I mourn the passing of Willie Mays, who died today at age 93. With his passing, a part of my childhood died with him.
I only wish my memories of meeting him a couple of times would expire.
Like most young boys during my childhood, I loved baseball. Growing up in San Francisco during the 1950s and 1960s, my sports hero was Willie Mays, the star hitter and outfielder for the San Francisco Giants. My grandfather first brought me to Candlestick Park in 1962 to see the Giants play their rival, the Los Angeles Dodgers. I ate hot dogs and candy, drank barrels of Coca-Cola, and marveled at the enthusiasm from the tens of thousands of fans whenever The Say Hey Kid came to bat.
Willie Mays. You had to be there to appreciate the phenomenon. He played in the major leagues for twenty-three years, and all but his last two seasons were with the Giants. Twice the National League's most valuable player, and twenty times named to baseball's All-Star team, he retired in 1973 behind only Babe Ruth in career home runs (660 to 714). Whether socking a home run or striking out swinging, I never knew so much excitement existed on earth until I saw him at the plate. He was, in the eyes of a five-year-old sitting on his grandfather's lap, beyond mortal. After my first trip to the ballpark, Willie Mays replaced cowboy star Roy Rogers at the top of my boyhood pantheon. I wore a Willie Mays Fan Club badge on my shirt, and I coaxed Grandpa to mount Willie's bobble head on our station wagon dashboard. When local TV stations aired a public service announcement of Willie warning kids not to play with blasting caps found on the street, I walked around my neighborhood looking for them. I didn't know what they were, but I wanted to find one—so as not to play with it, all because Willie said so.
The luster diminished somewhat when, as a kid, I attended a game in which Willie played. Attendance grew sparse near its end because the Giants trailed badly, so at the bottom of the ninth I snuck into an empty seat directly behind the home team's dugout. Willie came to bat with two outs, the crowd roared for him, but he hit an infield fly and made the final out. The Giants lost, but who cared? We all saw Willie play.
He left the batter's box and walked directly toward me. I reached across the top of the dugout. "Willie!" I called to him, "I'm a big fan! Can I shake your hand?" He scowled, grumbled something, and passed by me. My older cousin who brought me to the game saw my disappointment.
"Don't be sad," she consoled me. "Willie's just had a bad day. Everyone has bad days."
• • •
My chance to meet him came a few years later when he scheduled an early-morning live interview at a local TV station in a run-down section of San Francisco. The studio shared the block with an alley, a soup kitchen, and a flophouse for transients. The low-rent setting didn't deter me, especially if I could see him without thousands of other fans around.
Two hours before sunrise, my younger brother Pat and I took the bus downtown, and then we fended off drunks and perverts on our walk to the studio. After waiting there an hour, a pink Avanti sports car pulled up to the curb. The personalized license plate "BUCK 24" gave away the identity of the driver before we saw his face. Willie's team nickname was "Buck," and his Giants jersey bore number 24. He parked in front of the studio and exited his car.
There he was, only a few feet away from Pat and me on an otherwise empty street. What a thrill for two young fans! For a moment, we remained speechless, and then I blurted out, "Willie, you're our hero! We come to your games! Will you sign our baseballs?" I extended my ball and pen.
He stopped, glowered at me, and said nothing for what seemed forever. The silence broke only when he summoned a guttural sound from the depth of his esophagus. After bringing forth a mouthful of phlegm, he spewed it onto the sidewalk an inch or so from my foot. My eyes widened as I absorbed the scene and tried unlocking its meaning.
"Maybe this is some sort of baseball ritual," I thought. "Maybe the players greet each other this way." When I looked up, Willie still stared at me.
My mind kept racing: "Am I supposed to greet him the same way?" I wondered. "I guess he's waiting for me to do it back to him. Well, okay, here goes."
Just as I was about to launch a return salute, Willie snatched the ball from my hand, scrawled his signature across it, and then smeared the writing with the side of his hand as he tossed it in the air. The ball hit the street and rolled down Golden Gate Avenue.
As I chased after my smudged trophy, Pat asked if he'd sign his ball, too. Willie spun around and jabbed his index finger toward Pat.
"No!" he barked. "You kids got enough." With that, he turned and approached the studio entrance.
By now I had retrieved my ball and was approaching the scene when Pat called out, "Hey, Willie." He looked back to hear Pat finish his thought:
"Screw you!"
Pat turned and ran down Golden Gate Avenue toward Hyde Street and the bus station. His older brother, clutching a smeared baseball, was right behind.
• • •
Many years later, when I was just out of law school, I attended a sports collectable show in Los Angeles. The schedule featured Willie Mays signing autographs for what was then a top-dollar fee at such gatherings: $6 each. Since he was so unpleasant when Pat and I asked him for a free autograph long ago, maybe, I thought, he might be more chipper if people paid him for it. I decided to test my theory. Besides, six bucks was a small price to pay to replace the smeared and scuffed baseball in my collection.
Dealers and cases of baseball memorabilia for sale crowded the hotel ballroom. Willie, now retired from the game for over a decade, signed at a corner table. The people in his long line carried baseballs, bats, cards, photographs, jerseys, gloves, and so forth. After fans paid their money and handed him their item, he signed without looking up or acknowledging any expressions of admiration or gratitude. Once the money hit the cash box, he wrote his name, handed back the autograph, and then he called out, "Next."
A dad approached him with his young kid in tow. "Hey, Willie, will you make out the ball for my son Johnny?"
"No inscriptions. Next."
From another fan: "I've followed you since you played for New York. It's such an honor to meet you."
"Next."
This went on for the hour that I waited. The script never changed: "Hey, Willie, you're my hero…."
"Next."
When my turn came, I paid my fee, handed over my ball, he signed it, I said thanks, and then I stepped away without waiting for him to tell me to keep moving.
• • •
Thirty years after Pat and I encountered Willie Mays on Golden Gate Avenue, my brother worked as the operations manager at PacBell Park (now Oracle Park, which is the home stadium for the San Francisco Giants). When I visited him one afternoon in his ground-floor office, I was surprised to see Willie Mays signed memorabilia decorating his walls. Pat told me that Willie, now old, stooped, and moving slowly, still attended most home games. He'd often stop by Pat's office to shoot the breeze and have a beer with my brother before the opening pitch. They became friends.
"In fact," Pat added, "he was here yesterday. I told him that my brother was coming to town for a visit, so he signed this for you." Pat handed over a baseball, un-smudged and un-scuffed, inscribed to me.
"Do I leave the six bucks with you?" I asked.
"No charge. He did it as a favor. Besides, he raids my refrigerator before the games, so we're even."
"Did you ever mention how rude he was when we met him as kids, or that he once spewed his phlegm at my shoe?"
Pat shrugged. "No, I never bothered telling him—
"—Why tell him what he already knows?"
• • •
What to make of my encounter with baseball great Willie Mays? I suspect that decades-long worldwide fame takes its toll, especially when an unending parade of well-meaning fans fill those years with nonstop impositions. At some point even the most fan-friendly celebrities must come to begrudge these intrusions. Although my experiences with him were less than ideal, I'd bet that countless other fans could testify to his acts of kindness, generosity, and patience when they met him. I choose to believe that I experienced the exceptions instead of the rule. As my cousin told me at Candlestick Park on that long-ago afternoon, everyone is entitled to a bad day.
Rest in peace, Willie.