(See Cover)
Hunched on the eastern shoulder of Manhattan, the grimy crest of Coogan's Bluff glowers across the Harlem River toward The Bronx. All day, traffic snarls past its littered slopes. Torn newspapers rustle in the limp breeze that swirls along the dirty asphalt of Eighth Avenue; street urchins scuffle in the dust and cadge quarters under the rusty shade of the elevated tracks.
Crowning this dismal landscape, a great, curved, steel-and-stone shrine called the Polo Grounds beckons to the faithful all summer long. By the tens of thousands they respond. They are a special, indestructible breed called Giant fans. Unprotestingly, they submit to the nerve-jangling rites of entrance: the steaming subway ride or the stuffy taxi crawling across Harlem, the foul-tempered guards who herd them through turnstiles at the gate. Inside, the vast stands sprawl in the sun, the carefully tended ball field is green and trim, ready for the game.
At this inviting sight, the hearts of Giant fans quicken and their eyes gleam. In the big world outside, the pitchers are throwing bean balls, and there seems to be little but trouble. But inside the small, noisy world of the Polo Grounds, all is well. The Giants are winning. They are taking ball games at a better than two-to-one clip, and they have battered the second-place Brooklyn Dodgers into a temporary state of slack-jawed apprehension. This week they were on top of the National League with a handsome six-game lead after Sunday's games. If asked to explain this happy state of affairs in one word, the Giant fan is at no loss. The word is "Willie."
A Boy in a Hurry. Willie Howard Mays Jr., a cinnamon-tinted young man from Fairfield, Ala., on the edge of Birmingham, has fielded, batted and laughed the long-lackluster New York Giants into a state of combative enterprise. A husky (180 lbs., 5 ft. 11 in), smooth-muscled athlete with a broad, guileless face, he plays baseball with a boy's glee, a pro's sureness and a champion's flair. On the ball diamond, he is in a hurry; he never walks when there is room to run, even if only from bench to field or field to shower room. In the broad domain of centerfield, Mays covers ground with limber-legged speed to pull down balls tagged with the promise of extra bases. He throws from center with a zip and an aim that have brought chagrin to the National League's brashest baserunners. "He's thrown men out at first like he was a shortstop," says the Giants' captain and shortstop, Alvin Dark. "He nails 'em at home like he was throwing from second."
At the plate, Willie stands, with comfortable authority, in the classic legs-astraddle pose (weight about equally divided between both legs, feet about a yard apart). His big bat (35 in., 34 oz.) is currently connecting for a hit one out of three times (a .331 clip). A "spray hitter," apt to send the ball to any field, he rarely tries to place his shots but swings for the fences. "When you tag 'em good," says Willie Mays, "they'll go over the roof in any park."