In a wooden panelled control room of a time/space vehicle called the TARDIS, a tall man with an unruly mop of brown curls hunched over a console flicking switches and buttons in a seemingly random order. He wore a white shirt, a rather gaudy waistcoat, tweed trousers, and brown wingtips that had seen better days. As he manipulated the controls of the craft, a young woman with shoulder length dark hair and wearing a brown trouser-suit came walking into the room. In her hand was a battered paperback book, the cover held on with scotch tape.
"Doctor," the young woman said, "I can't believe you gave me this book to read," in an exasperated tone.
"Hmmm?" the Doctor replied, seemingly engrossed in his work.
"Are you even paying attention to me?" she asked in a louder voice.
The Doctor looked up. "Thomas Pynchon not your cup of tea, Sarah?"
"Are you sure he wasn't on drugs when he wrote this?" Sarah said, more an accusation than an inquiry.
"I only met him once, and we talked about fishing," the Doctor said casually, "or maybe Winnebagos. It has been awhile since I've run into him."
"Anyway, I got to page 274."
"Page 274?" the Doctor asked, seemingly distracted.
"That's when I threw the book across my room in disgust."
"Oh, that page 274," the Doctor replied, touching his nose. "Forgot about that part. Still, I thought that since you're a writer-"
"A journalist, Doctor. There's a big difference."
"Journalist, hmm? Anyway, I thought you might like to read something a bit challenging."
"Challenging? This is obscene!" Sarah snapped, holding the paperback aloft in one hand. "And I've read Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs!"
"Dr Benway," the Doctor commented, returning back to the TARDIS controls.
Sarah walked up to the Doctor. "Where are we off to now?"
"Earth. In your past."
"When?"
"1947, to be precise."
"Any particular reason, Doctor?" Sarah asked, trying to examine the unfamiliar controls.
The Doctor looked down at his friend. "Well, I've always wanted to see Jackie Robinson play."
"Who?"
"Jackie Robinson. The first player to break the pointless colour barrier in baseball."
Sarah pouted. "Of all the things you can see in the universe, why a silly game?"
The Doctor shook his head, then smiled. "Think of it as a chance to broaden your horizons."
"Like the Pynchon novel?"
"Of course," the Doctor replied.
***
Burdette found a quiet spot on the roof of Sportsman Park. Laying on his belly, he hunkered down behind the light tower rising above the grandstand. He reached into his jacket pocket pulled out a hip flask and took a healthy chug to calm his nerves. Soon the nigger would be on the field, Burdette thought to himself. And then he could do what he came to do and be done with it. He wasn't concerned about being caught; besides, he knew there were people here in St. Louis who thought like he did. He'd never be convicted for doing what he planned to do to the nigger.
***
"You sure we need the extra security, Captain?" Harry Breen, the owner of the Cardinals asked.
Captain Hathaway stood in the oak panelled office of the owner inside of Sportsman Park and nodded. "St. Louis may be a modern city, but it's still Southern."
"I know. So, what are your plans?"
"We've doubled the amount of uniforms and plainclothes in the park. We also have two of our best men with Mr Robinson at all times."
Harry Breen grabbed the glass decanter on the corner of his desk and poured himself a stiff drink. "Branch Rickey wanted to bring up coloured players when he was my GM. Did you know that?"
"No, Mr Breen."
"I would have let him do it, too. Unfortunately, Landis was still Commissioner, and ole Kinesaw Mountain was Georgia born and bred, you know what I mean?"
"Yes," the Captain replied. "By the way, I heard that Cleveland now has a Negro on their roster," Hathaway said, reaching for a cigarette from the case on Breen's desk.
"Larry Doby. Good player. Doesn't surprise me that Bill Veeck would do that. Crazy bastard was going to buy the Phillies and stock it with the cream of the Negro Leagues."
"Back to business, Mr Breen. Anything happening around here?" the Captain asked, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
"Well, a couple of pointy-headed Kluxers called and talked big, but that was a week ago."
"Well, the police are here in full force. I just hope some redneck doesn't decide to pull something."
"So, do I, Captain Hathaway, so do I."
