Sport: Big Man from Nicetown

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Squeaking with enthusiasm, Campy keeps a chatter of encouragement flowing back to the pitcher. "Come on, roomie," he will holler at his road-trip roommate, Don Newcombe. "Hum that pea." Neither Newk nor anyone else is permitted a moment's carelessness. Once, when Don Newcombe crossed up his catcher with a slow curve after taking the signal for a fast ball, Roy promptly flipped off his mask and padded out to the mound. "How come you give me the local when I call for the express?" he demanded in singsong irritation. Campy believes that his chatter helps. Says he: "You shouldn't be a dead pants out there."

All Pre-Advance. All the while, going through his acrobatic gyrations—lunging for bad pitches, darting like a great cat after well-dropped bunts, settling under pop fouls or wheeling and firing to pick a man off base—Campy keeps the good catcher's track of every aspect of the game. It takes a hog-wild pitcher to whip a ball out of Campanella's reach, or stick a pitch in the dirt that he cannot dig out. "I line up my body for the way it's coming in," he says, "and jump if it's too much outside. I do it all pre-advance. It might be easier just to stick out the glove like most of them, but you might get the wrong tendency. If you keep moving every day, you'll get in the right habit."

Never has a catcher kept moving as much as Campy. In 19 years of active play, he has caught nearly 3,000 games. For nearly six years he survived a man-killing, year-round schedule—Negro leagues in the summer, tropical ball in the winter. In rickety buses he rattled across the Midwest and the Central American mountains, playing for peanuts, but always playing well. During seven seasons as a Dodger regular he has cheerfully suffered an extraordinary collection of broken bones, beanballs and assorted bruises. He has learned his trade so well that today oldtimers rank him with the best ever, with Bill Dickey and "Gabby" Hartnett, "Mickey" Cochrane and Roger Bresnahan.

End to Tragedy? Somewhere in their vast farm system, the Dodgers feel sure, they have a replacement for their tiring third baseman, Jackie Robinson, for their spry but elderly (36) captain and shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. When the time comes, they may even be able to turn up another outfielder almost as good as Duke Snider. But a substitute for Campy is a dream. To Dodger rooters. 1955 is the year of destiny, and destiny has the bulky shape of Roy Campanella.

Brooklyn teams have always had a special genius for blowing ball games in a thousand different ways. Brooklyn ball fans grew up with the Daffiness Boys and their bonehead base running of the '20s. They remember a rooter who turned murderer with rage over a loss to the Giants, a minister praying vainly for victory (1946—the Cardinals won the pennant) on the steps of Borough Hall, Catcher Mickey Owen dropping a third strike and losing a championship. With the inevitability of Greek tragedy, the beloved Bums were often contenders, sometimes won pennants and never won a World Series.