Word: robinsons
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...fellowship, Rose gravitated to the black players, and was warned by the front office about fraternizing too much with Robinson and Vada Pinson. "Pete is turning nigger on us" was the brutal expression of the day. "But they were the only ones who treated me like a human being," he says. "I think now maybe they were able to see something in me." Robinson remembers it this way: "We accepted him for what he was. They called him a hot dog for trying to do things he couldn't. We admired him for laboring beyond his skills. They resented...
...every new one is to execute the squad cuts briskly. However, never having been demoted, Rose says, "I just can't do it quick. If they want to, I'll talk all day." The last of five cut last spring was a sloe-eyed and red-freckled pitcher, Ron Robinson, fondly nicknamed "True Creature." "Shoot, I've idolized him," says Robinson, who was one year old when Rose broke in. "The day Pete was made the manager, I was the first player in the clubhouse. 'How are you doing, Ron?' he called over to me. I couldn't get over...
...Robinson lasted one-third of an inning in his starting debut, suffering four hits and four errors. Rose eventually arrived at the mound. " 'I got to take you out,' he told me. 'No reason. I just got to. You got bad luck or something, kid. Go home and turn your mirrors the other way.' " That was worse than devastating, but not as awful as being the last...
...there anything you want to say?" Rose asked Robinson in farewell after an extended monologue and a lengthy silence. "Yes," the pitcher said finally. "I hope you don't get any more hits." Rose was dumbfounded: "What did you say?" Robinson blurted, "I hope you stop hitting." In a smaller voice, he added, "Because I don't want you to get the hit until I get back." The manager regarded his young player with a look of amazing optimism that both of them felt. "Don't worry, I'll wait for you," Rose said. Robinson is back with the Reds...
Perhaps not. But Paul Robinson, a professor of intellectual history at Stanford, makes an enthusiastic effort, like one of those tycoons who suddenly indulge a suppressed yearning to step onstage and conduct Mahler or sing Puccini. Though some clinkers are almost inevitable, an onlooker can hardly help admiring the combination of chutzpah, high spirits and a willingness to gamble...