Tribute to the MVP for All-Time

The anecdote begins on page 113. Roy Campanella and Jackie Robinson, stars of the old Negro leagues, are playing a game of gin rummy, half-cent a point. The year is 1945. “I’m going to be the first Negro in organized baseball,” Jackie said. “I’m fl y ing up to Montreal tomorrow for the official signing ceremony. It’s going to be a big thing--cameras and everything. Mr. Rickey says that in a year of two I can make the big leagues. Do you realize what this means, Campy? It’s the end of Jim Crow in baseball. I’m all excited. I’m proud, and I’m scared too.”

I sat dumbfounded. My cigar went out, but I didn’t realize it and kept puffing away. For the longest while I didn’t say a word. I just sat and stared at Jackie. ...

*

Once upon a time, it was the greatest story ever told. At least I thought so. So funny, so sad. So exciting, so philosophical. I was 12 years old, maybe 13, when I read Roy Campanella’s 1959 autobiography, “It’s Good to Be Alive.” It’s hard to say, in retrospect, where the documented facts end and convenient memory begins. But when the 306 pages were finished, I wanted more.

A couple of years later, when I got to the part about Sonny Corleone and that bridesmaid at his sister’s wedding, “The Godfather” would become the greatest story ever told. But in my age of innocence--which ended, perhaps, with Jim Bouton’s “Ball Four”--Campanella’s autobiography was simply the best.

And now, in an age where professional athletes eschew the responsibilities of role models, Campy is gone, claimed by cardiac arrest at 71 in his Woodland Hills home. He was buried Wednesday in a private service.

It’s a funny thing about being a Southern California boy fortunate to have grown up after the Dodgers came to Los Angeles. If you loved the Dodgers of Koufax, Drysdale and Wills, you could claim the team’s Brooklyn heritage for your own. If you collected baseball cards--and I had more than 4,000, including some good ones, before my sister, without warning, tossed that rather valuable stash in the garbage--you also loved the Bums of Brooklyn, whether taking the Series or waiting till next year.

Dodgers fans took pride in the fact that it was our team that “broke the color line.” Even if we weren’t there to witness it, we understood Robinson’s courage. What did the Giants or the Yankees ever do for American history?

We fans understand that Dodger Dogs should be grilled, not steamed. We understand, sadly, that some of today’s Dodgers are not worthy of the uniform. But just imagine an all-time Dodger team, with Koufax blowing away the hitters, Robinson stealing home and Kirk Gibson limping to the plate as a pinch-hitter.

And if you know the Dodgers, you understand that Campanella, sitting in his wheelchair, was probably the greatest of them all. Built like a beer keg, he played catcher and was named the National League’s Most Valuable Player three times in a 10-year career. Paralyzed after a car accident, he never stopped smiling, laughing, telling stories.

And while Robinson became a confrontational pioneer for civil rights, Campanella was a flesh-and-blood symbol of racial harmony. He seemed to get along with everybody. An Uncle Tom, some people whispered. But he had come to terms with himself long before.

Page 35: The kids called me “half - breed.” At first I had no idea what “half - breed” meant . ... Doris and I would be coming home from Sunday School and on the way home the kids would sing out, teasin g , “Roy, is your father really a white man?’ This may seem stupid, but I honestly didn’t know....

It wasn’t only the white kids who called us “half-breed.” We caught it from both sides, white and colored. So, like I say, I learned to be pretty fast with my fists . . . .

He recalled an afternoon when he finally confronted his mother.

“Mom, is it true that Daddy is a white man?”

... She looked at me for what seemed forever. Then she spoke very softly.

“Yes, Roy, your daddy is white. It makes no difference . There’s nothing wrong with that. He lives in this house with us. He’s a good man. He’s a fine father....”

And so on. Campanella dutifully noted that his parents, not long before the publication of his autobiography, had celebrated their 52nd wedding anniversary.

*

Today, kids on TV commercials sing of their desire “to be like Mike,” meaning Michael Jordan. Charles Barkley, meanwhile, is paid serious money to look into a TV camera and declare: “I am not a role model.” (This from a man who claims to have been misquoted in his own autobiography.)

The remarkable thing about Campanella was that nobody wanted to be like him, stuck in that wheelchair. Yet he was always a most valuable player, always The Natural.

Thanks, Campy. For everything.