***When The National Pastime Really Was the National Pastime-42-The Jackie Robinson Story

 

DVD Review

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

42, starring Chadwick Boseman, Harrison Ford, 2013

I seem of late to be on a baseball story spree having just reviewed director Billy Crystal’s homage to Roger Maris (and Mickey Mantle) in the film 61* (the silly asterisk denoting until much later that Roger had done his record- breaking deed in a 162 game season and the immortal Babe Ruth’s 60 in 154. Such are the number powers, statistical numbers powers, and inanities that drive sports, particularly baseball). There I noted as I do here since the time period of the film under review, 42, the story of Jackie Robison’s heroic efforts to integrate major league baseball in 1947, a time before television drew crowds away, baseball was indeed something like the national pastime for sports aficionados. I also noted there that was a time before 24/7/365 ESPN all-sports-all-the-time when there were distinct seasons to sport and not so much overlapping. A time when, for example, the World Series in baseball was over before the chilly winds of November snow-delayed games in northern climes. A time when the national pastime was indeed the national pastime and life was, or seemed to be, slower, slow enough to listen or watch a game for a couple of hours or occasionally go out to the ballpark and not put a big dent in your monthly discretionary budget. Hey, if you don’t believe me just as your fathers, or ouch, grandfathers they will tell you true. All this can serve as backdrop to give an idea of how controversial, how shocking in some quarters, Jackie Robinson’s deed was since all previous premises in baseball were based on its displaying the white man’s athletic prowess. Blacks (and Latinos, at least open Latinos unlike Ted Williams) were okay to watch the game (and in the South in the “colored” sections) but not to be on the same ballfield as whites.          

All this sports talk, baseball talk is a somewhat unusual subject for this writer to discuss since unlike almost every other kid in my growing working-class neighborhood of North Adamsville I did not play the game when I was tall enough to wave a bat or don a glove. Reason: no skill, no athletic skills (although that has not stopped generations of “no skill” kindred from being critical sportswriters, play-by-play broadcasters and barroom experts). Oh sure, as a kid I would  collect the baseball cards that came with the bubblegum we would cadge money for in order to go to the local mom and pop variety store and chance our luck to see if we could get Ted/Mickey/Willie/Jackie and all in our packet, and to trade our duplicates. And sure, as well, I used to “flip” cards against the school house wall to try to win some coveted card and also use any loose duplicates to stick with clothespins on my bicycle to make it sound like a junior motorcycle. But I did not play, did not go to professional games at Fenway (home of the 1950s lowly Red Sox) or pay attention to the game much in the newspapers (except to see how far the Sox were out of first place occasionally). I also knew, 1950s knew, that there were black baseball players around which seemed a natural thing. So it was somewhat disconcerting years later, a fact which got confirmed by viewing this fine film, when I found out that major league baseball had only been integrated in 1947. And that integration was a close thing dependent on the spunk of Brooklyn Dodgers owner Branch Rickey (played by old codger, now old codger, Harrison Ford) and one super black baseball player Jackie Robinson (played by Chadwick Boseman).              

Unlike the story line in 61* where the subject entailed pursuit of a legendary record, the home run record, which captured the nation’s attention, or at least baseball nation’s attention this integration question cut to the core. Almost every aspect of national pastime baseball came into play in this integration process starting in the Mister Jim Crow South where most major leagues teams had their spring training and where, as one graphic scene showed, black ballplayers could not legally be on the same filed as whites, ditto drinking fountains, restrooms, hotels, restaurants, hell, even airline flights. And it did not get much better heading north, including in Brooklyn and, of course within the Dodger organization. Damn, no, double damn.        

I mentioned in the 61* review that I would have been much more sympathetic to Maris’ struggle if I had known some of the details presented in the film about how the fans, hell, even Yankee fans, trashed him because they did not want to see Babe’s record fall or would rather have seen the Mick get it. That was kids’ stuff compared to what Jackie faced. This film shows Robinson’s perseverance in the face of all those pressures from fans, from the parasitic sportswriters following the saga (except the lone black reporter/friend/chauffer present), and the effect it had on him personally and on his family. Funny baseball has changed a lot in the past fifty years since Jackie’s feat brought slews of black, Latinos and Asian players to the majors. But from all reports gnarly sport-writers and rabid fans (and here not meaning devoted) are still with us.