***
The TARDIS materialised in an alley across from the brick and I-Beam structure that was the ball park for the St. Louis Cardinals. The Doctor popped out of the door, wearing his long silver coat and placing his floppy hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Sarah followed him, wearing a simple white blouse and long black skirt.
"This doesn't look like New York, Doctor," Sarah said pointedly.
"No. Saint Louis, by the look of things." The Doctor pulled out a pocket watch on a chain and pressed a button. The TARDIS disappeared in a flash of pale light. "I think incognito might be a better approach," he added.
"But I thought you said that Jackie Robinson played for the New York Dodgers?"
"Brooklyn Dodgers, Sarah," the Doctor corrected, smiling. "The Dodgers are the visiting team." He took off down the alley, chewing up the pavement with his long strides. Sarah ran after him, cursing with each step due to the straps of her period shoes digging into her feet.
The Doctor stopped on the sidewalk, looked both ways. The wide city boulevard was filled with Packards, Studebakers, Fords and other large steel autos that were unmistakably American.
"You could learn to walk slower," Sarah said, finally catching up to her friend.
"I told you to wear the other shoes," the Doctor commented, eyes searching the ball park. "There it is."
"What?" Sarah said, trying to ignore her sore feet.
"The ticket window," the Doctor replied, looking down at Sarah. "Grandstand or Bleachers?"
***
Burdette observed the nigger from his perch, very easy to spot among the rest of the good white folk of the Dodgers, who were taking infield practice. He placed a hand on his hunting rifle, then pulled away, as if he scorched his hand. Taking a shot at the upstart coon would be too easy right now. Besides, the stands were only half-full. Being it was a Friday, he knew the park would be packed with fans - Burdette wanted the biggest audience possible.
***
Sarah was impressed by the sheer size of the ball park. She felt like she was entering the American equivalent of the Roman Coliseum. The grass on the field was a vivid shade of green, the walls of the outfield matching the hue, save for the large newspaper ad in right-centre field. She stood at the entrance of the tunnel to the Grandstand area and watched the players in the white uniforms and bright red caps throw, catch and hit the small white ball that stood in contrast to the green field.
"Looks like we'll be able to see some of batting practice," the Doctor commented, observing the warm-ups with an academic gaze.
"Batting practice?"
"Yes. Practice before the game. Helps loosen up the muscles."
Sarah saw the brightness of the sun above the park, and hoped they would be underneath the shade of the grandstands. "Where are our seats?" she asked.
"Behind the first base dugout," the Doctor replied, extending a long arm to a sun-drenched area of the park.
"I should have listened to you and worn that straw hat you pulled out," Sarah commented.
The Doctor led the way, walking down aisles and stairs, taking in the wonderful mixed sights of the crowd - blue collared workers wearing their ball caps, fathers with sons, whole families dressed in their best outfits, cowlicked young boys wearing large leather gloves on their hands, or leaning over the rail with a notebook and pen, hoping to meet their hero and get an autograph. The Doctor saw a large section of the black community in one section of the grandstand, equally divided between rooting for their hometown team and wanting to see their newest national hero, number 42.
The moment Sarah sat down in her hard, wooden seat, she undid the straps on her shoes and kicked them off, propping her feet on the top of the dugout. The Doctor laid his jacket on the seat before slumping down and scissoring his legs on the dugout roof.
"Sarah, you might want to change your position," the Doctor commented, pushing his hat back on his head.
"Why?" Sarah asked grumpily.
"This isn't the 1970's and Midwest America in the Forties is more conservative than you're used to."
Sarah stuck out her tongue and crossed her legs. "So, when are you going to explain the game to me?"
"I was going under the assumption that you've played, or at least seen rounders."
"I have, Doctor."
"Hot dogs. I've got hot dogs here!" The Doctor and Sarah turned to look up the aisle and saw an older man dressed in a white shirt carrying a large box connected to a strap across his back.
"Two down here," the Doctor said, his voice ringing out.
"Coming," the Hot dog vendor replied, walking down the step.
"Peanuts! Roasted peanuts!" a second vendor called out, while the Doctor paid for the hot dogs.
"I'd rather have the peanuts," Sarah said, looking at the long reddish brown sausage in the bun she was handed.
