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must’ve read a joke book. If he can read.” Jackie just climbed in the car without a word. Smith sighed, then beat a quick drumroll on the hood of the Buick. “Hi, Wendell, how are you?” he asked, then glanced over at his silent passenger and sighed again. “Well, looks like I got a long drive to Sanford.”

    It was almost evening when they pulled up in front of the Brock house in Sanford. Mr. Brock stepped out onto the front porch to meet them. He was carrying a tray of tall drinks, the glasses glistening with condensation.
    â€œJackie,” he said as they reached him, setting the tray on a table so he could offer his hand, “I’m Ray Brock. Welcome to Sanford, Florida! The day belongs to decent-minded people.” He turned to Smith next. “Wendell, good to see you.
    â€œMy wife’s inside, cooking,” Brock added after the greetings were over. “You know what she asked me this morning? She asked me, ‘What do you serve when a hero’s coming for dinner?’ ”
    Jackie scuffed his feet, not used to such attention. “I’m just a ballplayer, Mr. Brock.”
    But Brock laughed good-naturedly. “Tell that to all the little colored boys playing baseball in Florida today. You’re a hero to them.” He gestured toward the tray, the table, and the rocking chairs beside them. “Sit down, have something to drink. My special rum and Coke.”
    But Jackie shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.” Even if he had before, he wouldn’t now — there was no way he was going to let anyone paint a picture of him as a lush!
    â€œA ballplayer who doesn’t drink?” Brock let out a low whistle, then shook his head. “That’s a new one on me.”
    â€œI’ll have one,” Smith was quick to offer. “I’m a stereotypical reporter through and through.”
    All three of them laughed.
    â€œMr. Brock,” Jackie asked, “do you have a desk? I’d like to get a letter to my wife.”
    Brock clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, this way.” He led Jackie inside, while Smith settled into one of the chairs and claimed one of the drinks. Jackie could tell already that, except for Rachel being back in Daytona Beach, he was going to like it here.

    The next day, Rickey and Hopper watched the training game between Montreal and Saint Paul. Jackie was playing second.
    â€œHe’s getting by on a quick release,” Hopper commented, “but his arm’s too weak for short. Second base is his spot.”
    â€œI agree.” Rickey frowned. “And I’ll state another obvious, Clay — I need the players to act like gentlemen around him.” Hopper just nodded, not taking his eyes off the field. “To treat him as they would any other teammate. To be natural, to impose no restrictions on themselves. To all work together in harmony.”
    The whack of a bat solidly connecting made him look up, as a low line drive shot for the gap between first and second. Jackie lunged forward, glove outstretched, and snagged the ball before it could hit the ground. Then he spun around and dropped to one knee, firing the ball back to first before the runner who’d just left there could make it back safely. It was a beautiful play.
    â€œThat was superhuman,” Rickey whispered, awed.
    Next to him, Hopper chuckled. “Superhuman? Don’t get carried away, Mr. Rickey. That’s still a nigger out there.”
    The offhanded comment, and the casual, everyday tone of it, stunned Rickey more than the play had, and it took him a second to process it. He’d known that Hopper was originally from Mississippi, but had just assumed his time in Montreal had worn away any rough edges from his childhood. Finally, however, Rickey found his voice again and said, “Clay, I realize that attitude is part of your heritage, that you practically nursed race prejudice at