I try to avoid getting teary-eyed about This Great Land in Which We Live. We all know the United States has tremendous shortcomings, and it seems like our every success only reminds us of ten more problems which have not been adequately addressed.

Tonight, though, we saw a remarkable moment, and for a few seconds between innings at Shea Stadium we were reminded of the courage and strength of those who devote their lives – often risking and losing everything in the process – in the service of genuinely ennobling ideals and a basic sense of justice and fair play.

On April 15, 1947, Jackie Robinson became the first black to play Major League Baseball in this century. His entry into the National League was greeted by the full range of emotions possible in our culture – his former teammates and opponents in the Negro Leagues felt tremendous pride and hope for the future not only of the sport, but of their race and their nation. And some of his new teammates were quick to remind both Jackie and the rest of the world that one man crossing a racial barrier does not automatically ensure the end of racism and injustice. April 15, 1947 wasn’t the final victory – it was more like the first shot across the bow.

As President Clinton and Rachel Robinson stood on the field tonight, they acknowledged how far we have come, but also paid grave tribute to the many miles which still separate us from the Promised Land.

But Major League Baseball, which I have abused roundly for the past few years for its excesses and unconscionable lack of respect for the game (and its open disdain for the fans), tonight extended one of the grandest gestures I have ever witnesses in sports, moving me for a few spare moments to tears. Major League Baseball retired Jackie’s number, 42, for all time. Never again will any Major League player be issued that number, and in this decree I begin to believe, or at least to hope, that somebody in baseball’s front office is finally coming to understand not only the import of Robinson’s accomplishments for sports in America, but of their larger significance in the nation’s struggle for civil rights.

I also hope that we’ll remember people like Branch Rickey, the owner of the Dodgers, the man who took the chance and signed Robinson. And Bill Veeck, who tried to break baseball’s color barrier five years before, only to have his plan derailed by Commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis and the rest of the racist cadre which ruled baseball at the time. And Larry Doby, who followed Jackie shortly by becoming the first black to play in the American League. And all the great athletes before, who because they were born with the wrong skin color, were deprived of the opportunity to live the dream that so many kids growing up in America dreamed nightly – to play in the Bigs.

I apologize for lapsing into such a fit of uncritical flag-waving. No, no, wait a minute, no I don’t. It’s easy to be critical these days, because we have so much to be critical of. But people like Jackie Robinson are important because they’re heroes. They embody strength and the courage of conviction, and if it weren’t for people who give us hope, all our critical analysis would be nothing but aimless bitching, the depth of nihilism.

I want to thank Jackie Robinson, a man I never even got to see play, for enduring the taunts, the epithets, the hatred, and the actual physical violence aimed at him, and for doing so with grace and dignity. We are a better people thanks to his strength, his courage, and his conscience, both as a player, and also after his playing days when his civil rights activism influenced the likes of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.

And I want to thank Major League Baseball for finally getting one right.