The Doctor extended a long arm. "One Bag."
The Peanut vendor smiled and launched a bag over the crowd, which the Doctor caught with one hand effortlessly.
"Nice catch, mister," the Hot dog vendor said, walking up the steps.
"Thank you," the Doctor replied, tipping his hat.
After the Doctor paid the peanut vendor, a third man arrived, excused himself and took the empty seat next to the Doctor. The man was thin and dressed in a simple grey suit and red bow tie. He took off his fedora and pulled a notebook out, along with a pencil.
"How are the peanuts?"
"Nice and hot," Sarah replied. "But what do I do with the shells?"
The Doctor handed an empty hot dog wrapper to Sarah.
"Excuse me," the man with the notebook asked, "are you English?"
"Yes. I'm the Doctor, and this is my friend, Miss Sarah Jane Smith."
"Red Barber," the man replied extending his hand.
"Broadcasting from the catbird seat," the Doctor replied in imitation of Barber's voice.
"Very good," Barber replied. "Is this your first game?"
"For her, yes," the Doctor said. "I've seen a few in my time. I'm surprised you're not broadcasting the game, Mr Barber."
"Well, no. It's a road game, so Mutual will pick up the local feed. I grew up around here, so I figured I'd come out with the missus and see the game."
"Should be a good one," the Doctor said.
"Yes. Got the defending World Series Champs going up against a Brooklyn squad that's finally back together after the War, and has one of the best rookies in the game."
"Jackie Robinson."
"Yes," Barber said softly.
"Not entirely used to the idea," the Doctor replied.
"Well, I grew up in the South, grew up with segregation of the races. And when I found out that Robinson was coming to play with the Dodgers, well, lets just say I had a lot to think about."
"About what?" Sarah chimed in, gaining interest in the conversation.
"Well, Miss. I'm no saint, and I had to wrestle with my conscience, but in the end, I think I made the right decision to stay. He's a ballplayer, no matter what colour he might be."
The Doctor nodded. "Mr Barber, since my young lady friend is a bit unknowledgeable in the finer points of the game, do you think you might enlighten her on the game of baseball?"
"I'm sure I can do that," Barber replied.
***
In the broadcast booth, Harry Carey adjusted his spectacles and checked the line-ups, like he did just before every game. Next to him, Dizzy Dean lit a cigarette and smiled.
"First time seein' Robinson, Harry?"
"Sure. From what I've heard, he's a natural athlete."
"For a nigra?"
"No, for anybody playing the game," Carey replied head looking down at the scorecard.
"If yer thinkin' I'm gonna get all racist on you during the game, yer wrong, Harry."
Harry looked up at his broadcast partner.
"I've seen some of the Nigra League stars. All of them are good players, probably better than some of the stiffs playin' this game."
Harry nodded.
"Branch Rickey wanted to do it with the Cards, you know."
"And?" Carey asked, eyebrows raised.
"Hell, as long as they can play ball, I'd have a nigra as a team-mate."
***
Burdette had to resist not standing when he heard the National Anthem play. The park was full by now, and he could hear the inchoate roar of the crowd as they cheered loudly as the organist finished playing The Star Spangled Banner. He saw the nigger standing on the first base line, cap over his heart, and thought how much of an insult it was that he was on the field with the best of White America.
Burdette grabbed his rifle and slid it into position. He peered through the scope his cousin Leon had gotten from war surplus and smiled. He could see the curls of the coon's hair. Soon enough, he'd see the blood, the bits of brain. It would all be over soon enough.
***
"Play Ball!"
He heard the umpire's cry for action to begin. He picked up the bat and gave it a few short swings before kicking off the doughnut with his spikes and approaching the plate.
"Now batting for the Dodgers, the second baseman, Jackie Robinson. Number Forty-two, Robinson."
Time to make his acquaintance in Saint Louis.
He heard the mixed reaction. Some people cheering - his fellow blacks - but mostly boos, and a few racial epithets. Mr Rickey had told him to expect being called names. Peewee Reese told him it would be worse here, the most southern team in the National League, but that he and the rest of his team-mates would back him up no matter what. Even Dixie Walker, who wanted to have the team strike to keep him off, said he would back him up.
