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A Reader's Digest
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This is the Roy Campanella I'll always remember: Campy of the fighting heart. His neck was broken, but never his spirit

By Howard A. Rusk. M.D., Director,
Institute of Rehabilitation Medicine,
New York University Medical Centre

CAMPY'S UNFORGETTABLE COURAGE

During the 1950s, before the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles, I became a real fan. And, to me, the player who stood out among all the rest was Roy Campanella, No. 39. Campy, as we fans affectionately called him, was a canny and scrappy catcher. With a runner breaking off first base to steal second, Campy would spring from behind the plate like a young tiger-all bone, muscle, and concentrated power and control-and fire that ball to second like a bullet. Often the runner hadn't a chance.

And, in those days, the half-black, half-Italian, from the Nicetown sandlots in Philadelphia, was probably the best-hitting catcher in baseball. In 1953, one of his best years, Campy set three major-league records for catchers: the most home runs (41), runs batted in (142) and putouts (807). These achievements, plus a batting average of .312, earned him the National League's Most Valuable Player Award that year. "When I can no longer wear the uniform," he told reporters later, "they might as well bury me, 'cause I'll be dead."

But when I first met Campy, less than five years later, he wasn't wearing the uniform, and I knew he never would again. His car had skidded on January ice and crashed into a telephone pole. Campy was thrown under the dashboard and broke his neck. Emergency surgery probably saved his life, but his spinal cord had been severed; he was paralyzed from the shoulders down. As director of New York University's Institute of Rehabilitation Medicine, which specializes in working with the spine-injured and the paralyzed, I was asked to see him.

I'll never forget how Campy looked, lying there in the hospital bed. His tough muscles were still hard, but his body was as unresponsive as stone. He had slight movement in his wrists and could extend and bend his arms but not his fingers. And those anxious eyes, filled with questions about the future.

Sitting on the edge of his bed after examining him, I spoke gently. "Campy, I don't know whether you're going to get a little back, a lot back-or nothing. Only time will tell. We'll start to train you tomorrow, but there's no magic in this. You will have to work harder than you every have in your life."

I'm ready," he said.

Next day we moved him into Room 414 at the Institute, his home for the next six months. With agonizing effort, he learned to sit up, first in bed, then in a wheelchar. Then, clumsily, he learned to feed himself with a fork or spoon held in a slotted leather wristband. Day after day, he was strapped to a tilt board to

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