In the wee morning hours of Jan. 28, 1958, while driving home after shutting down the liquor store, Campy’s rented 1957 Chevrolet sedan (which you can see here) skidded on a patch of ice near the crest of a hill.
The vehicle careened out of control. As the car hydroplaned, it was no longer under Roy’s power. He could see what was happening but had zero control to avert the disaster. They were heading straight toward a telephone pole.
Roy’s only thoughts were on his beloved wife in the front passenger’s seat. With but a split second to react, and realizing that the steering wheel was useless to them, he dove headlong onto his wife's lap in an effort to protect her, as the pole was on her side of the car.
Upon impact, the car overturned, pinning Campy awkwardly between the glove compartment and his wife’s body, his neck near the the floor boards.
Ruthe Campanella would escape with an assortment of bumps, bruises, and scrapes.
Roy, however, suffered a broken neck. The fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae suffered from compression fractures, and his spinal cord was dangerously pinched in the shattered and dislocated remains of his spinal column.
Only a four-and-a-half-hour operation, involving seven surgeons at the Glen Cove Community Hospital, was credited with saving his life. They could not, however, restore movement to his body below the shoulders.
Furthermore, he almost died from the complications of pneumonia just days later.
Campy’s life after the tragedy has often been overly-romanticized. Writers have waxed poetically about how "he never lost hope" or how he "always kept a bright outlook" despite being a quadriplegic.
This is simply not true.
Roy was transferred to the Rusk Institute for Rehabilitative Medicine in Manhattan after three months in recovery. There, he began physical therapy and learned to cope with the new life that lay ahead. He returned home in November.
In his autobiography, Campanella said, “To tell the truth, I didn’t think I was going to live those first few days.” Roy feared that he would never again be able to support his family. He foresaw a life of misery in his wheelchair.
He also admitted there were times when he felt close to losing his mind, once when watching a fly that he felt was tormenting him as he lay in his hospital bed, unable to lift a finger to swat it away.
One of his doctors, at length, had to challenge Roy’s manhood, admonishing him to work as hard at a recovery as he had on the ball field. Campanella finally began the long road to true recovery.
“This was a challenge,” he wrote later, “the greatest I ever faced. I knew I would have a long, tough fight ahead of me, but I was no longer afraid. I’m a lucky man. I thank God I’m alive.”
The statement later lent itself to the title of his touching autobiography, It’s Good to Be Alive, which would be turned into one of the most underappreciated sports-themed movies ever filmed.
By degrees, Campy made slow progress after that, even moving enough to learn to catch a baseball once again. In 1958, he became a radio show host, with a segment called “Campy's Corner.” The undertaking proved to be therapeutic.
The first few broadcasts came from his hospital room.
In 1959, he returned to a hero’s welcome at Dodgertown, in Vero Beach, Fla., for Spring Training with the Dodgers, only now as a coach for young catchers.
Roy’s valiant mental and physical improvement in the aftermath of his horrific wreck inspired millions of disabled persons and their families, prompting Dr. Rusk to declare that Campy’s contribution to the world of the incapacitated would be far more significant than anything he had ever done on a baseball diamond.
Even as Roy recovered, though, he faced obstacle after obstacle.
Ruthe Campanella, the woman for whom Roy literally sacrificed his ability to walk (and almost his life), was simply unable to deal with both the awesome responsibilities of his ongoing rehab effort and the loss of physical intimacy. She separated from Roy in 1960; she died of a heart attack in 1963.
Roy’s house had to be sold in order to pay huge medical debts.
Fortunately for him, one of his nurses, Roxie Doles, found herself inspired by Roy’s determination and quickly became more than just someone to aid in his rehabilitation.
Newcombe, speaking years after the fact, recalled Roxie’s impact on Campy: “Roy once told me, ‘I’m helpless when I’m lying in that bed, I’m not worth anything there, and then Roxie gets me up out of there by herself. I don't know how she does it.’”
“Roy could not have lived without her,” Newcombe concluded.
They were married May 5, 1964; Campanella adopted her two children, Joni and John.
In 1991, Roy and Roxie founded The Roy and Roxie Campanella Physical Therapy Scholarship Foundation, which provides support for those living with paraplegia and funds scholarships for students who pursue degrees in physical therapy.
The fund also provides equipment, education, informational aids, as well as emotional and financial support to people living with spinal cord injuries.
Despite Roy’s star power, it has been difficult keeping the Foundation afloat. In 2003, for instance, Roxie auctioned off some of Campy’s memorabilia to help support the struggling Foundation.
But it survives and will continue to support the cause so dear to Roxie's heart, says Roxie's daughter, Joni.
Campanella was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1969 on the first ballot, and was inducted into the Black Athletes Hall of Fame in 1975.
He died of a heart attack in 1993 at his home in Woodland Hills, Calif.; he was 71. Roxie followed him in 2004, also at home, from the brutal ravages of stomach cancer, at the age of 77.
In most any measurable way, Campanella became far more famous in the wheelchair than he had been as an active player. He never complained about his disability, and he inspired the disabled and the healthy, alike.
Legendary Dodgers radio broadcaster Vin Scully once said poignantly, “Although he was a remarkable ballplayer, I think he’ll be remembered more for his 35 years in a wheelchair.”
As a Dodgers special instructor, Campanella groomed young catchers during Spring Training for some 20 years.
He worked with disabled people through the Dodgers’ community-service programs.
In 1959, the Dodgers held a benefit game at the Los Angeles Coliseum to honor Campanella and raise money for his expenses.
The game attracted 93,103 fans, thought to be (to this day) the largest crowd ever to see a baseball game.
And, of course, there was his charitable foundation.
Roy, perhaps more importantly, mastered the art of putting a smile on people’s faces.
“People look at me and get the feeling that if a guy in a wheelchair can have such a good time, they can’t be too bad off, after all,” he once said.
A forgotten story of courage and inspiration, indeed.
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