This past Sunday, Talkin’ Mets did its part to remember the great Willie Mays. Although it’s nearly two weeks since the former Giants and Mets legend passed away, I thought it was appropriate to share a story from someone who saw him play. It’s especially relevant just a few days after the Subway Series and Mays'son Michael throwing out the first pitch.
Long-time Talkin’ Mets listener and Beyond the Mets subscriber David Mills was kind enough to share his brush with fame. I hope you enjoy it.
SAY HEY WILLIE
A first-hand testimonial by Dave Mills
Growing up during the late 1950s and through the 1960s, I had heroes from the three pursuits that fascinated me the most—sports, music, and politics. The three most prominent of those dozen heroes were Willie Mays, Duke Ellington, and John F. Kennedy. Sadly, my only hero who still walks the earth is 88-year-old Sandy Koufax.
My dad was a dedicated fan of the NY Giants. From the age of 7 in 1932, he took the subway, often by himself, from the Bronx four stops to the Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan. There, he was able to watch and idolize his heroes—Mel Ott, Carl Hubbell, and Bill Terry. Nineteen years after his first visit to those hallowed grounds, Giants fans were introduced to Willie Mays, who spent the next two seasons in the army. The military hitch severely suppressed his lifetime accomplishments, which he rarely, if ever, mentioned.
Willie did it all in 1954, culminating in “The Catch” in Game 3 of the World Series. The Giants swept the talented Cleveland Indians on the very day I was born. Dad had waited 21 years for his first Giants World Series winner in 1933. Decades later, while holding court at a gathering, he was asked to reveal the greatest day of his life and quickly replied, “September 30, 1954.” I became quite emotional and thanked him for feeling so strongly about his son’s birth. “Heck no,” he said, “That’s the day the Giants won the Series and Willie Mays became my favorite player.”
My first baseball memories were my dad’s daily exasperations regarding losing his Giants to San Francisco after the 1957 season. Until the 1959 World Series, all I knew about baseball were Dad’s complaints about Giants’ owner Horace Stoneham and how Willie Mays was stolen away from him and other Giants fans. In late 1959, contemporaneously with the inception of JFK’s run for the presidency, my dad started informing me that New York was about to get a franchise in the Continental League, which, shortly after that, morphed into a new National League entry. Dad shared every article from the New York papers, and his excitement inspired me to become a baseball fan in every sense of the word. We visited the Polo Grounds on September 14, 1962, Mets against the Reds, and a doubleheader with the Cardinals on June 9, 1963, so I could see the Stan Musial before he retired. But Dad could not bring himself to see the Giants until the Mets had a home of their own.
From 1964 through 1967, we witnessed about three dozen games at Big Shea, many of them Sunday doubleheaders against the Giants, Dodgers, Pirates, Reds, Cardinals, and Braves. We often saw Mays, McCovey, Koufax, Wills, Clemente, Rose, Brock, and Aaron. Mays always stood out, even among those incredibly talented ballplayers. Something was compelling about the way he ran, the hat flying off, the unique basket catches, and his raw power, even though he was not a big guy. I think he was about 5’10”. Only three other players I’ve watched have taken charge of directing the defense like Mays (Jerry Grote, Keith Hernandez & Francisco Lindor being the others). Taking charge defensively is almost impossible to appreciate unless you’re in the ballpark. When Mays was on the field, there was only one player to watch. Everyone else was window dressing.
My brush with greatness took place when the Giants visited Shea Stadium on July 4, 1967. Late in June, my uncle found Mets tickets lying on the street in Garden City, LI. He knocked on several nearby doors and asked if anyone had lost tickets, but all answered in the negative. I always figured Garden City was a hotbed for Yankees fans. So, he passed the tickets on to my dad, and a few days later, we were thrilled to be led to field-level box seats on the rail a few rows to the left of the Giants’ dugout. About 10 minutes later, the police arrived and whisked my dad away, leaving two 12-year-olds (my cousin and I) behind. Minutes later, along comes Willie Mays.
Willie’s incredibly athletic body belied his advanced baseball age of 35 years. As he approached the railing, he greeted us warmly and asked where we were from and if we played ball. When I told him I played shortstop, he chimed in that he started as a shortstop but was moved to the outfield by the Giants during his short stint in the minor leagues. I asked him who gave him the best baseball advice and he quickly answered, “My father, who told me that if I was injured, I can’t help my team.” Subsequently, I heard him say that quite frequently during interviews. We also asked about the toughest pitcher he faced, and he quickly cited the recently retired Sandy Koufax. What was profoundly evident was that Mays enjoyed the discourse and adoration and was extremely comfortable with youngsters.
He spent about 10 minutes with us and, before saying so long, asked if we were there alone. I answered that the police had taken my dad away a few minutes earlier. The perplexed look on his face was priceless. “Well, take care and enjoy the game,” said Mays as he jogged off into the dugout. To that day, it was the greatest moment of my life. To this day, it was one of the three greatest, trailing only a personal accomplishment and the birth of my son, who now toils in the front office of the Tampa Bay Rays.
My dad returned to the box in the 3rd Inning after being released by the police, who apparently figured a teacher from East Meadow was not committing weekday robberies in Garden City and then stupid enough to use stolen tickets. Dad’s disappointment at missing meeting the Say Hey Kid was perceptible and something he never forgot. My cousin and I certainly never forgot our fortuitous July 4th interaction.
Willie Mays was the greatest and most exciting ballplayer I have ever had the pleasure of watching more than a dozen times in person and hundreds of times on TV. In the 1960s, there were no baseball academies, no indoor facilities, and professional instruction was unheard of. So, we watched intently and mimicked what we observed. Watching Mays play centerfield, run the bases, and hit was an education extraordinaire. Meeting him was a thrill and a half. For all the phenomenal memories delivered to this grateful fan, may he rest in peace. Say Hey Willie! You are the GOAT.
Great story...thanks for sharing! I got to meet a retired Yaz at a Cape Cod League game in my youth. It was huge.