I have never been a movie-watcher, as my former teammates can attest. But when I heard there was going to be one about Jackie Robinson in 2012, I was instantly sold.
My first love was baseball. I had two heroes as a kid: Alex Rodriguez and Robinson.
I read and reread at least five different biographies on Robinson, which my mom surely still has packed away in a box somewhere.
I’ve made a habit of rewatching 42 every year on April 15 — MLB’s annual celebration of the day Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947.
As a kid, Jackie Robinson Day blew my mind. It still does.
Seeing every major leaguer proudly wear Robinson’s #42 made me realize: Robinson was my heroes’ hero.
Over the years, I grew to understand 42 was not the exemplary film my younger self made it out to be.
The movie tells a Disney-fied version of Robinson’s journey to the major leagues. It paints the picture that Robinson’s batting average and stolen bases ostensibly ended racism.
The dramatic background music keeps a persistent sense of hope in the air, assuring a Hollywood ending for the audience but failing to grasp the authenticity of 1940s baseball and American culture’s bigoted atmosphere.
At times, the story is as much about Branch Rickey as Robinson. Film critic Mary Pols wrote, “Others will have quibbles with [Harrison] Ford’s Rickey, portrayed as the classic savior figure, the pure-hearted white man who enables a black man to get ahead.”
Despite its flaws, I still look forward to rewatching 42 every year.
As I said, I don’t watch a lot of movies; I have seen maybe a half dozen in theaters.
I did the math once. Half of them are Boseman’s films: 42, Draft Day, Black Panther (twice).
Over time, I realized my attachment to 42 was as much, if not more so, about Boseman as Robinson.
I came to this understanding this last summer in anticipation of continuing my tradition of watching 42 on Jackie Robinson Day.
The COVID-19 pandemic delayed the 2020 MLB season, so the league moved Jackie Robinson Day to August 28 — the day Robinson first met with Dodgers’ GM Branch Rickey about potentially playing for Brooklyn.
I got home from work that night around 9:30 and immediately started 42 on my TV.
But before the meticulous clicking sounds of Wendell Smith’s typewriter kick off the film, I pressed pause to check my phone.
Why?
I’ve asked myself that question what feels like a hundred times. And I still don’t have an answer. Some combination of addiction, laziness, and complacency is the best I can do.
After half an hour or so of nonsensical scrolling, one tweet forced the world to press pause on whatever they were doing.
I kept looking up at my TV.
He can’t be gone. He’s right there!
In diabolically ironic twist, there suddenly was a reason to be online.
Fans from across the world poured their heart and souls onto social media, as we all simultaneously came to learn what Boseman had been living through.
That Boseman himself was every bit the super hero he portrayed on screen — and then some.
In some ways, Boseman will always be there.
His works will continue to inspire little kids (and grown adults) for generations.
But there is now an inescapable melancholy that lurks while watching his films.
The train scene in 42, once emblematic of Robinson, is now an painfully accurate metaphor for Boseman — a fleeting star gone far too soon, leaving us with our ears to the tracks, clinging to his potent, but fading remnants.