Jackie Robinson You can't go back: Ebbets Field is long gone, Polo Grounds, the reserve clause--history. Books and Cooperstown guard the mysteries of stats. You can conjure plays--a man on third, one out. Jackie dances down the line. The pitch, swing, hit--you almost hear the crack-- explosion at third--throw to first and Jack sliding safe at home, ignoring the sign. But numbers can't take you all the way back: Moist Brooklyn afternoons, the silent shock of his color in Dodger blue against a green infield, nigger yells from the fence. You might picture him dusting off chalk, you won't see any strength spent being black.
Jackie Robinson.
Mitchell, Mark J.
Jackie Robinson You can't go back: Ebbets Field is long gone, Polo Grounds, the reserve clause--history. Books and Cooperstown guard the mysteries of stats. You can conjure plays--a man on third, one out. Jackie dances down the line. The pitch, swing, hit--you almost hear the crack-- explosion at third--throw to first and Jack sliding safe at home, ignoring the sign. But numbers can't take you all the way back: Moist Brooklyn afternoons, the silent shock of his color in Dodger blue against a green infield, nigger yells from the fence. You might picture him dusting off chalk, you won't see any strength spent being black.