Sport: Big Man from Nicetown

(See Cover) His legs are buckled into clumsy shin guards; his face is hidden by the metal grille of a heavy mask. Behind him, vague and impersonal, rises the roar of the crowd. His chest is covered with a corrugated protective pad, and his big mitt is thrust out as if to fend off destruction. Exactly 60 ft. 6 in. straight ahead of him, the pitcher looms preternaturally large on his mound of earth. As he crouches close to the ground, his field of vision gives him his own special view of the vast ballpark. The white foul lines stretch to the distant fences; the outfielders seem to be men without legs. Between him and the flycatchers, from the far outfield grass to the brown base paths, the rest of the team twitches nervously in place. In a sense, the game belongs to him. He is the catcher.

The once-a-week ball fan may think of the catcher merely as a target for the pitcher to shoot at. Actually, the job is the most demanding in baseball. A good catcher must be able to take punishment. Foul tips batter his hands; the batter's big club swishes past his skull; base runners hit him with intent to maim as they slide for home. Through it all he must use his head, for he is baseball's tactical commander, its platoon leader. He must watch the signs according to the batter, the score, the inning. He must hide his own signals from the runner on second, check his fielders as they shift position, be ever alert for the hit-and-run—the dangerous play that can be stopped before it starts by a catcher calling for a pitchout.

No active player in American baseball fills that formidable job better than a burly, bulging (5 ft. 9 in., 205 Ibs.), cocoa-colored catcher named Roy Campanella, currently enjoying one of the best seasons of his long career on the best team in baseball.

Heart of the Team. On the bench, ruminating over a cud of tobacco, the Brooklyn Dodgers' Catcher Campanella is the picture of tranquillity. He never makes an unnecessary move. Take away the uniform, and he would look for all the world like a displaced Buddha in calm contemplation. But the fans sit up when he waddles to his place behind the plate. A remarkable transformation takes place: the somnolent bulk becomes a quick and agile athlete. After he has strapped on the "tools of ignorance,"* hunkered down in the close confines of the modern catcher's box, he is the heart of the team. The pitcher waits for his signals. (Earlier, team and manager have talked over opposing batters, come to some tentative conclusions about strategy.) Campy calls for the curve or the fast ball, the change-up or the slider. It is a rare event when the man on the mound shakes him off, i.e., refuses his signal. By now most Dodger pitchers, reveling this week in an unbeatable 13½-game lead in the National League, know that their catcher knows best.