He looked at the pitcher as he approached the plate, trying to read whether he'd get dusted or not. Leo Durocher, his manager, had been very good about making sure that the couple of times he'd been hit, two or three of the opposition would get plunked. The pitcher kept his eyes on the crowd, avoiding the ebony-skinned man in the grey flannel uniform.
Jackie Robinson took his stance and waited for the first pitch.
***
"Strike the coon out," a loud voice boomed behind Sarah. She turned around in her seat and shot a sweaty man in shirtsleeves a dirty look.
"Look, missy, just turn around in your seat, okay?"
Barber tapped Sarah on the shoulder. The Doctor kept his eyes on the game.
"Excuse me," Sarah said, indignantly.
"Come on now, Miss, no sense in starting any trouble," Barber said, trying to ease the tension.
"Look, he's a human being, no matter what his colour may be."
"And if he was our nigger, I'd be glad to have him," the sweaty man replied.
"Pig!" Sarah said, turning back around to watch the game.
"Ball!" the Umpire shouted.
"That was a bit inside," the Doctor said.
"A lot of teams have stuck it in his ear, so to speak," Barber replied, watching the second pitch called a strike.
"He's been hit a few times," the Doctor replied.
"No, just knocked on his ass - pardon me, Miss. Teams are testing him. But Robinson's doing well." Barber turned to the Doctor. "Rickey told him he's not to retaliate once this year."
"And?"
"Robinson has a lot of pride, but he's holding up well. If he can make it through this year though, I'm willing to wager a few beans that some people will regret ever messing with him."
"Strike!" the Umpire cried.
"Come on, strike the nigger out!" the sweaty man shouted, causing Sarah to cringe, Barber to shake his head, and the Doctor to wince. Sarah was about to tell off the lout, when two things happened: The Doctor placed a reassuring hand on Sarah's arm, and the sweaty man let out a loud yelp.
An older woman in a pink dress and straw hat belted the sweaty man over the head with her large purse. "Sir, you are a pointy-headed pig," the woman snapped with full indignity.
"Thank you," the Doctor said, giving the woman a huge smile.
"Most welcome."
The sweaty man sat in his seat and rubbed the knot on top of his head.
***
It was on the two and two curveball that he finally took a good swing. He knew he got good wood on the ball and watched a liner sail over the shortstop's head and into left field. He made the turn towards second, but retreated back to first base.
"Nice hit," the first baseman said.
"Thanks," Robinson replied.
***
Burdette wavered while the nigger was hitting. He tried to pull the trigger, but somehow he wasn't able to. Disgusted, he reached for the flask and the liquid courage it contained.
***
Before the pitcher could make his first pitch to Pee Wee Reese, Sarah watched Robinson take off from first, his muscular legs churning like the wheels on a locomotive. The pitcher hurried his throw, and the catcher made a vain attempt to throw out the speeding runner. Instead, the ball sailed high over the glove of the second baseman and Robinson picked himself up quickly and tore up the dirt infield heading for third base.
"My goodness," Sarah exclaimed when Robinson slid into third in a cloud of dust.
"Haven't seen anyone that fast," Barber commented.
The crowd let out a roar, mostly in respect of number 42.
"Damn, that boy can run," the sweaty man rumbled behind Sarah.
Sarah looked to the two men next to her. "Now what?"
"Reese will sacrifice," Barber said. "Suicide squeeze, maybe."
The Doctor caught the confused look on his companion's face. "Mr Barber, could you tell Sarah what the squeeze play is?"
"Sure. Now Miss, what Reese will do is chop at the ball, so it rolls up either line and stops. The hit is called a bunt. If it goes up the first base line," Barber said pointing at the long chalk line closest to their seats, "that's a safety squeeze. If it goes up the third base line, then that's a suicide squeeze."
"Suicide meaning that it's riskier?" Sarah asked, grasping the concept.
"Yes, Miss. You're catching on nicely."
The trio watched Reese square and bunt the ball up the third base line. Robinson, taking off with the pitch, was already halfway home by the time the third baseman for the Cardinals came up with the ball. Number 42 slid across home without a throw, as the third baseman held the ball before slamming it into his mitt in frustration.
