Policeman of the Outhouse

Police of the Outhouse

It is an honored custom among ballplayers to brag loudest about what they do worst. So a pitcher who manages to beat out an infield roller struts around gloating, "Man! I really put the wood to it that time!" And Leon Wagner of the Los Angeles Angels confides: "I'm one of the best defensive outfielders in the game." At 29, Wagner may not be the game's worst gloveman (unlike Yogi Berra, he has never let a descending fly ball conk him on the head), but the tag of "Butcher" has stuck with him through three ball clubs and five big-league seasons. What Wagner does best is swing a bat lefthanded, and last week he was swinging well enough to tie for second in home runs (15), rank third in RBIs (46), and third in batting (.332).

Twist in the Dugout. Wagner is the Angels' clowning glory. He heckles opposing players "unconsciously" (he means unmercifully), dances the twist in the dugout, and gleefully polices the "Outhouse"--the section in the back of the team bus reserved for goof-offs after each Angel game. Wagner's credentials are perfect for the job. Part Negro, part Cherokee Indian, he grew up in Detroit, and decided early that the way to fun and fortune was to be afootball star. But, alas, at Alabama's Tuskegee Institute he learned that college football players do not always get paid. Wagner quit after a year, with a hard-earned reputation as a bon vivant.

Baseball was obviously a less taxing and more lucrative occupation. Signed by the New York Giants in 1953, Wagner had no trouble solving minor-league pitching: over four seasons he averaged .324, and in 1956 he whacked 51 homers for Danville, Va. At last the Giants called him up. In gratitude, Wagner hit an enthusiastic .317--and dropped one out of every 18 flies. The horrified Giants traded him to the St. Louis Cardinals, who farmed him out again.

On the All Stars. "I haven't been recalled yet," Wagner says, but he did reform. "I spent hours shagging flies, practicing throws, working on low liners," he says. "I could get to the majors with my bat, but I knew I couldn't stay unless I got a glove." Picked up by the newborn Angels in 1961, Wagner finally got a chance to play regularly and made the most of it: .280 batting average, 28 homers, 79 RBIs. Last year he supplied the punch (37 homers, 107 RBIs) that kept the upstart Angels in first division. But his big moment came in the second 1962 All-Star game: a sliding circus catch of George Altman's sinking liner that did wonders for Wagner's ego. "Al Kaline may be a better rightfielder than I am," Wagner now concedes expansively. "But he's a magician. Roger Maris is good too--but nothing special. I'm at least as good as he is."

Wagner credits his early-season batting surge to a "secret weapon." His bat is a 33-oz. bludgeon with a thin, whippy handle and the biggest business end (8.6 inches around) that baseball rules will allow. Wagner wears a golf glove on his left hand,* grips the bat in unorthodox fashion--with his hands split two inches apart, `a la Ty Cobb. "When my bat meets the ball," he says, "that old pill really takes off." Except in Chavez Ravine. For some mysterious reason, Slugger Wagner has yet to hit a homer in his own home park.

* A fairly common fad among ballplayers, who claim that it gives them a better grip on the bat. Other glove-wearers: New York's Roger Maris, Baltimore's Jackie Brandt, Boston's Frank Malzone.

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