(See Cover)
In the land beyond the Brooklyn Bridge, where 2,800,000 real human beings live among baby carriages, delicatessens, and streets of all-alike houses, spring was beginning to stir. Robins and forsythia blossoms appeared in Prospect Park. From Red Hook to Canarsie the sound of baseball bats flung to the pavement and the scuffing of feet skedaddling after fly balls could be heard in nearly every block. At Ebbets Field, the infield shone emerald-green for next week's opening game. Everything was in order but the Dodgers—and because of them there was little joy in Brooklyn.
One block west of Ebbets Field, at the Left Field Bar & Grill, a grim conversation was in progress. One voice said: "Dixie Walker ain't hittin', huh?" A dime bounced on the bar and a voice replied: "He'll hit ... but whaddya get from Durocher? He ain't lookin' over the rookies. Who's gonna be on first? Third base's wide open. Only three positions sewed down. The jerk! Gimme a libation, Eddie."
The beer spigot foamed. Another citizen spoke: "It's a phony. Leo's just putting on a big act, but then, ya can't tell . . . maybe he's in love." Like a breath of spring, a faint note of optimism crept in; somebody mentioned that old Hughie Casey had concocted a new and very secret pitch. "Gonna win twenty games, he says." But it was just a breath and it died on the next remark: "What ya been smokin', bud, mario-wanna?"
First, or Sixth? This week, rednecked from Cuban sun, the question-mark Brooklyn Dodgers rolled north by ship and Pullman. They looked neither bad nor good, only perplexed. One of their deepest perplexities was the conduct of their manager, Leo Durocher. A bridegroom for the third time, he was acting as if he had never been on a honeymoon before. Some days he hadn't even showed up for practice. Other days, chewing gum thoughtfully, he spent most of the time gazing up at his screen-actress bride, Laraine Day, sitting in a box and chewing gum too.
What was to become of the Brooklyn Dodgers? Sports-page experts hazarded guesses of anywhere from first to sixth place. Those St. Louis Cardinals had everybody wide-eyed. And the Braves would be hard to stop. As opening day drew near, the Brooklyn Dodgers had become the mystery team of the National League. And most of the mystery involved the rough-&-tough Leo Durocher, highest-paid manager in baseball, natty and noisy friend of the notorious, and great field general of America's national game.
Invitation to a Haymaker. At 40, Leo Ernest Durocher is the most talked-about and most unloved man in baseball. From heavy-lidded eyes he stares a perpetual challenge to the world. He fears no man. His square chin juts an open invitation for somebody to hit it—and about half of baseball's players and umpires, at one time or another, have resolved to do just that thing some day.
At the Polo Grounds one day, The Lip declared, with a flip of his hand: "I don't want any nice guys on my ball club. The nice guys are over there on the Giants' bench, and where are they? In last place!"