On April 15 1997, Major League Baseball initiated Jackie Robinson Day, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of him becoming the first African-American player. As part of the ceremonies, Baseball retired Robinson’s number 42 league wide in recognition for his contribution both on and off the field. Players who wore 42, such as Yankees’ reliever Mariano Rivera were given a grandfather clause allowing them to continue wearing the number until they retired.
Not to be outdone for the 60th anniversary, Baseball announced that each team would be granted one designated player who would be allowed to wear the #42 for the one game on Sunday. The idea came from Reds’ Center Fielder Ken Griffey Jr. who requested to wear the number for one game. The Dodgers, Robinson’s team, then announced that every player would wear #42. This gesture was followed by the Astros, Phillies, Cardinals, Brewers, and Pirates announcing that they would do the same. Selig then opened an invitation to any player who wanted to wear the number to do so, and 150 players are expected to oblige (including David Ortiz, Derek Jeter, Gary Sheffield, and Barry Bonds among others).
As usual under the Selig reign, a noble intention was blown up out of proportion into a PR stunt that cheapens the meaning of what it was intended to celebrate. Baseball is a sport of numbers. 500 homeruns, 3,000 hits, a .400 batting average all possess an iconic significance that virtually transcends the value on the field that they represent.
Robinson’s #42 is not one of these numbers. It appears on his uniform in pictures, and may be the least important feature within them. The name on the front of the jersey, the color of his skin, the color of those standing around him, and the determination and strength in his eyes surely carry much more weight than some stupid number that he was assigned by an equipment manager, who apparently didn’t expect him to stay long.
The #42 has become a distraction. It sticks out like a sore blue thumb among the retired numbers and names in every ballpark. It resides solitary and distinct from the others, much like Robinson’s early playing career. Because of the actions taken by Major League Baseball, the number has grown an identity independent of the player, the man, and the story that it was intended to represent. His greatest contribution was pushing baseball toward acknowledging black men as “players” rather than “black players,” one area where, for the most part, baseball can claim to have a clean conscience.
The original gesture for the 50th anniversary was an asinine publicity stunt that cheapened Robinson’s legacy, and the recent hoopla concerning the 60th has only amplified it. While we should be discussing the man Jackie Robinson was, and his heroic accomplishments both on the field and off, for baseball and for America, we focus once again on the number.
Who will and won’t be wearing the number? What teams will have all of their players wearing it? Why would an African-American player like Garrett Anderson have the audacity to choose NOT to wear it? (He felt that he, himself, was not worthy of the honor) This and other topics have dominated baseball media outlets and the blogosphere. The only “positive” aspect it has is that it gets people interested and talking about baseball in mid-April, during the post-opening day hangover when no one wants to sit outside when it is 45 degrees to watch a game or tune in to watch game 11 of a 162 game marathon.
Griffey wearing the number would have been a great gesture. Having each team with a designated “42er” is gimmicky. Everyone and his cousin wearing it is just plain stupid. The original gesture was cheap, and the secondary gesture has turned perhaps baseball’s greatest contribution to American society into a complete and utter farce. The worst part is that it prevents players from performing an individual and meaningful tribute, such as wearing it on an everday basis.
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Posted by tyduffy
