I Saw Jackie Robinson

Written by Ella F ‘25

I saw Jackie Robinson in the stands.

he was picking through some cracker jacks,

looking for the sweetest ones.

there was a big white B on his hat that was facing the field

which had three bases loaded

and green, green grass freshly cut for tonight, still marked by the previous night’s dew;

and there he was, #42, watching the game.

I knew him from the way he watched the second baseman–

as if he was memorizing the guys’ every move,

and by the bottom of the ninth,

as others began to file out of the stadium, with a blowout of a game behind them, 

he continued to sit and watch,

tossing up and down what seemed to be a baseball, 

but, flashing before my eyes, turned out to be a crumpled up cracker jack box.

from behind, I called out his name

and as his neck turned, he and that big white B looked at me and nodded up and down.

i asked him, why aren’t you out there? 

and he replied, because it’s not my time.

well, when will it be? we need you out there. the world needs you out there.

in the white suburbs, a family of six remains outcasts, marked by poverty and discrimination. 

the grandson of former slaves, a little boy within that family stands outside of a tv shop, watching a replay of a baseball game, yearning to see a player the color of his skin on the screen.

soon, he announced, but for now, I just want to watch. 

thank you, I said, and just like that, he was gone. 

at this point the stadium lights had shut off. 

and in the dark, i walked over to where Jackie was once sitting, and there, 

on the chair lay his face on a card, 

looking out at me and the rest of the world.

The little boy was now on the screen.