Last night I watched "The Express," the story of Ernie Davis, the first African-American to win college football’s most prized individual award — the Heisman Trophy. The movie has special meaning for me because I knew Ernie Davis personally, having grown up only 25 miles from Elmira, NY, where he had been an all-sport hero.

Early in the movie there is a scene where Ernie and his grandfather are watching Jackie Robinson playing baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers on television through the window of the local appliance store. In the late 1940s and early 1950s Robinson was a huge source of pride for all African-Americans. His breaking of the color line in 1947 began the inevitable integration of sports and society as a whole.

But it wasn’t a smooth and seamless transition. Baseball itself was not fully integrated until 1958 when the last team to have an African-American player — the Boston Red Sox — signed infielder Pumpsie Green. And although Syracuse University had other black football players before Davis (most notably the great Jim Brown), athletic life was no bed of roses for black players, even in the "liberal" north.

My boss, Glen Hall, often tells a story that reflects both the importance of Jackie Robinson, but also the difficult lot in life faced by black folk in the 1950s and early 1960s. Glen says that his mother used to tell him that, "Every day somebody has to be Jackie Robinson," meaning that every day African-Americans faced the challenges that the most famous sports integrator faced.

We all know about the more famous pioneers of that era — the tired working woman Rosa Parks who refused to move to the back of the bus one afternoon in Montgomery, AL, in 1955, the nine high school kids in Little Rock (now known as the Little Rock Nine) who became the first blacks to attend Little Rock Central High School in 1957, and James Meredith, who became the first person of color to attend the University of Mississippi.

But what about those folks we didn’t read about? What about those quiet pioneers who went nobly about moving things forward in a world filled with hate and discrimination? What about the "Jackie Robinsons" that Glen’s mother was talking about?

In 1973, at age 27, I became Director of Central Processing and Distribution at Baptist Hospital of Miami. I had a few things going for me. I had worked three years as a nursing assistant and one as a unit manager, I had my BA from the University of Miami, and I had the four attributes that get you ahead in this world. I was tall, white, bright and male. My story was not unusual. Lots of young guys like me moved up quickly. African-Americans and Hispanics were not so lucky. At Baptist there were no directors of African-American or of Hispanic heritage.

There were, however, pioneers, and this is about four of them — Robert Collier, Elizabeth Cambridge, Leola Williams and Maria (Diaz) Cueto — the four highest-ranked diversity employees at the hospital.

Elizabeth Cambridge and Leola Williams were supervisors in the Environmental Services department. When the woman who had been the director (Marguereet Cooper) retired, either Ms. Cambridge or Ms. Williams should have gotten the job as director. But those things didn’t happen in 1973 in Miami. Instead, the hospital hired Joe Smith, an experienced director, from another hospital on the west side of the state. Joe was an Alabaman by birth and he liked to joke that when he moved to Florida, he raised the IQ of two states.

Joe was a good man and a good director, but anyone who knew what was happening knew that Ms. Cambridge and Ms. Williams ran the department. They were two strong women — women who could see through a story in a heartbeat. You had better not try to put anything past either of them because if you did they would have you quaking in your shoes. They made things work; they kept the place spotless and they managed the staff. All Joe had to do was show up for work and drink coffee all day.

When I took over CPD, I replaced a colorful woman named Muriel Nahas. Mrs. Nahas was a crusty throwback to the day when men were men and so were women managers. She cracked the whip in her department and didn’t ease up even on her last day on the job. Her top assistant was a woman named Maria Diaz. Ms. Diaz had emigrated to Miami from Cuba in 1961 and was attending college when I took over. By all rights, my job should have been hers. She was more knowledgeable about sterilization than I was and God knows, she worked 10 times harder. Since I was a Director, I was able to promote her to the position of SPD Supervisor, making her the highest-ranked Hispanic at the hospital.

Maria rewarded me by working tirelessly to make the department the best of its kind in the area. She helped plan the renovation of the area and she managed a staff of 25 workers, all of whom became certified. Along the way she got married and became Maria Cueto. Then, out of the blue, she handed in her resignation. It seems she had completed law school and was going to hang out her shingle. When she left, I lost one of the most accomplished CS people I have ever had the pleasure to have worked with.

As Director of CPD I had responsibility for both sterilization and distribution. Maria was my SPD Supervisor. To oversee distribution I selected Robert Collier, who previously had been the linen distribution lead. Robert Collier was a polite, dark-skinned African-American who stood about 5 feet 6 inches tall on his tiptoes and weighed 130 pounds after Thanksgiving dinner.

Robert’s job for me was simple: Get everything in the hospital delivered to the right place at the right time and in the right quantities with no mistakes. Robert managed a staff of about 10 people and managed them well. Robert pioneered both exchange cart and point-of-use replenishment in the days when the terms were being defined. He did his job well and not once in 12 years did I ever hear an excuse from him, nor did I hear, "I don’t think we can do that."

Robert and Maria did for me what Ms. Cambridge and Ms. Williams did for Joe Smith. They made it possible for me to spend my days drinking coffee and shooting the bull in the hospital cafeteria.

In today’s milieu the stories of Ms. Cambridge, Ms. Williams, Maria Diaz and Robert Collier seem mild and unimportant. But in their day and in their own quiet dignified manner, these folks were the "Jackie Robinsons" that Glen Hall’s mother told him about — they were pioneers who cleared the brush and forged the path for the ones who came along afterward.

More than that, they were my friends.

Fred W. Crans serves as area vice president, north & west, for ECRI Institute. He lists his writing influences as Edward Abbey and H.L. Mencken, who once said, "Don’t overestimate the decency of the human race." An avid baseball fan and University of Miami (Hurricanes) stalwart, Crans can be reached via e-mail at fcrans@ecri.org.