The last, lamentable images I have of the greatest ballplayer I ever saw are over a half-century old now, no less difficult to watch today than they were in October 1973, 42-year-old Willie Mays of the New York Mets losing his footing on the Oakland Coliseum grass, and a fly ball in the sun. It turned a routine chance off the bat of Deron Johnson into a double, opening the gates for the Oakland A’s to tie Game 2 of the World Series in the bottom of the ninth, but as the baseball mourns the passing of Mays at age 93, let’s agree to see that play in full context, for exactly what it was, shall we? A tiny smudge on the canvas of a career masterpiece. Besides, the Mets went on to win in 12 innings. Willie Howard Mays, the so-called “Say Hey Kid,” knocked in the go-ahead run with the final hit of his career.
Growing up, I always pledged allegiance to my pinstriped hero, Mickey Mantle, when the inevitable debate bubbled up about who the best centerfielder in baseball was. I would emphatically argue that Mick was tops, and would come up with some specious argument to make my case. But I knew better. Mick was brawnier and hit longer home runs, and could do it from both sides of the plate, but Mays’ was better in the field, at the plate, on the bases. I don’t need to trot out WAR or any other advanced metric to measure Mays’ greatness. I saw it for myself. He was the quintessential five-tool player whose five tools often felt like ten. When he was all done, he had the numbers to prove it – 660 home runs, 3,293 hits, .301 average, two MVP awards (11 years apart), 12 Gold Gloves and 24 All-Star appearances. But it wasn’t just how well Mays played; it was the way he played, with joy and youthful abandon, his hat flying off as he went, making his basket catches and charging every ground ball as if he were a shortstop going after an infield roller, and running from first to third in a galloping blur. You could see it in those priceless clips and photos of him playing stickball with kids on the streets of Harlem.
I came along too late to have seen Willie Mays wear No. 8 for the Birmingham Black Barons, or as a rookie in 1951, when the Giants won the pennant, Mays standing in the on-deck circle when Bobby Thomson hit his famous home run off the Dodgers’ Ralph Branca. I’ve read all about his epic MVP season in 1954, when he hit .345 with 41 home runs and 110 RBIs, and like everyone else, seen The Catch about a million times in Game 1 of the ’54 Series, Mays, back to the plate, running down Vic Wertz’ 8th-inning shot to the far reaches of the Polo Grounds, 425 feet away, then spinning like a top as he fired the ball back into the infield. Mays himself wasn’t that impressed, even though he saved at least two runs and kept the score tied at 2. He said later he’d made similar catches plenty of times, just not in the World Series.
“There have only been two authentic geniuses in the world,” actress Tallulah Bankhead once said. “William Shakespeare and Willie Mays.”
Mays was listed at 5-feet, 10-inches and 170 pounds, a flyweight by the standards of most sluggers, but that body, so strong and magnificently sculpted, was made to do it all, and it did, on two coasts. He once said that he never thought he’d go beyond playing for the Barons at Rickwood Field in Birmingham. When he started his New York Giants’ career going 0-for-12, the doubts probably surfaced anew, before he homered off of Warren Spahn, the Braves’ standout lefthander and Mays’ fellow Hall of Famer.
“I’ll never forgive myself,’’ Spahn later joked. “We might have gotten rid of Willie forever if I’d only struck him out.”
It wasn’t just breathtaking athleticism that set Mays apart, though. It was his baseball savvy and intuition, much of it learned from his father, Cat Mays, a star centerfielder in Birmingham’s industrial leagues. Tim McCarver once marveled at how the younger Mays might flail at a curveball early in a ballgame, hoping to encourage the catcher to call for the same pitch later in the game, when Mays would be waiting for it. He was known for slowing up just enough when he was rounding third to draw a throw from the outfield, letting the other runners advance. His sense of the moment even survives in his passing; two days after Mays’ death, Major League Baseball’s will roll out its long-planned celebration of Mays and the Negro Leagues at Rickwood Field, the oldest professional ballpark in the country. Mays’ San Francisco Giants will play the St. Louis Cardinals in the game that will feature an all-Black umpiring crew. Seventy-five years after he played his last game at Rickwood, No. 8 for the Birmingham Barons, No. 24 for the San Francisco Giants, the greatest ballplayer I ever saw will be properly feted in memoriam, his masterpiece of a baseball life complete.
Being native San Franciscans and brother Bobby being such a big fan, I’d not be surprised if you and I had a few arguments about Mickey versus Willy. One of the bittersweet benefits of moving back to San Francisco in 67, was getting to see Willie play so many games at the stick. Great tribute Wayne. Thank you.
I knew you’d write it, and write it well. Thanks, Wayne, for your tribute to Willie.