Homered, flied out, fouled? Our "stylish stout"
so nimble Campanella will have him out.
A-squat in double-headers four hundred times a day,
he says that in a measure the pleasure is the pay:
catcher to pitcher, a nice easy throw
almost as if he'd just told it to go.
Willy Mays should be a Dodger. He should—
a lad for Roger Craig and Clem Labine to elude;
but you have an omen, pennant-winning Peewee,
on which we are looking superstitiously.
Ralph Branca has Preacher Roe's number; recall?
and there's Don Bessent; he can really fire the ball.
as for Gil Hodges, in custody of first—
"He'll do it by himself." Now a specialist versed
in an extension reach far into the box seats—
he lengthens up, he leans, and gloving the ball defeats
expectation by a whisker. The modest star,
irked by one misplay, is no hero by a hair;
in a strikeout slaughter when what could matter more,
he lines a homer to the signboard and has changed the score.