Rickey's Robinson Plan Wasn't Necessarily Noble

In the summer of 1937, with the Dodgers holding down their familiar spot near the bottom of the National League, the cartoonist Willard Mullin drew the unforgettable image of the “Brooklyn Bum” — a potbellied, cigar-chomping hobo who combined the cheerful ineptitude of the players and the goofy optimism of their fans. Named for the singular “dodging” skills of pedestrians in a borough crammed with trolley lines, the Dodgers hadn't captured a pennant since 1920, and had never won a World Series. “Brooklyn?” roared Bill Terry, manager of the hated New York Giants. “Is Brooklyn still in the league?” Dodger fans were largely immune to this abuse. Their addiction had taught them patience and humility — like belonging to a religion whose one flaw was an unreachable promised land. From Bay Ridge to Brownsville, from Flatbush to Coney Island, it was always “Wait till next year.”