Eleven Weeks

Jackie Robinson is one of the most important figures in baseball history. In fact, it is not an overstatement to say that he is one of the most important figures in American history. His courage and strength under the backbreaking pressure of incredibly intense racial bigotry is one of the brightest moments of the 20th Century in America.

Indeed, Major League Baseball officially retired Robinson's uniform number, "42", for all franchises in recognition of his monumental feat.

The number "14" has, unfortunately, not received anywhere near the same degree of respect or recognition from baseball or its fans as the number "42". Yet, the man who donned that number as a member of the 1947 Cleveland Indians was also clearly a pioneer.

Lawrence Eugene Doby made his Major League debut just eleven weeks after Jackie Robinson made his. And I find it difficult (if not absolutely impossible) to believe that being a black man playing a heretofore white man's game was made substantial easier in the space of 77 days. The vitriol and ugly racial anger did not stop at Jackie Robinson's doorstep.

Even Hank Aaron felt the sting of that anger nearly three decades later when he was chasing Babe Ruth's ghost. Given that, I can't imagine the weight of the burden that Larry Doby had to carry in 1947. And he did it in near-invisibility.

While the country watched Jackie Robinson's every move, some lived desperately through him; others, regrettably, actively, hatefully, wished him humiliation and failure. Jackie Robinson became the lightning rod for race relations in America, and his triumph on the baseball diamond resonated through the streets of this country.

Sadly, Larry Doby's journey through Major League baseball did not have the same resonance. And the silence must have been deafening. He ate his meals alone. He stayed in hotel rooms by himself. He was sometimes refused handshakes from teammates and opponents alike. All the while, he had to deal with the name-calling and humiliating insults in solitude. And all the while, the baseball world watched Jackie Robinson without realizing that Larry Doby was going through a similar trial.

Indeed, the insults and anger must have hurt just as much in Ohio as they did in New York.

But Larry Doby just kept playing baseball. And he played it well enough to be chosen to seven consecutive All-Star teams. In fact, he played it well enough to finish his 13-year career with over 1,500 hits, 253 homers, and a plaque in Cooperstown. And when his playing career ended, Doby stayed in baseball and eventually became the second African-American manager in American League history when he took the helm as interim skipper for the Chicago White Sox in 1978.

As before, being second seemed to blunt, unfairly, his historical significance. However, Larry Doby, in the totality of his life in baseball, left a sizeable mark on the sport. His is a legacy that should not only be recognized for its remarkable breadth but also for the height of the hurdles he had to clear to accomplish the things he did.

Unfortunately, whatever tribute designed to be paid directly to Larry Doby is too late. He died last week.

Although we cannot give him the recognition he was due in life, we can certainly honor his memory by celebrating his triumphs now and in the future for posterity. Eleven weeks is far too short a period of time to try to explain the difference in how we remember Jackie Robinson's triumph and Larry Doby's similar struggle through some of our darkest days.

Simply put, when Larry Doby died, the baseball world lost a hero in the truest sense of that word.