The speaker is identified as MAX WECHSLER:
“I think Jackie Robinson lives there," he said. He parked across the street, and we got out of the cab, stood on the sidewalk, and looked at it.
Suddenly the front door opened. A black man in a short-sleeved shirt stepped out. I didn’t believe it. Here we were on a quiet street on a summer morning. No one else was around. This man was not wearing the baggy, ice-cream-white uniform of the Brooklyn Dodgers that accentuated his blackness. He was dressed in regular clothes, coming out of a regular house in a regular Brooklyn neighborhood, a guy like anyone else, going for a newspaper and a bottle of milk.
Then incredibly, he crossed the street and came right towards me. Seeing that unmistakable pigeon-toed walk, the rock of the shoulders and hips I had seen so many times on the baseball field, I had no doubt who it was.
“Hi Jackie, I’m one of your biggest fans," I said self-consciously. “Do you think the Dodgers are gonna win the pennant this year?”
“Good luck,” said.
“Thanks.” He put his big hand out, and I took it. We shook hands, and I felt the strength and firmness of his grip.
I was a nervy kid, but I didn’t ask for an autograph or think to prolong the conversation. I just watched as he walked away down the street.
At last the truth can be told. I am blowing my own cover. That kid, was me.