True--The Four Seasons of Jackie Robinson by Kostya Kennedy

Author:Kostya Kennedy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

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Even with the wind blowing out toward right field—the flag beyond the scoreboard stiffened at times toward that way—the Yankees played Robinson to pull the ball. He came to bat in the bottom of the first inning. No score, two outs, Duke Snider on first base. Game Six of the 1956 World Series was six batters old. The Yankees had gone down easily in the top of the inning, and now Snider’s single had produced the Dodgers’ first base runner in two days. Robinson stood deep in the batter’s box, and a rustle ran through the crowd. In center field, Mickey Mantle took a couple of strides leftward. At third base, Andy Carey, even with the bag, moved closer to the line.

O’Malley watched from his customary box along the first base line. It was his birthday, and the Dodgers Sym-Phony had struck up a tune in acknowledgment. He had been born not twenty miles to the north, in the Bronx, on a Friday—October 9, 1903—marked by record rainfall that not only swamped the city but also caused the rainout, in Boston, of Game Seven of the first World Series ever played. There were any number of things that O’Malley—aware now, at every game he attended, of being a broad man in a narrow old ballpark seat—might have wanted for his fifty-third birthday, although nothing more earnestly than a new stadium, a new place to perch.

He’d been agitating for years, appealing to New York City’s parks commissioner (and gatekeeper, kingmaker, puppeteer), Robert Moses, for approval on a new place in Brooklyn. A no go so far. O’Malley was also in more promising ongoing discussions with the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors, especially the principal contact, Kenneth Hahn. It was no secret that Los Angeles wanted a major league team. (Any team—they’d even courted the lowly Senators.) Three days after Game Six, with the Dodgers on a stopover en route to a series of exhibition games in Japan, O’Malley and Hahn would meet over breakfast in Los Angeles. For now, O’Malley said, all he wanted for his birthday was a Dodgers win in Game Six.

Bob Turley had a serious fastball. Mid-90s, at least, and when he got it to the right spot, up in the zone, forget it. Plus he threw a curveball that could put rope in your knees. In 1954, as an Oriole, Turley had led the American League in strikeouts—and also in walks. Bullet Bob was one of Turley’s nicknames. Wild Bob was another. His new half-windup sliced a mile or two off the speed in exchange, he hoped, for greater command. Robinson took the first pitch, a curveball on the outside corner, for strike one.

Robinson had batted cleanup throughout the World Series, and before running into Larsen in Game 5, he’d been hitting .357. An old-time peak Robinson number. Turley’s second pitch, a fastball, ran too far inside. Then Robinson fouled the third pitch straight back into the high seats. One and two. Turley came

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