We Need a Jackie Robinson Department of Merit

April 1, 2025

As we honor Jackie Robinson this month, the irony of this moment could not be sharper—or more sobering.

Jackie Robinson, the man who shattered baseball’s color line, is once again caught in the crosshairs of a nation still struggling to reconcile its mythology of meritocracy with its track record of erasure. Earlier this year, the Department of Defense quietly removed information about Robinson’s military history from its website. Only after public scrutiny did it “restore” the page—a meager, belated gesture. And within days of that weak attempt at reparation, the same Department, under the leadership of Secretary Pete Hegseth, is embroiled in another scandal—this time, over a failure to execute even the most basic national security protocols.

This is not simply bad optics. It’s a symptom of a government obsessed with a performative brand of “merit” while consistently failing to demonstrate competence. A more complete comprehension of Jackie Robinson’s legacy might lead to a deeper understanding of what merit means.

Jackie Robinson wasn’t just a great baseball player. He wasn’t even, by many accounts, the greatest Black baseball player of his era. That title might go to Josh Gibson, Satchel Paige, or any number of Negro League legends whose careers were constrained by segregation. But Robinson was the one chosen to break through—selected precisely because he had the talent and temperament to endure what the moment demanded. In 1945, the new ownership of the Brooklyn Dodgers had designs on desegregating America’s pastime; Branch Rickey identified Robinson as “the right man to lead the struggle” because of his undeniable character and dignity.

Robinson bore both the weight of the game and the weight of America’s racist history. The history of violence and vitriol — the history of America’s original sin.

As Rev. Jesse Jackson has often said, the appeal of sports in the American racial imagination is that the playing field is, at least in theory, level. The rules are known. The scoreboard is visible. Merit, in this context, becomes measurable. Fairness is refereed and enforced. Robinson’s historical imprimatur isn’t just about his stats; it reflects his uncanny capacity to survive and thrive under palpable pressures few white players could have endured. His greatness was earned, not inherited. He is one of Black America’s most powerful symbols of merit – merit earned in an American “meritocracy” steeped in white male supremacy.

Contrast that with today’s “anti-DEI” efforts emanating from the same quarters that routinely fail upward. Leaders in the federal government, including Defense Secretary Hegseth, scoff at diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives with specious claims that they are defending “real” meritocracy. But their idea of merit is a fiction, one built on the assumption that whiteness is the default standard, and anything else is suspect. The backlash to DEI isn’t about standards—it’s about preserving power and wherever possible returning to a time where only white men held power in this nation.

That’s what makes this moment painful and ironic. Robinson’s legacy is being (reluctantly) celebrated by the same government that sought to quietly erase him. We honor his endurance while ignoring the racist strictures he had to endure. And we continue to see people rise to positions of immense power not through skill or sacrifice, but through connections, bluster, and the audacity to fail without consequence.

If we are serious about honoring Jackie Robinson, we need more than a commemorative patch on a jersey or a half-hearted webpage restoration. We need a Jackie Robinson Department of Merit—an accurate and transparent standard for what merit-based excellence looks like in this country. Not performative toughness. Not partisan loyalty. Not hatred. But the ability to perform under pressure, deliver results, and withstand the full weight of the American contradiction.

Robinson endured threats, slurs, isolation, and intentional harm—all while playing at an elite level. He didn’t have the luxury to be mediocre. He didn’t get second chances. He didn’t get to fail up. And yet, 75 years later, we’re still living in a system that rewards those who do.

On May 9, 1947, Jackie Robinson played one of his earliest Major League Baseball games in Philadelphia at Shibe Park. Despite facing intense racial hostility, particularly from Phillies manager Ben Chapman and some players who subjected him to relentless slurs and taunts, Robinson displayed remarkable resilience. The Philadelphia crowd of 22,680 applauded Robinson during many of his at-bats, recognizing his perseverance. The game concluded with a narrow 6-5 victory for the Phillies in 11 innings.

The Phillies’ players and Chapman’s behavior was so egregious that it garnered national attention and led to widespread condemnation. In response to the public outcry over their conduct, Chapman and Robinson were asked to pose for a conciliatory photograph during the Brooklyn Dodgers’ next visit to Philadelphia. It was a staged photo-op intended to ameliorate the situation, but it did little to merit an apology or to advance the cause to which Robinson had dedicated the latter half of his career.

That photo (published in the Inquirer) should still haunt all of us. Baseball—the sport Robinson integrated—has largely lost the interest of Black youth. The Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport conducted a 2023 study that resulted in a “report card” on Major League Baseball that details the league’s challenges with engaging the Black American community. Today, the most gifted Black athletes choose basketball or football, chasing both visibility and viable contracts. Baseball’s continued failure to invest in African American communities has left a gaping hole in its legacy. The sport that once held the line between segregation and integration now lags behind in inclusion. And Major League Baseball’s recent, long-overdue decision to incorporate Negro League stats into its historical record is too little, too late.

When we talk about Jackie Robinson this month, let’s not settle for platitudes. Let’s talk about the courage it took to show up on the field when the crowd didn’t want you there. Let’s talk about the double standard he faced—and how that standard still exists in boardrooms, classrooms, and government offices across America. Let’s talk about how Robinson’s story lays bare the lie of the American meritocracy.

And let’s ask: if Jackie Robinson were alive today, would he be allowed to compete at the highest levels of our politics, our military, or our corporate world? Or would he be pushed out for being too “divisive,” too “woke,” too much? We don’t need more empty celebrations. We need a reckoning. We need a meritocracy worthy of Jackie Robinson’s name—one built not on myths, but on measurable excellence, accountability, and justice.