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his feet at once. “Why didn’t you say so?”
    Out on the field, two hundred white players stopped what they were doing as Jackie crossed the field, wearing his brand-new Montreal Royals uniform and carrying a glove and a bat. Reporters and photographers surrounded him immediately, and the burst of flashbulbs going off left Jackie reeling and partially blinded. Everyone was shouting questions at once, and Jackie had to concentrate to break them apart into coherent sentences.
    â€œJackie,” one reporter called, “do you think you can make it with these white boys?”
    Jackie looked around, seeking help — and spotted Smith standing behind the others, just watching. He remembered what the other man had said.
See the questions slow.
So he took a deep breath, let it out, and used that second to think so he could answer clearly: “Sure, I had no problem with white men in the service or at UCLA.”
    â€œWhat’ll you do if one of these pitchers throws at your head?” someone else asked.
    Jackie gave himself a second before replying, “I’ll duck.”
    That got some laughs.
    â€œJack, what’s your natural position?” a third reporter called.
    At least that one was easy. “I’ve been playing shortstop.”
    But then the same man followed up with “Are you after Pee Wee Reese’s job?”
    Jackie looked over and spotted Reese watching with another Dodger he recognized, Ed Stanky. “Reese plays for Brooklyn,” he answered. “I’m worried about making Montreal.”
    The first reporter hurled another question. “Is this about politics?”
    Jackie shook his head and smiled. “It’s about getting paid.” He saw Smith smile and nod, and relaxed a little. He could do this.
    Rickey had held back — this was Jackie’s moment, not his. But now, as the first barrage of questions died down a bit, he cut in, smiling and nodding as he drew Jackie away and led him across the field to where a middle-aged man in a Royals uniform waited. “Clay,” he said as they reached the man, “I’d like you to meet Jackie Robinson. Jackie, Clay Hopper, manager of the Montreal Royals.”
    Hopper held out his hand. “We ain’t doing much today,” he told Jackie, and though there was a clear Southern drawl to his words, his voice and manner sounded neutral, maybe even a little bit friendly. “Just throwing the ball around and hitting a few. Why don’t you toss a few with those fellas over there?” He turned toward a kid in a Royals uniform. “Hey, Jorgensen!” The kid looked up. “Meet Jackie Robinson.”

    By the end of the day, Jackie was tired, but feeling pretty good. He’d held his own with the Montreal players, and if some of them hadn’t warmed much to him, others had accepted him as just another guy on the team. And that was all he wanted.
    Two of the Dodgers called out to him, however, as he walked past the buses to where Smith and his Buick waited.
    â€œHey, rook!” one of them, Higbe, shouted. “Did you hear about the redneck shortstop?”
    The other, Bragan, followed up: “He thought the last two words of the national anthem were ‘play ball’!”
    Jackie managed a smile, but he couldn’t help wondering if they were heckling because he was the new guy or because he was black.
    Higbe tried again: “How about the shortstop making all the errors who tried to kill himself by jumping out on the highway?”
    And Bragan finished the joke, “A bus just missed him. Drove right between his legs!”
    A few of the other players laughed as the pair climbed onto the Dodgers bus and it pulled away. Most of the faces staring down at him glared or looked at him blankly. Only one, the young pitcher Ralph Branca, smiled and waved.
    â€œ ‘Between his legs,’ good one,” Smith muttered as Jackie reached him. “He