JOHNNY MIZE

He came out of Demorest, Georgia, a big man with a lazy grace that made the game look slow. They called him The Big Cat, and Johnny Mize moved through a ballpark the way a cat moves through a kitchen—quiet, watchful, and ready to pounce on anything left unattended.

He was a Cardinal first, and in 1940 he tore the cover off the National League with 43 homers and 137 ribbies, hitting .314 with a slugging percentage that made pitchers wince. Then he went to the Giants, and in 1947 he swatted 51 home runs, a number that still makes old-timers nod their heads. The next year he added 40 more, because why not? The man was a machine with a bat in his hands.

The war took him away, as it took so many, and when he came back he put on the pinstripes of the Yankees, adding a final chapter to a career that never knew a bad one. He finished with 359 home runs, 1,337 runs batted in, and a .312 average, with an on-base percentage that hovered near .400 like a hawk circling a field.

He never swung for the fences with a grunt or a grimace. He just flicked his wrists and the ball left the yard, as if it had business elsewhere. The Big Cat didn't roar. He purred, and the baseballs obeyed.