Johnny Logan, shortstop on the world champion Milwaukee Braves of 1957, at 86. He drew an affectionate writeup in David Lamb's Stolen Season: He sat among a group of stoic scouts, who said not a word, and yelled encouragement to the Brewers. I asked him if he was going on the Braves' reunion cruise to the Caribbean in the fall. "I talked to Pafko and a couple of the guys about it," he said. "You know what happens? Mathews, Aaron, Spahn, they go for free. And the rest of us got to pay. What an insult. You think I'm going? Hell, no. It was true. Logan had not been among the titans on the Braves and his value on the baseball-card circuit -- the measure of a retired player's worth in today's marketplace -- was only five hundred dollars per appearance [...] But Logan had played so beautifully. He had the heart of a lion and for a while there was no finer shortstop in the National League. He was the Brave you wanted at the plate with the game on the line, the infielder you prayed Snider or Kluszewski would hit the ball to in the last of the ninth. Logan was more guarded than the other former Braves I had met and he didn't seem much interested in revisiting the past. Whenever I probed, asking about his life after baseball, wondering if he saw the same ghosts in County Stadium that I did, he would go back to concentrating on his radar gun. "I got memories, he said, "but they're not really what you'd call memories, if you follow what I'm saying."