"Come one, come all," cried Manager Bill Rigney in a rash moment—and so they did, to try out for Los Angeles' new pro ball club, the Angels. It looked like a call from Central Casting for a remake of The Grapes of Wrath, as 300 tatterdemalion hopefuls from 11 states zeroed in by train, bus and thumb. They came in every size, from every trade—even (in a few cases) baseball.
A touch of the pro marked the young man above—at least, he wore what might be baseball pants. The scouts knew he was a pitcher because he told them so.
The casual look characterized the wishful batter at the left, who seemed to say of the Great Scorer: "He'll count not if you own a suit but how you play the game."
A dashing approach is the sure road to success, in the opinion of the hastening hopeful above who may not be too sure where he's going but knows he'll get there.
February 27, 1961
The compleat ballplayer is the only way to describe the lad at the left: cap, pants, socks, shoes—everything's there if only that blasted ball would stay caught.
Like with bats it's strictly ballville as this cat sees it, and with the Zen outlook it doesn't matter too much who's on first or what's with second.