http://www.theplayerstribune.com/willie-oree-nhl-color-barrier/
Willie O'Ree played for the Bruins 18 months before the Red Sox finally allowed a black player to play.

Boston of the 1950's was a very segregated city and that would continue for decades. Tom Yawkey may or may not have been racist but he certainly hired executives and managers that were. Yawkey feared integration would cause fans to stop coming and he may have been justified in thinking that way given what happened to the National League Braves. In 1950 the Braves signed Sam Jethro as a 33 year who would win 'Rookie of the Year' and attendance at Braves Field dropped dramatically. (Red Sox attendance stayed the same) The Braves core fanbase was Allston-Brighton, Cambridge, Somerville, Watertown and working class Newton. My Dad was a Sox fan, but my Mom was a Braves fan.
Now the Bruins bring up a black player in 1958 and O'Ree writes at length at what it was like. I do know Boston fans accepted him unconditionally. He was a Bruin.
I suspect the Bruins did it first because of Walter Brown who was indeed colorblind when it came to athletes. He helped start the NBA as a way to light up dark NHL arenas when the team was on the road.
http://www.theplayerstribune.com/willie-oree-nhl-color-barrier/
I didn’t even know.
It’s the darndest thing — but I didn’t even know.
On January 18, 1958, when I stepped onto the ice to play for the Boston Bruins, I honestly had no earthly idea that I was breaking hockey’s color barrier.
Willie O'Ree played for the Bruins 18 months before the Red Sox finally allowed a black player to play.


Boston of the 1950's was a very segregated city and that would continue for decades. Tom Yawkey may or may not have been racist but he certainly hired executives and managers that were. Yawkey feared integration would cause fans to stop coming and he may have been justified in thinking that way given what happened to the National League Braves. In 1950 the Braves signed Sam Jethro as a 33 year who would win 'Rookie of the Year' and attendance at Braves Field dropped dramatically. (Red Sox attendance stayed the same) The Braves core fanbase was Allston-Brighton, Cambridge, Somerville, Watertown and working class Newton. My Dad was a Sox fan, but my Mom was a Braves fan.
Now the Bruins bring up a black player in 1958 and O'Ree writes at length at what it was like. I do know Boston fans accepted him unconditionally. He was a Bruin.
I suspect the Bruins did it first because of Walter Brown who was indeed colorblind when it came to athletes. He helped start the NBA as a way to light up dark NHL arenas when the team was on the road.
http://www.theplayerstribune.com/willie-oree-nhl-color-barrier/
I’s 1949, I’m 14 years old, and my hometown team has just won the Junior Championships.
In baseball, that is.
The reward for winning is a fairly good one: our whole team gets a trip to New York City. We’re going to visit Radio City Music Hall. We’re going to climb to the top of the Empire State Building. We’re going to walk along Coney Island.
Oh, and one more thing.
We’re going to meet Jackie Robinson.
It’s happening on our last day, after a Dodgers game in Brooklyn. Jackie has just broken baseball’s color barrier — only two years prior, in 1947 — and already, to us, he’s nothing short of an icon. So we watch the Dodgers game — one teammate more excited than the next. It ends, as games do. It’s finally time.
It’s time to meet Jackie.
They run and get him. The team forms a line as we each wait our turn. One by one, I watch my teammates shake the hand of The Great Jackie Robinson. Sometimes it’s a handshake and a smile. Sometimes it’s a quick word. At long last, Jackie gets to me.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Robinson,” I say. “I’m Willie O’Ree.”
“Nice to meet you, Willie,” Jackie says, shaking my hand.
He flashes a smile, and I can sense him moving on — shifting his posture to the next kid on the team. I turn to him, slightly.
“I’m a baseball player,” I say, raising my voice. “But what I really love — is hockey.”
“Oh?” Jackie says, turning back to me, still smiling. “I didn’t know black kids played hockey.”
I smile back.
“Yup.”
It’s 1962, I’m 27 years old, and I’ve just been invited to an NAACP luncheon.
I’m there with the coach of my current team, the Los Angeles Blades, and a few other players. My coach notices the guest of honor, standing over in the corner — minding his business, talking to some people. He waits a few minutes for their conversation to end. And then he brings me over.
He taps the guest of honor on the shoulder.
“Mr. Robinson, I’d like you to meet one of our players, Willie O’Ree.”
Jackie Robinson turns around, and looks at me for a moment.
“Willie O’Ree,” he says, shaking my hand. “You’re the young fellow I met in Brooklyn.”
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