo took a ball, then another ball.
“Jackie’s got him crazy,” the man with the field glasses said. “He’s losin’ control.”
Once more, the pitcher glared over his shoulder at Robinson. The park was hushed. The pitcher pitched. Furillo sliced it down the left-field line and Robinson was racing around third, his cap flying off, and fading into a hook slide as he crossed the plate in a cloud of dust.
Ebbets Field erupted into cheers and flying balloons and some brassy tuba music from a band near first base. The two black men were laughing and applauding. The union guys, Louis, Jabbo, and Ralph, shouted: Way ta go and Dat’s all we need and Call a doctor, da pitcha’s bleedin’. Michael felt like he was part of a movie. And Rabbi Hirsch was jigging, clenching his fist, waving his hat, dancing.
“What a beauty is this!” he shouted to Michael. “What a beauty, what a beauty!”