Jackie Robinson

Alfred Duckett

Before Barry Bonds, before Reggie Jackson, before Hank Aaron, baseball's stars had one undeniable trait in common: they were all white. In 1947, Jackie Robinson broke that barrier, striking a crucial blow for racial equality and changing the world of sports forever. I Never Had It Made is Robinson's own candid, hard-hitting account of what it took to become the first black man in history to play in the major leagues. I Never Had It Made recalls Robinson's early years and influences: his time at UCLA, where he became the school's first four-letter athlete; his army stint during World War II, when he challenged Jim Crow laws and narrowly escaped court martial; his years of frustration, on and off the field, with the Negro Leagues; and finally that fateful day when Branch Rickey of the Brooklyn Dodgers proposed what became known as the "Noble Experiment" -- Robinson would step up to bat to integrate and revolutionize baseball. More than a baseball story, I Never Had It Made also reveals the highs and lows of Robinson's life after baseball. He recounts his political aspirations and civil rights activism; his friendships with Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, William Buckley, Jr., and Nelson Rockefeller; and his troubled relationship with his son, Jackie, Jr. Originally published the year Robinson died, I Never Had It Made endures as an inspiring story of a man whose heroism extended well beyond the playing field.

An Autobiography of Jackie Robinson

I Never Had It Made

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There I was, the black grandson of a slave, the son of a black sharecropper, part of a historic occasion, a symbolic hero to my people. The air was sparkling. The sunlight was warm. The band struck up the national anthem. The flag billowed in the wind. It should have been a glorious moment for me as the stirring words of the national anthem poured from the stands. Perhaps it was, but then again perhaps the anthem could be called the theme song for a drama called The Noble Experiment. Today as I look back on that opening game of my first world series, I must tell you that it was Mr. Rickey’s drama and that I was only a principal actor. 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.

I had started the season as a lonely man, often feeling like a black Don Quixote tilting at a lot of white windmills.

I gave Henline what we called the bench jockey treatment, booing and raucously protesting what we felt was a bad decision. 

Henline gave us a warning to quit. I continued the heckling. He whirled around, snatched off his mask, and pointed at me. “You! Robinson. Yer out of the game.” 

He didn’t pick on me because I was black. He was treating me exactly as he would any ballplayer who got on his nerves. That made me feel great, even though I couldn’t play anymore that day. One of the newspapers said it in the best headline I ever got: jackie just another guy.

The year 1949 taught me more. A black man, even after he has proven himself on and off the playing field, will still be denied his rights. I am not talking about the things that happened to me in order to portray myself as some kind of martyr. I am recording them because I want to warn the white world that young blacks today are not willing—nor should they be—to endure the humiliations I did. I suffered them because I hoped to provide a better future for my children and for young black people everywhere, and because I naïvely believed that my sacrifices might help a little to make America the kind of country it was supposed to be. People have asked me, “Jack, what’s your beef? You’ve got it made.” I’m grateful for all the breaks and honors and opportunities I’ve had, but I always believe I won’t have it made until the humblest black kid in the most remote backwoods of America has it made.

If a black becomes too important or too big for his racial britches or if he has too much power, he will get cut down.(...) Name them for me. The examples of blacks who “made it.” For virtually every one you name, I can give you a sordid piece of factual information on how they have been mistreated, humiliated. Not being able to fight back is a form of severe punishment. I was relieved when Mr. Rickey finally called me into his office and said, “Jackie, you’re on your own now. You can be yourself now.”

I learned that as long as I appeared to ignore insult and injury, I was a martyred hero to a lot of people who seemed to have sympathy for the underdog. But the minute I began to answer, to argue, to protest—the minute I began to sound off—I became a swellhead, a wise guy, an “uppity” nigger. When a white player did it, he had spirit. When a black player did it, he was “ungrateful,” an upstart, a sorehead.

“Personally, Jackie,” Dick persisted, “when I talk to Campy, I almost never think of him as a Negro. Any time I talk to you, I’m acutely aware of the fact that you’re a Negro.” 

I tried patiently to explain that I want to be thought of as what I am, that I am proud of my blackness, proud of the accomplishments of black people. “If you tell me that when you think of me, you think of a whining, cringing, handkerchief-head standing before you with his hat in his hand expressing eternal gratitude for the fact that you only had nine little digs in yesterday’s story when you could have had ten, that’s one thing,” I replied. “If you think of me as the kind of Negro who’s come to the conclusion that he isn’t going to beg for anything, that he will be reasonable but he damned well is tired of being patient, that’s another thing. I want to be thought of as the latter kind of Negro and if it makes some people uncomfortable, if it makes me the kind of guy they can’t like, that’s tough. That’s the way the ball bounces.”

I stuck out my hand to shake his hand, remembering the day of his departure for the service. He brushed my hand aside, pulled me to him, and embraced me in a tight hug. 

That single moment paid for every bit of sacrifice, every bit of anguish, I had ever undergone.

It’s probably apocryphal, but one of the stories that has gone around is one about a dear, very old black lady from a rural community in the Deep South who listened religiously to ball games on her radio. One day this little old lady, who was somewhat naïve about baseball language, was aroused to righteous indignation when the announcer said I had stolen a base. “They just lyin’,” she is quoted as saying. “That Jackie Robinson is a nice boy. Why, that boy wouldn’t steal a thing. They just lyin’.”

I have many memories. I remember standing alone at first base—the only black man on the field. I had to fight hard against loneliness, abuse, and the knowledge that any mistake I made would be magnified because I was the only black man out there. I had to fight hard to become “just another guy.” I had to deny my true fighting spirit so that the “noble experiment” could succeed. When it finally did I could become my own man; many people resented my impatience and honesty. But I never cared about acceptance as much as I cared about respect. In the business world I always strove to learn as much as I could so I would not be just a figurehead. I always believed in the utmost integrity. In politics I believed in following principle even if the man didn’t seem to offer outstanding possibilities. I never believed in backing out just because things weren’t the best they could be. In civil rights I worked hard to do as much as I could for my people. In everything I have experienced I have been blessed with the love of my family—my wife, Rachel; my children, Sharon, David, and Jackie; my wonderful mother; and my brothers and sister. I have always fought for what I believed in. I have had a great deal of support and I have tried to return that support with my best effort. However, there is one irrefutable fact of my life which has determined much of what happened to me: I was a black man in a white world. I never had it made.

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