"Let's face it, baseball was at the very core of American life," said Roger Wilkins, the civil-rights leader and 1960s Justice Department official. "And all by himself, enduring all that he endured, Jackie Robinson proved what African Americans were capable of accomplishing. Every American, the low and the mighty, had to take note of that."

Disturbing ironies

In the years after Robinson's entry, almost every big-league team had a few African American stars. Aaron, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Bob Gibson and Ernie Banks spearheaded a revolution in the sport.

Gradually, though, their numbers - at virtually every baseball level - began to diminish.

While 75 percent of players in the NBA and 70 percent in the NFL are African American, the percentage in baseball has slipped to below 9 percent, the lowest total since the University of Central Florida's Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport began compiling statistics two decades ago.

"It's not just a problem," Cleveland Indians pitcher C.C. Sabathia told reporters this spring, "it's a crisis."

Robinson's arrival killed the Negro leagues, then among of the largest and most successful black-owned enterprises. On the other hand, it created millions of new major-league fans among African Americans, many of them becoming lifelong Dodgers supporters.

It also created for history its own set of heroes (Robinson, Rickey, Pee Wee Reese) and villains (most notably Phillies manager Ben Chapman and Robinson teammate Dixie Walker, who proposed a boycott rather than play alongside Robinson).

On the field, Robinson was transforming as well. His competitive fires, hell-bent style on the bases, and speed helped enliven the somewhat plodding game that had developed in the wake of Babe Ruth and the glorification of the home run.

His story also allowed fans and sportswriters to recognize the links between baseball and the real world. Looking back on the day Robinson shattered baseball's color line, it's remarkable to see how little attention the historic event generated on sports pages.

Mentioned in passing

The Inquirer's wire-service story, for example, was buried well down the first sports page, beneath an account on the opening of Pennsylvania's trout season.

"For a lot of writers, an issue like race just wasn't on their radar screen," Eig said. "They weren't programmed to pay attention to that type of thing. A lot of them probably weren't even sure it was something they were supposed to be writing about."

One of Robinson's teammates that day was Eddie Stanky, a feisty second baseman who had grown up in Kensington.

Though the cover of Eig's book shows Stanky posing with his arms draped around Robinson and Reese just before the April 15 game, it's safe to assume that many Americans of the era were at best ambivalent about race.

But Robinson, more than anyone else, would change American attitudes on the subject. And he quickly converted his teammates, including Stanky, who after that pennant-winning season would be traded, opening up second base for Robinson.

"Dad talked about that first game and Jackie a lot," recalled Stanky's son, Mike, an executive with a laundry-equipment firm in Dallas. "He was so impressed by Jackie's raw ability and the way he dealt with everything he had to handle, that, despite what's been written over the years, they became really close.

"I think they both discovered that, despite their obvious differences, they were alike, very much alike."