The noise from the crowd was a loud mix of boos for the Dodgers scoring a run and cheers for the talents of Jackie Robinson as he trotted into the dugout, casually brushing the dirt off his flannel pants.
"Impressive, isn't it Sarah?"
"Quite, Doctor, quite."
***
It was at the end of the sixth - with Brooklyn now trailing the Cardinals 3-1 - when Sarah's bladder began an earnest protest. Strapping on her shoes, she made her way up the steps in order to find a rest room, leaving the Doctor and Red Barber chatting merrily about baseball and other sports she knew next to nothing about.
A loud crack got her attention. Sarah turned in time to see the baseball fly high above the grandstand. She tracked the ball's flight at it went above the roof and rattled in the girders of one of the numerous light towers.
While most of the crowd had resumed watching the action (inaction, Sarah thought) on the field, her eyes caught a form moving at the base of the tower.
"Probably a worker of some sort," Sarah muttered to herself, as she made her way to the ladies room.
***
Burdette let out a yelp as the ball nearly skulled him, bouncing inches from his face before rolling to the metal lip at the end of the roof. Rattled by the near beaning, he stroked the stock of his gun, gaining comfort from its solid form. He ran the line-up of the Dodgers through his head and knew the nigger would be at bat again by the next inning. And it was then he would take him out.
***
"The line for the ladies room was far to long," Sarah grumped as she took her seat next to the Doctor.
"Well, Miss, we don't get that many women at the ball park," Barber replied.
"Anyway, they were all in line. Did I miss anything?" Sarah asked.
"No. Robinson will be leading off the next inning," the Doctor said.
Sarah nodded. "By the way, Mr Barber, is it common for there to be workers by the light towers while the game is being played?"
"If it were a night game, then yes. Probably just a maintenance man."
The Doctor straightened up in his seat, a hard look briefly forming on his face, before returning to his normal smile. "I think I'll go stretch my legs," he said, getting up and adjusting his hat down forward. "Back in two shakes."
The Doctor made his way up the steps, taking two at a time.
***
It was an unshakable feeling of impending trouble that caused the Doctor to take a look around for Sarah's rooftop maintenance man. He headed toward the bleacher section beyond the outfield, while the Cardinals batted, hoping that the open area would allow a view of the grandstand.
As the Doctor wandered through the stands, a burly gentleman wearing a dark blue suit and derby followed him. Not too sure what that was all about, the Doctor made his way to the concourse, hoping his shadow might follow.
***
Burdette followed the pop up through his scope and into the nigger's glove for the third out. He placed his finger on the trigger, watched Robinson deposit his glove behind the foul line and make his way to the on deck circle to take a few practice swings before leading off the next inning.
Although Burdette had the coon in his sights, he knew it would have to be when the nigger stepped into the batter's box. Anything else would seem anticlimactic.
***
"Can I help you, Bud?" Detective Jackson Markham asked the curly haired man making his way down the exit tunnel.
"Yes," Curly replied in a British accent. "Is there a way to get on the roof from the concourse?" he asked, a large smile spread across his face.
"Look pal, you don't want to cause any trouble. Especially not today," Markham replied, pulling out his shield.
"Excellent. Someone in authority," Curly said. "Now if you can just show me the way-"
Markham snarled, "Pal, there's enough crap going on today with the Negro playing-"
"His name is Jackie Robinson, by the way."
"I don't care if it's Jackie Jungle Bunny," Markham responded, angrily. "Do me a favour and leave." Markham pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "Don't force me to use these."
Curly's smile disappeared. He took a step towards Markham. "If you'd listen instead of making threats, you'd learn that there is a man on the roof," he thundered.
Markham paused, stunned by Curly's authoritative tone. "Man on the roof, you say," Markham said sceptically.
"If you'd like, we can waste more time arguing," Curly replied angrily, "or we can make our way to the roof."
Markham stared hard at Curly for a moment, saw that he wasn't another loony. "Follow me, um, what do I call you?"
"Doctor will do."
"All right, Doc," Markham said, "By the way, if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, you'll be spending some time in stir."
"I'd rather hope it is," the Doctor replied softly.
