The “Say Hey Kid”

 

Willie Mays died Tuesday, June 18, at the age of 93. In my late-teens and early-twenties, I was fortunate
to see him play, first at Seals Stadium, then later at Candlestick Park, fortunate to witness several of his 660 homeruns.

In all the accolades that have poured in, I find one thing missing. No one has mentioned the way Willie played the game. He played with joy and excitement, and the understanding that he was playing a kids’ game and getting paid to do it. When you saw Willie before a game, he was smiling, laughing, the guy on the field having the most fun. When the game was underway, he swung hard, ran hard, slid hard, and ran down every ball he could get a glove on. There were no poses when he executed a homerun swing, no dramatic bat flips, no showing up the pitcher, no taunting the opposing dugout. He simply ran the bases and touched home plate.

In other words, he played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

It wasn’t all roses and tickertape parades when the Giants moved to San Francisco to begin the 1958 season. The New York City media may have created the legend of Willie Mays, but the San Francisco press was more than willing to tarnish the idol. Willie was the target of many snarky articles that questioned his character and commitment. One season (I can’t remember the year), Willie collapsed on the field. Whether it was from illness or sheer exhaustion was never clear. If memory serves, he missed only a couple of games. The press had a field day, suggesting Willie was “dogging it.” One line in particular I will never forget: a columnist in the San Francisco Chronicle quoted an anonymous teammate as saying, “We may have lost our centerfielder, but we gained an Academy Award.”

Willie never complained about the bad press. In fact, to my knowledge, he never complained about anything. He just played his game, year after year, compiling one of the greatest records in the history of baseball. Check out his five full seasons in New York, and then his prime years in San Francisco—1958 though 1966. His record speaks for itself. And it made him a perennial All Star selection. The All Star Game became a Willie Mays showcase. Everyone wanted to interview Willie, to share the smiles, the laughter, the pure joy of the game.

A few years ago, I was listening to a Giants’ game and Willie joined the broadcast team for a few innings in the booth. He was asked if he was at all bitter about having to play the heart of his career at Candlestick Park, where the howling winds turned homerun balls into pop fly outs. Willie said, “Oh no, no, no. I’m happy with my 660 homeruns. That’s a good number.”

As I said, no complaints.

Tony Kornheiser, a host of the ESPN show “Pardon the Interruption,” said that Willie wasn’t the greatest in any one category. There were better hitters for average, better homerun hitters, better base stealers, better fielders, and so on. But Willie was in the top five in EVERY category. In the history of the game, he was the most complete all-around player.

There is another category to consider: respect. Listen to what Willie’s contemporaries—the guys who competed with and against him—have to say. It is quite possible that, on and off the field, he was the most respected player ever.

He played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

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