ROY CAMPANELLA

The autumn of ’55 belongs to him. After years of the Yankees treating Brooklyn’s October like a toll booth, Campy was the one who pried the World Series crown loose. That fall, the catcher with the fireplug frame and the howitzer arm finally stood on top of the baseball world, and the borough let out a cheer that rattled the girders of the Brooklyn Bridge.

But Campy was never just one season. From his debut in April of ’48 to his last game in September of ’57, he was the rarest of birds — a receiver who could change a game with his glove and then win it with his bat. The numbers tell the tale: 242 home runs, 856 ribbies, a .500 slugging mark. For a backstop, that wasn’t just good. It was a revolution.

Three times they handed him the MVP trophy — ’51, ’53, ’55. Nobody behind the plate had ever done that. In a lineup that featured the Duke and Jackie, it was Campy who kept the engine humming, calling games with the wisdom of a man who had seen every pitch ever thrown.

He was built low to the ground, 5'9" and 190 pounds of pure power, and when he uncoiled, the ball didn’t just leave the yard — it left the neighborhood. Ebbets Field was his office, and he was the best damn executive in the business.

Campy. The name still echoes. A catcher who hit like a slugger and carried a borough on his broad back.