Dear Mrs. Robinson,

I won’t write to Jack. Because that’s just for you. It’s Jackie to everybody else on the planet as far as I’m concerned.

April 15^th is Jackie Robinson Day. Please consider this my congressional petition to name April 16^th Rachel Robinson Day. Everyone now knows Jackie as an American hero, but people forget that his lady was an absolute queen. She’s one-hundred-and-one years old. I highly recommend Ken Burns’ documentary on PBS.

They met when she was at the College of Nursing at UCLA. Jackie was running game in football, baseball, track, and basketball. He played running back. Jackie touted the rock. Give him 18 inches of daylight, and he’ll bring it home. Sportswriter Paul Zimmerman even praised him by writing “he run with that ball like it was a watermelon and the guy who owned it was after him with a shotgun.” And that was a compliment. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

It’s so sweet to watch Rachel remember him. You can tell she’s stepping into a time machine when she talks about “Jack.” She’s adamant that she and she alone called him Jack. That was her name for him and no one else’s.

They met at a party, and everyone was very much aware that he was there. She was expecting the big man on campus to be just another jock, or at the very least an idiot, but the way she tells the story is so warm yet self-possessed. She was very much wary of “The” Jackie Robinson walking up to her.

He said Hi. I’m Jackie.

And oh, his smile.

He was so polite.

You keep me safe. I’ll keep you wild. You keep me calm. I’ll keep you brave [That’s a Sean Quinn original, patent pending].

She loved him ferociously.

He definitely wasn’t what she expected.

Then Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball. He was famous for his stoic demeanor in the box, but Rachel Robinson doesn’t get the credit she deserves. White sportswriters would sit with her if only to give the illusion of safety. They were horrified to witness the reality of the situation.

Men threw full beer bottles at her. Women spat on her. Every terrible slur you can think of was shouted at her. People released raccoons out onto the field. Jackie just had to take it, and she did it right alongside him. She knew what was at stake. She’d just stare straight ahead and whisper.

“We’re here for Jackie.”

She knew that if she said one word…

That’s why they can’t play with us.

They can’t behave.

Can’t take the bone out of her nose.

Fuck ’em, Jackie. Hit dingers.

“Rumble young man, rumble.” – Muhammad  Ali

By all accounts, when they went home, they didn’t talk about the games. During spring training in Sanford, Florida, they had a little piano in the living room. They’d tap on the keys for one another or dance and hum softly into each other’s ears.

That was their home. Safe, and so far from the silly nonsense resulting from a man having the nerve to play baseball. They deserved each other, in the best of ways.

Jackie died of a heart attack at 53 years old in 1972. It’s sad to think that the burden he carried may have led to his early demise, but Jackie was never one to complain when he took a fastball between the shoulder blades.

I do hope that somehow, he knows that his lady is still truckin’. And I hope that when she closes her eyes, she can still hear that piano and feel his cheek on hers.

Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson.