Fighting Back

by John S.

Hank turned the knob on the radio. He heard the voice of Red Barber come to life. Hank kicked back in his chair and listened. “Now Robinson steps up to the plate,” Barber announced. Hank heard the sound of thousands of people erupting. Boos filled Hank’s radio as Jackie Robinson dug into the batter’s box.

Jackie Robinson

Hank clutched his Dodgers baseball cap in his hands. “C’mon Jackie,” Hank whispered.

“The first pitch to Robinson is high and inside, and puts Jackie in the dirt,” Barber said. The Cardinal fans’ cheers filled the radio; he heard white men on the other side screaming for Jackie to get out of baseball. The next pitch was also at Jackie’s head and he ducked again.

The jeering began again: “They’re giving you a chance, n****r! Do something about it!” Hank’s head hurt. He could barely take it.

The pitcher wound up. Hank closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The sound of the bat made Hank’s eyes shoot open. “Oh boy, did Robinson crush that one!” Barber exclaimed. Hank heard the reaction of the haters as the ball traveled over the fence. Silence with a mix of boos filled the stadium. A smile crept across Hank’s face.

Hank admired Jackie Robinson for so many reasons. Nothing made Jackie react. He fought for civil rights by not fighting at all.

Hank had always wanted to make an impact in the Civil Rights Movement. If only he knew how. He hated segregation even more than he hated the Yankees. Ever since Jackie had reported to Spring Training in 1946, Hank had wanted to make a difference.

Hank turned the radio off. He put his Dodgers hat on with a smile on his face, knowing Jackie had shown all of those horrible racists how great he was. That smile quickly faded as Hank passed by the kitchen.

He was used to it by now. His parents argued every day. At this point, the yells coming from the kitchen were familiar. This time they were arguing about something about Hank’s father’s work. He used to cry when they argued. He was beyond that at this point. Now it just made him angry, and afraid for his sister.

Ella was only eleven years old. She couldn’t handle it. She would cry and lock her door and not come out for hours. Hank would try to sooth her, but it never worked.

Hank walked by the kitchen and opened Ella’s closed door. She hadn’t locked it yet. He found her lying on her bed covering her ears. She was bawling her eyes out.

Hank plopped down on the bed and hugged Ella.

“Why do they always have to fight?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Hank said. He didn’t have the answers. He wished he did. “I’m sorry,” Hank whispered. He got up and left.

Hank walked into his room. He threw his hat across the room with rage. His family problems really angered him. He wished he had a stable family like his best friend. Griffin was his next door neighbor. They had been best friends their whole lives. His family went to the movies together and ate dinner together all the time. Hank’s family did none of these things. Hank’s dad always took dinner in his room. His mother sometimes did not eat at all. Hank and Ella usually ate together in silence.

Hank sat down on his bed. He thought about what he could do to stop segregation, or at least make an impact. Sometimes, he wished he could just fight all of the racists. He was bigger and stronger than most people, but he knew that violence was not the answer. Throwing punches was not the solution. He lay down. He remembered what Branch Rickey had said to Jackie Robinson: “I want a player who has the guts not to fight back.”

Hank’s alarm clock screamed into his ear. Hank slowly sat up. Then he jumped off of his bed. He grabbed his Dodgers cap off of the floor along with his baseball glove and his Louisville Slugger. He laced up his Converse and ran out the door without eating. He knocked on Griffin’s door, and Griffin’s mother opened the door.

“Hello, Missus Mays, I was wondering if Griffin wanted to come to the sandlot with me.”

Before she could respond, Griffin was at the door holding his glove.

“Let’s go,” Griffin said.

His mother smiled and hugged Griffin, and the two boys ran all the way to the sandlot. When they arrived, they stopped in their tracks. Seven white boys were already playing on the field. One of the white boys, who was pitching, glared right at Hank.

“Let’s go back,” Griffin whispered to Hank.

Hank did not respond. He stood up straighter and walked forward toward the sandlot. He stepped onto the dirt and walked up to the pitcher.

“Mind if we play?” Hank asked with a hint of defiance in his voice.

The pitcher looked over at the shortstop. The shortstop nodded.

The pitcher said they could play. Hank and Griffin joined the hitting team. Hank did not hit in the first inning. Neither did Griffin.

Hank went out to shortstop for his team and made a very nice play. The white kid who was playing second base said, “Nice play,” and smiled at him.

When they got the third out, Griffin ran from center field to catch up with Hank on the way to the dugout. “These guys are really nice!” Griffin said.

“Yeah,” Hank muttered. Although the kids did seem nice, he was more focused on getting a hit. He picked up his Louisville Slugger and walked to the plate. He picked up some dirt in his hands and rubbed it around. Just like Jackie, Hank thought to himself, as he stared down the pitcher. The pitcher glared at Hank.

The pitcher went into his windup. Hank saw the ball out of the hand. It rocketed toward Hank. The ball hit Hank square in the head. Hank toppled over into the dirt.

“You n****rs will never belong in baseball!” the pitcher yelled at Hank. “Jackie Robinson doesn’t, and no n****rs ever will!” The pitcher glared at Hank, and then walked away from the sandlot. His friends followed.

Hank lay in the dirt. His head hurt. He heard Griffin running over to him.

“I’m going to run after them and beat them ‘till they bleed!” Griffin exclaimed.

“No,” Hank rasped, “fighting is not the answer.”

Griffin helped Hank up. They walked back to their neighborhood in silence.

