"he Doesn't Like Any Loose Horsehide Shrapnel Falling Around Him"

Dusty Rhodes was not a deep thinker when it came to baseball. When he finally advanced to the major leagues, called up from Rock Hill, S.C., he had yet to absorb the game's strategic subtleties. Lefthander, righthander—what could that possibly matter to him? Pitchers were all alike by their intentions. Why distinguish among them by their preference of arm? His indifference to the science of hitting, you could say, was more or less complete.

In this way, of course, he was the ideal pinch hitter, ignorant of situation or statistical probability. And more to the point, an ideal hero of the day. His obliviousness of circumstance (and that headline-ready name) made him the perfect flash celebrity—catapulted from rubedom to a national figure of absolute importance, all with a swing of the bat. With the country wired up, coast to coast, this transformation was not only possible but downright necessary. The naive, by their good works, shall lead us all.

Leo Durocher, the Giants' skipper, trusted more in calculation. He knew (besides that nice guys finish last) that Rhodes was not often bothered, or perhaps even aware, of the conditions of his appearances. "I just like to hit," Rhodes would say. Perfect. Durocher seldom bothered to call for Rhodes unless the game was on the line.

Durocher would need lots of players like Rhodes in the 1954 World Series, players who enjoyed a casual attitude toward odds, because his Giants were opposed by the Cleveland Indians—with the best four-man pitching staff in baseball—who had earlier, and rather easily, ended the Yankees' run of five world championships by winning a record 111 games and the American League pennant. Now the Tribe was poised to squash that lesser New York entry, the Giants, in the Fall Classic.

A relatively new medium would be there to certify the shame. That would be television, with its 21-inch-diagonal ability to transmit drama. Baseball, at first, did not know what to make of TV. Ever since it began allowing cameras on the mezzanine level, in 1948, attendance had dipped—from 21 million ticket-buying fans to 16 million. This had been somewhat of a surprise because radio broadcasts actually encouraged fans to come out to the ballpark. Radio broadcasters were ticket salesmen with catchphrases.

It was thought that TV would do the same. But beginning in 1947, all three New York teams were on TV—all home games and most road games—and attendance fell. But the increase in broadcast revenue made that drop-off acceptable. Roger Kahn, in his book The Era, remembers Dodger G.M. Buzzie Bavasi boasting of TV and radio rights of $787,115—roughly $250,000 more than the team payroll. "We were in the black before Opening Day," he said. Easy money.

In other words, dipping attendance or not, this was still the national pastime, and there was still no event on the sports calender more important than the World Series. Even one without the traditional pinstriping of the Yankees. Even one with the Cleveland Indians.

The Giants had one advantage, in the bubbling play of Willie Mays, back in centerfield after two years in the Army. Mays, for all his talents, may have been most valuable because of his prodigious enthusiasm. It was written that the Giants drew early crowds during spring training in Phoenix just to watch Mays enliven a game of pepper.

He was pretty good come game time too, and that year he led the league in hitting with a .345 batting average, while hitting 41 home runs. For this Series, though, it was his glove play that had the country talking. One more example of how a single event, by virtue of the newly democratic principles of TV (you didn't need to live in New York, or even buy a ticket any longer to figure in the enthusiasm—you just had to sit still and watch), could become part of the national conversation. At how many millions of watercoolers, schoolyards, dinner tables were people saying, "Did you see that catch?"

It was in Game 1, at the Polo Grounds, with a record 52,751 in attendance (no telling how many more glued to Philcos coast to coast) that Mays contributed to one of the most famous outs in baseball history. Sal Maglie was pitching, eighth inning, and he'd walked Larry Doby and given up a single to Al Rosen, leaving base runners on first and second. Up came Vic Wertz, who'd already touched Maglie for two singles, a double and a triple. Durocher pulled Maglie and brought in lefty Don Liddle to put a stop to this.