The pregame ritual happened every spring between 1951 and 1956. I bounded down the stairs of my family's two-flat in Brooklyn, a leather mitt covering my left hand, and excitedly knocked on my grandparents' door. Ready to go, Pop?
To the end of his life, Robinson insisted that he never had it made. He'd likely say the same today. That's the Robinson that baseball, and much of America, has forgotten. 42 tells only part of his story.