Sports Illustrated - USA (2022-04)

Robinson fouled off the first pitch, and the second came

in outside. One and one. Turley caught the ball back from

Berra and got up on the mound and then stepped off and

drew a long breath and then got back onto the mound

again. Gilliam kept his hands on his hips as he edged off

second base, and then, as he moved farther away from

the bag, he dropped his arms so that his hands hung

below his knees. Then he got up on the balls of his feet,

ready to run. Turley looked in toward the plate, stepped

forward and threw the ball, and Robinson swung.

You could tell it had a chance by the sound of it—

clock!—a high line drive out toward the gap in left-center

field. Slaughter moved sharply toward the ball and

leaped with his glove outstretched. But the ball got over

him and landed on the cinder path and took a hop off

the ad for Schaefer Beer. Gilliam gathered speed as he

rounded third, and when he touched home plate, his fel-

low Dodgers streamed out of the dugout and some fans

spilled out of the seats. The big Brooklyn crowd thundered

and roared, and the old stadium shook and shook and

shook in the autumn air. The Dodgers had won. There

would be a Game 7. W hen Clem Labine reached Robinson

in the thicket of teammates surrounding him on the

field, he kissed Robinson’s cheek for all he was worth.

This was in the late afternoon on Oct. 9, 1956: 10 years

and 175 days since Robinson had played his first game as a

Montreal Royal, nine years and 172 days since he officially

broke in at Ebbets Field. It was the 314th day of the bus

boycott in Montgomery, Ala.—another 74 days would pass

before it would end in success. This was the day on which

the Dodgers beat the Yankees in a World Series game for

the final time, and it was the day that Jackie Robinson

stroked that game-winning single, the 1,550th—and

final—hit of his Dodgers career.

THERE WAS STILL Game 7 to be played, the next after-

noon at Ebbets Field, with Don Newcombe pitching for

the Dodgers. Newcombe had won 27 games in 1956 and

was voted the National League’s Most Valuable Player.

But in Game 7, he did not pitch at that level. He gave up

a two-run homer to Berra in the first and third innings,

and left the game in the fourth with Brooklyn trailing by

five runs. The Yankees would go on to win 9–0.

Robinson was the last World Series batter, swinging

and missing at strike three and then, when the ball

bounced away from Berra, racing to first base, in full

f light, squeezing the last life out of the game and the

Series. But Berra got to the ball and threw to first base

for the out. The Yankees gathered near the mound in

celebration, and Robinson turned off to his right and

into foul ground.

He would be back at Ebbets Field after that afternoon,

to collect his things and say goodbye to the staff—he

always tipped the clubhouse guys well, home and away—

but he would not be back on the diamond. And even then,

he knew that this might be true.

You could see Jackie Robinson pausing there after the

final out on that October afternoon, and looking out over

the ballpark, at the fan of the infield and the white bases

and the green outfield grass and the bleachers beyond.

His office. The ground where he had plied his craft and

defined his mission, established himself and asserted

himself again and again. You can see him there, still and

thoughtful at a standing rest, solemn as a lion in a tender

moment, and then turning his body—the big shoulders

and powerful arms, the sturdy trunk, legs thick as the

thickest mattress springs, the body that had done its part

to change the world—away from the field and beginning to

move in his aching gait toward the dugout and on through

the tunnel to the locker room, where he would talk to the

newspapermen and feel the fresh disappointment of the

World Series loss and then peel off his f lannels, his Dodger

blues, his uniform, for the last time in his life.

Riverside, 1972

T

HE RIVERSIDE CHURCH rises off a crest
of land on the far West Side of Manhattan,
overlooking a spread of forested parkland,
a wide commuter road, and beyond that
road, the Hudson River. The church occu-
pies a city block just a Furillo’s throw from 125th Street,
the Harlem thoroughfare home to the Apollo Theater and,
from 1964 to ’90, the Freedom National Bank. Built in the
56 late ’20s, the church projects an air of classic grandeur,

BE

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(^2) )
SPEAKING SHARPLY
Robinson warned against electing
Barry Goldwater president in 1964
(above) and met with King for a rally
in Birmingham in ’63 (opposite).
JACKIE ROBINSON