Say hey for Giants centerfielder Willie Mays, the greatest baseball player who ever stepped on the diamond
For eight decades, Willie Mays was a living legend.
One of those words — the most crucial one — was lost on June 18, as Mays died at 93. The Say Hey Kid would say no more.
That was his nickname when he came to the big leagues, since he had trouble recalling names and often yelled “Say hey!” to catch people’s attention. But no one forgot Willie Mays once they saw him play.
He was the greatest to ever dig in against a pitcher or chase a fly ball. Mays (seen above with President Ronald Reagan at a 1984 White House affair in a public domain image posted on wikimedia commons) dazzled fans, teammates and opponents with his mesmerizing skills in center field, at bat and on the bases. His career lasted from 1951-73, and for much of it, he was the best outfielder, the best baserunner and one of the best hitters in the game.
I have been a fan for as long as I can recall. My family played, watched and listened to the game. I played baseball and softball as a kid, young man and, ahem, older man. Unlike football and other sports, almost everyone has played a form of baseball. Everyone has taken his or her turn at bat one time or another.
Few did it as well as No. 24. He led the Giants to the 1954 World Series championship, making the most famous catch in baseball history, and received one of his two MVP awards that season. He probably deserved eight, since he was superb season after season.
He’s one of the reasons the San Francisco Giants are my favorite National League team. I played center field when I was young — making a running catch and turning to fire a throw back into the infield is a feeling few other experiences can match. I enjoy great defense as much or more than a long homer.
No one played center field like Mays. He was built like a champion boxer with thick, strong hands and arms, but he could run balls down like a wide receiver. When he caught a ball, his arm was as accurate and powerful as a small cannon.
He made catching a ball over his head seem easy and loved to lower his glove and make a basket catch to give the fans a show. His cap, always a size or two too small, often flew off, and that became a trademark.
It wasn’t an accident. Mays always knew the importance of giving the fans a show, of entertaining them while doing all he could to win.
At the plate, he rocketed the ball all over the yard and maintained an average higher than .300 for his long career. He hit 660 home runs despite missing almost two complete seasons.
As a baserunner, he was daring and usually successful. When he started to play for the Giants, speed was a lost art in baseball, but Mays helped revive its importance to the offensive arsenals of teams.
Leo “The Lip” Durocher, his first big league manager, was always an unabashed fan of Mays.
“If somebody came up and hit .450, stole 100 bases, and performed a miracle in the field every day, I’d still look you right in the eye and tell you that Willie was better,” Durocher said. “He could do the five things you have to do to be a superstar: hit, hit with power, run, throw and field. And he had the other magic ingredient that turns a superstar into a super-superstar: charisma.”
Willie McCovey, the tall, slugging first baseman who formed a formidable duo with other Willie for the Giants and joined him in the Hall of Fame, saw his friend up-close. He knew how great he truly was.
“I played with him — people have a false impression of what a great player is nowadays,” McCovey said. “If somebody puts up great numbers, they think he’s great. But if you saw Willie play, you would see games where he would win it for us and he wouldn’t even get a hit. He did things that nobody else does. That’s what makes a great ballplayer.”
The Giants of that era made the postseason twice, in 1962 and 1971, but never won a World Series. But they were stocked with stars and had five Hall of Fame players — Mays, McCovey, slugger Orlando Cepeda and pitchers Juan Marichal and Gaylord Perry. They were always in the race, and routinely won 90 or more games, but in an era of other dynamic teams like the Dodgers and Cardinals, the Giants usually came up short.
But Mays still dazzled fans, reporters and players, as Marichal said. He also was a leader and friend to his teammates.
“Willie Mays, to me, was the best ballplayer I ever saw in my life. Nobody in the history of baseball is going to see anyone like Willie Mays,” he said. “Everybody loved Willie in the clubhouse. Willie used to do a lot of things for different players, especially the rookies. Willie used to take players to clothing stores to buy them clothes. Sometimes he would get free clothes, shoes, and stuff, and give them to the players. He was like the mother of the team.”
Mays was interviewed countless times and appeared in movies and TV shows for decades, but in many ways he was a very public mystery, rarely allowing people to learn more about him than the oft-repeated legends of the smiling, high-voiced superstar.
The best book about him came out in 2010. “Willie Mays: The Life, the Legend,” was an in-depth, honest look at the greatest player to lace up spikes. His life was more complex and challenging than most fans realized, but he kept smiling and moving on. There is a reason he lived to be 93 — Willie Mays was as tough as a $2 steak.
Until the last few years, he was a regular at spring training and Giants’ home games, sharing stories with young players, signing autographs and granting a few interviews to star-struck journalists.
The men who interviewed him — mostly middle-aged men falling all over themselves to talk to Willie Mays — were universal in their obeisance to the great one. He was more than willing to accept it, although he could be a tad grouchy as he lapped up the praise.
After years of idolizing Mays, I ran across him more than 40 years ago. It was a memorable moment.
I was a young 21 dealer at Harrah’s in Reno, going back to work one fall day in 1983. As I left the Cal-Neva after making a small football bet, I glanced up as I crossed the street. Willie Mays, accompanied by a fetching young blonde, was walking right toward me.
Of course, I was cool and played it casually.
“Willie Mays!!!!” I shouted.
I stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and pointed. I’m embarrassed to this day, but that’s what happened.
It was 1983 and Mays had been retired for a decade. He cast an angry glance at me as if I had dared to throw an up-and-in fastball at him. Mays stomped past as I remained fixed to the ground.
I later told the story in the break room and some older dealers set me straight. Mays had been throwing chips and swearing as he lost money playing craps at our casino.
At that moment, he wasn’t ready to hand out autographs or shake hands with a fan. I’m still glad I saw him.
The next year, I met another former Giant, one who was far less successful and famous. I was playing softball in Sparks, Reno’s charming blue-collar sister city, and was told Ed Halicki, a former Giants pitcher, was in the league.
My team gathered at a local watering hole after the game and someone called me over to a table to meet Halicki. I offered my hand and the tall right-hander, who was by then selling RVs in Lake Tahoe, shook my hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Halicki,” I said.
I know, I gag thinking about it, too.
“The heck with that,” he said. “I’m Ed. Sit down and have a beer.”
Mays is still my favorite Giant and the best player who ever lived, I believe. But I will always have a warm memory of Ed Halicki, who threw a no-hitter against the Mets on Aug. 24, 1975, and had a lifetime record of 56-55 with a very respectable ERA of 3.62.
But there is no doubt the biggest Giant of all was Willie Mays. Let Negro Leagues legend Buck O’Neil, a wise man with a keen eye for talent and a deep appreciation for the game’s history, have the final word.
“The best Major League ballplayer I ever saw was Willie Mays. Ruth beat you with the bat. Ted Williams beat you with the bat. Joe DiMaggio beat you with the bat, his glove and his arm,” O’Neil said. “But Willie Mays could beat you with the bat, with power, his glove, his arm and with the running. He could beat you any way that’s possible.”
Say hey, Willie. You will be missed and remembered as long as baseball is played.
Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states and contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Reprint with permission.
