GUEST COLUMNIST: Jackie Robinson's dignity was nonnegotiable

Jamil Smith, Guest Columnist Jamil Smith, Guest Columnist As Henry Aaron began the 1974 major league baseball season, he stood on the doorstep of history -- he was one home run away from tying Babe Ruth's career home run record of 714. As prodigious a home run hitter as he was, Aaron was sure to break the record within the first few weeks of the season and everyone knew it. Still, Aaron went on to hit his 715th on April 15 of that year. He knew that despite however people tried to intimidate him, his dignity remained nonnegotiable. This was Jackie Robinson's lesson, passed down to players of color like Aaron as if through a baseball bloodline. Robinson was the first black man to play ball in the major leagues, and the 50th anniversary of his accomplishment is celebrated this year. At the risk of breaking down some of the mystique surrounding Robinson, I have to point out that he was not chosen as the First because he necessarily was the Best. Josh Gibson, a Negro League star thought by many to be the best ever (in any league), wasn't chosen. Neither was pitcher Satchel Paige -- who would later break in with the Cleveland Indians. Robinson was chosen largely because, in the midst of the tempest of bigotry that was expected, he would keep quiet. He had the fortitude to shrug off the slurs, headhunter pitches and ill-intentioned slides to second base. At the beginning, maintaining his dignity was nonnegotiable -- because Robinson wouldn't have been able to play without it. Branch Rickey, then the president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, created a special clause in Robinson's original contract that dictated he could not retaliate against players who attacked him verbally or physically. So Robinson took the hatred in and allowed it to erode him from the inside -- because he recognized his importance. Many, including myself, believe that repressing his desire to fight back shortened his life; he died of a heart attack at the age of 53. Robinson literally gave his life to prove his individual worth -- and his worth as an individual. The Rev. Jesse Jackson eulogized Robinson, saying that "even in death, he [has] figured out ways to continue the struggle." It is both sad and ironic, then, as Major League Baseball began its season last week, it has chosen to honor Robinson's legacy although it has been reluctant to fulfill it. On opening day, players were wearing a patch honoring Robinson whose text reads, "Jackie Robinson -- 1947-1997 -- Breaking Barriers." The playing ball bore the same logo for that day only. There also will be several other commemorative events this season. Some might call this display a sufficient recognition of Robinson's courage and determination. In terms of field representation, Hall of Famers such as Aaron and Willie Mays have long ago established a strong tradition of African American stars that is continued today by the likes of Ken Griffey, Jr., Kenny Lofton and Frank Thomas. Also a civil rights activist, Robinson couldn't have cared less for logos or patches -- what he wanted was people of color involved at the managerial and executive levels, not just on the playing field. After he passed away, he declared his wish to live to see a black person manage a major league team. (It was not until 1975 when the Indians' player-manager Frank Robinson became the first.) He was not satisfied, at any time, with the tokenism that the sport currently seems to favor. While African Americans have long enriched the sport as players, Major League Baseball as a whole still remains hesitant to hire them as managers or executives. Presently, there are three black managers -- Dusty Baker of San Francisco, Don Baylor of Colorado and Cito Gaston of Toronto. Bob Watson of the world champion New York Yankees is the only black general manager. There are no black owners -- in any professional sport. In this age, this simply isn't progress. We must recognize the actions of the past and how they affect the present. Nowhere does this statement have more clarity than in sports. But today's owners are not the only ones who seem to have forgotten Robinson's legacy; the players are also at fault. In a recent interview, Thomas said that he "really doesn't think about" Robinson as he considers his own success. It may be true, but that would make it all the more sad. All the commemorative events and celebrations in the world couldn't help Thomas realize that as he swings his bats and cashes his paychecks with the Chicago White Sox. The players' salaries and greed notwithstanding, it will be interesting to see how the players choose to honor Robinson off the field during and after this season. (So far, the only thing I've seen is a Nike commercial.) Will they become more active spokespersons for causes they believe in? Will they demonstrate Robinson's courage in all phases of life? It's doubtful -- sponsors would pull their endorsements at the first sniff of controversy and they won't have his courage because they haven't had Robinson's obstacles to overcome. What were some of those roadblocks? On the day that Robinson was to debut with the Dodgers, members of the St. Louis Cardinals had planned to strike until the plan was thwarted by their future Hall of Famer Stan Musial. One of Robinson's own teammates, Dixie Walker, was to call another team's clubhouse if Jackie took the field -- but he never did. One could try to recount all of the abuse he endured on the field, but there only is so much space on this page. Few of today's players (with the possible exception of Griffey) have the combined superstar talent and unshakable dignity to handle a day of what Robinson went through for years. For Major League Baseball to salute Robinson properly, they first need to reexamine their front-office demographics. How can the baseball powers that be honestly honor a man who would likely be disgusted with their hiring record? The players need to ask themselves if the patch they wear on their shoulders is only that -- and if it is, whether or not they have the voice to say something about it. They need to realize that a fan's taunt or reporter's annoyance should not be bothering them, that Jackie Robinson endured more than even hate letters -- and remained dignified to the last.