He was tired, grumpy, and more than a little confused. Coach Sukeforth had told him that he was wanted up here in New York, that Mr. Rickey wanted to talk to him in person, but hadn’t said what it was about. A part of Jackie wondered if he was getting cut, but that didn’t make much sense — they could have told him that down in Panama! Coach had refused to say any more, and Jackie had traveled all the way up here worrying over it and trying to puzzle it out, with no success. Now he stepped out of the station, his suitcases in hand, and looked around. He didn’t know New York City at all, wasn’t sure where to find a good hotel, but figured he could hail a cab and ask the driver to take him someplace decent and not too pricey. Yet as he took in the people bustling about and the tall buildings everywhere, he spotted a very familiar Buick. And there, leaning against it, was Wendell Smith. “You again,” Jackie muttered, stomping toward the reporter.