***
"Time to kill me a nigger," Burdette muttered, his rifle trained on Robinson as he walked slowly to home plate.
***
Outside of the press box, a green door opened slowly. The Doctor and Markham walked out onto the roof.
"Sarah said she saw him on the first base side," the Doctor said quietly.
Markham looked over at the first light tower. "I see someone," pointing to a prone figure lying by the cement base that supported the light tower. Markham pulled out his gun.
"Probably not the right approach," the Doctor replied, his hand gripping Markham's wrist. "Let's try to do this without disrupting the game."
Markham nodded in agreement. He was told that some of the maintenance men would watch the game from the roof, but it looked like this yegg had something else in mind.
The pair made their way along the edge of the roof as quietly as possible, not wanting to spook their quarry.
The crowd let out a loud roar as Robinson's name was announced by the public address announcer.
***
Burdette's finger tightened on the trigger. He knew his moment was about to come. He ignored the sounds of the crowd, focused only on the thing he wished to destroy, the thing that ruined the great white game of baseball.
"I should think that if you wanted to see the game for free, it would be easier to find a convenient knothole in the fence," a British accented voice commented cheerfully.
Burdette turned around and saw the two men standing right behind him. The one with the derby had a pistol pointed right at him.
"Goddamn," Burdette hissed, before turning his attention back to Robinson.
"Look, pissant, drop the rifle," the other man said, obviously a local.
"I'm gonna take the nigger out," Burdette replied in a defiant whine.
"What's he done to you?" the Brit asked.
"He's a -"
"Wait, let me guess. Because he's not like you, that makes him less than you. That sound about right?" the Brit said. "It never ceases to amaze me that in all my travels, something that in the great scheme of things actually means very little could cause so much violence and hatred." The Brit squatted next to Burdette, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Drop the gun."
"I'd listen to what he says," the local added.
Burdette heard the cock of the pistol, knew that he would be dead if he took his shot. He let go of the rifle, placed his hands above his head.
***
Markham walked back to the front gate, where the Doctor stood by, playing with a yo-yo.
"A yo-yo?" Markham asked.
"Very relaxing, Detective Markham."
"Well, thanks for your help, Doc."
"Anytime, Detective Markham."
***
"Where have you been?" Sarah asked as the Doctor returned to his seat.
"Up on the roof," the Doctor replied enigmatically before sprawling in his chair. "Have I missed anything?"
"Well, the Dodgers have loaded the bases here in the ninth. Two out, and Robinson is up again," Sarah said. "I think," she added, looking at Barber.
"She's picking up the game rather well, Doc," Barber replied.
"Good, good."
Sarah felt a tap on her shoulder. The sweaty man leaned forward and smiled cruelly. "I hope the ni- Ouch!" he said leaning back and rubbing the top of his head.
Sarah turned around and saw the old lady staring hard at the sweaty man, her arms folded across her chest and her pocketbook in her lap.
"Keep your backwards comments to yourself!" the old lady snapped.
"Yes, ma'am."
After a long battle between Robinson and the pitcher, Robinson hit a hard liner that was caught by the leaping second baseman, ending the game.
"It's over?" Sarah asked, sounding a bit disappointed.
"Unfortunately, yes," Barber replied, standing up. "It was nice to meet you two. I hope you enjoy your time in St. Louis."
"Likewise," the Doctor replied, shaking hands with the broadcaster.
"Thanking you for explaining the game to me, Mr Barber," Sarah added.
"My pleasure," Barber said.
***
Back in the TARDIS, Sarah sat in one of the lounges, trying vainly to continue on with the Pynchon novel. Her feet were soaking in a small tub of water, and sitting on the corner table next to her chair was a cup of tea.
"This is too much," she muttered to herself, closing the battered paperback and tossing it on the table next to her.
"Since you're not a fan of Pynchon, I have something else for you," the Doctor said as he barged into the lounge, another paperback in his hand.
"More insane fiction?" Sarah asked.
"No. This is by a journalist," the Doctor replied, flashing his million dollar smile once more. He handed the book to Sarah and headed for the door.
Sarah took a look at the cover. '1947: The Year All Hell Broke Loose', was the title.
