Dodgertown's integrated field of dreams

(Edel Rodriguez Illustration)

VERO BEACH, Fla.

Few places this homely ever produced a history as sweet as Dodgertown's. Here amid the decaying barracks of an abandoned Navy base, America's lily-white pastime at long last took on the iridescent brilliance of black baseball.

The game's integration should have happened much sooner than 1947. But once the Brooklyn Dodgers began signing Negro League stars such as Jackie Robinson, Don Newcombe, Junior Jim Gilliam, and Roy Campanella, baseball was never the same.

Neither was Jim Crow, the caste system that kept most black Americans subjugated for a century after the Civil War. Jim Crow wasn't buried in Vero Beach by any stretch - its ugly remnants still haunt us today - but Dodgertown gave it a swift kick.

The Dodgers' training complex was never meant to be a social laboratory. Dodger owner Walter O'Malley and his general manager, Branch Rickey, weren't looking to make history when they acquired 220 acres' worth of decrepit huts and grapefruit trees. They were looking to make (or at least save) money. Plus they hoped to gain a competitive advantage for the Dodgers and their two dozen-plus (!) farm teams. The place was infested with so many snakes that players wielded bats in self-defense.

Many players - white and black alike - were veterans of World War II. Yet because the military had been rigidly segregated, Dodgertown represented the first time they had interacted as equals. Many of the interracial friendships forged here lasted a lifetime.

It was Rickey who persuaded Army lieutenant Robinson, then an infielder with the Kansas City Monarchs, to break baseball's color barrier. Rickey saw in Robinson dignity and grace - traits shared by many of the team's black pioneers.

Robinson and company impressed the Dodger brain trust with their nimble intelligence. The Negro Leagues had long showcased an aggressive brand of ball. Rickey wanted that dynamic style infused into the Dodger way. So Robinson and Gilliam conducted Dodgertown sessions on base running and infield play. Campanella presided over clinics on catching. Their tutorials helped the Dodgers win a slew of pennants.

But when the drills were over, black players couldn't venture into Vero Beach. The town was virulently racist. If minority players wanted a haircut, they had to go to Gifford, an all-black village 6 miles away. Since in those early days none of them owned vehicles and it was dangerous to hitch a ride, they were forced to walk along railroad tracks.

It took too long, but O'Malley began to appreciate his black players' disgust with the Jim Crow world. He built a movie theater and a golf course for all his charges. When a local hotel rejected blacks, he took over its management. In the mid-'50s, he demanded that the town's merchants drop their discriminatory practices - and they did, sort of. Years later, though, there were still "colored only" restrooms at Dodgertown's stadium. After Tommy Davis and other players protested to O'Malley's son Peter, the park's Jim Crow facilities disappeared - literally overnight.

Other teams back then had black players, but only the Dodgers went to such lengths to try to do the right thing. By desegregating their organization, the Dodgers "revolutionized the social structure of baseball and, in a lesser degree, the nation," Red Smith wrote in 1955. O'Malley could be farsighted and generous. But sentiment didn't stop him from deserting Brooklyn for Los Angeles and its fat wallet.

Now his successors are forsaking Vero Beach for the same siren call of cash. Next year, the Dodgers will move their training camp to Glendale, Ariz. The ballpark in Vero is so down-home that its grandstand and dugouts lack a roof. Young fans can actually see, unobstructed, their heroes sitting on the bench. Today's exhibition against the Houston Astros marks the last time the Dodgers will be using that bench.

Whatever experience awaits the Dodgers in Glendale is not likely to be studied by sociologists. Even after dorms replaced its barracks and its snakes were driven off, Dodgertown was never much to look at. But the people of conscience who worked inside this old eyesore made our pastime truly national.

Timothy M. Gay is a writer and historian. His next book is about Satchel Paige, Dizzy Dean, and interracial baseball barnstorming.