He would cut radio commercials wearing his uniform and stirrup socks, and speed to practice in his wheat farmer’s overalls. Tossed out of a baseball game once, he hid under the stands beneath a blanket and sombrero and continued to flash signals. He taught generations to bunt and cover first, and he taught his best pitcher ballroom dancing. He’d zing an outfielder for playing a fly ball “like a blind dog in a meathouse” and then counsel another through a slump or a family crisis. He won 1,162 games, but that wasn’t what built the stadium that bears his name.