More than ever, Hank wanted it all to stop. They don’t understand that we are people too, he thought. We never did anything to hurt them. Hank needed to do something. And now he knew what that was, as he walked by the segregated restaurant, which he walked by every day.

He was going to go there, and sit, whether they fed him or not. He would show them that blacks are people too, and that segregation is wrong.

He walked into the house, covered in dirt, with a bruise beginning to develop on his forehead. He plopped down on the couch. He turned the knob on the radio.

Again, Red Barber’s voice came to life. Jackie was up at bat. Again, the pitcher threw at Jackie. It hit Jackie square in the side of the head. Hank heard the roar of the Dodgers dugout. The Dodgers ran out of the dugout. The benches cleared, and quickly a fight was breaking out.

“Robinson stays down as the players fight,” Barber announced.

Hank knew why Jackie hadn’t moved. He couldn’t fight if he wanted to. If he fought, people would see only him. People would just think that the n****r had lost his temper.

Hank could not listen anymore. He turned the knob, and Barber’s voice died. It was around lunch time. Hank decided to go out to lunch. But he wouldn’t be eating.

Hank walked down the street. He was not afraid. Nothing made Hank afraid. As he walked, he thought back to a time when he was six years old.

He had been walking to school. Three older white boys were on the street corner smoking cigarettes. As he walked by he looked down at the street, careful not to look at the white boys.

“Hey n****r boy, why are you looking at the ground? Are you afraid, boy?”

“No,” Hank whispered.

“You should be,” the white boy said.

One of them grabbed Hank by the collar and another one of the boys punched and kicked six year old Hank for a few minutes. One of them held Hank down, while Hank struggled and tried to break free. These three teenagers, beating up a six year old, because of the color of his skin. This was when Hank first felt the racial bigotry here in Birmingham, Alabama.

Hank came back to the real world as Ben’s Diner came into view. Hank had seen white people leaving and entering this restaurant. No black man had ever entered, and that was how it was supposed to be. Ben Johnson had posted a sign on the door when it first opened that read: “Whites Only Served.”

Hank straightened up and grabbed the door knob and opened the door.

The place was nothing special. It looked like any run down diner he had been to in the past. People eating at the booths all stared at Hank. Hank just walked to an open booth and sat down.

Ben Johnson lumbered over to Hank’s table. “We don’t serve n****rs, boy,” he barked. “I suggest you get out before I make you.”

“I’m not asking to be served, sir,” Hank stated.

Ben Johnson glared at Hank, and slowly walked away.

Hank sat in that booth for hours until the restaurant began to close down. Hank got up, and walked out of the restaurant. As he passed by Ben, he help his chin up. I’m not afraid, Hank thought to himself. “Thank you,” Hank muttered, and he walked out the door.

Hank walked home slowly. He was proud of himself. Everyone in that diner saw that Hank sat there for hours and no one got within ten feet of him. Anyone with eyes could see how horrible the staff and Ben Johnson were. Ben Johnson did not think of Hank as a person.

Hank walked through an alley that led to his neighborhood. Three white men stood in the alley. One turned around, and Hank recognized him. It was Ben Johnson. The other two men must have been over six feet tall and 200 pounds. “You made the wrong decision coming to my restaurant, n****r,” Ben said. “Now you’re gonna pay the price.”

One of the huge men was very quick. He ran behind Hank and grabbed both of Hank’s arms. He pinned the arms to Hank’s back. The other big man cracked his knuckles and slowly walked over to Hank. “Let him have it,” Ben Johnson growled.

The man looked Hank in the eyes. “Are you afraid, n****r?”

“No,” Hank stated.

The man cocked his arm back and delivered a blow to Hank’s face. Hank felt pain surge through his head. Hank did not struggle. When his head snapped back into place, he looked straight up at the man. Before Hank’s eyes could refocus, the man delivered another punch. Hank clenched his fists. He tensed up, as if he was going to attack the man. He felt the urge to make the man bleed, just like Griffin said. But Hank knew that would definitely be the wrong decision. It takes more guts to not fight back than it takes to fight back. Hank’s head throbbed. He felt blood trickle out of his cheek. His head snapped back, and he looked at the man.

“Afraid yet, n****r?”

“No,” Hank rasped.

The man hit him again, and again. Each blow made Hank’s head hurt more. Every part of his face was swollen. Blood covered half of his face. Hank did not budge. He let the man hit him without resistance. Branch Rickey’s words rang through his ears again: “I want a player who has the guts not to fight back.”

Hank could barely hear the man ask him if he was afraid.

“No,” Hank sputtered. He was afraid. The man kept beating him. He thought he was going to die. His dying would only make his family’s problems worse. But he would never have to deal with the arguments again. He would never be hated for things he could not control. Hank felt weak. His eyelids fell. He felt the man drop his hands, and heard the men lumber away. When he could no longer hear the footsteps, Hank crumpled to the ground.

Ella’s voice woke him. She was crying. Hank could barely make her out. The whole world was a blur. “Ella… When did you get here?”

“Why didn’t you fight back, Hank?”

“I did,” Hank stammered.

Ella helped him up. It was long and difficult, but they got home. They walked in the door. He could hear muffled yells in the kitchen. He feared Ella would cry and he would not be able to help. Every part of his body hurt. Ella did not cry. She just helped him to his room, and set him down on his bed. He lay there and thought. He had been successful. He had fought against the racists without throwing a punch. He was proud of what he had done.

The pain was awful. Only one thing could stop the pain. Hank turned the knob on the radio. The voice of Red Barber came to life. “C’mon Jackie,” Hank whispered.

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