The Say Hey Kid

The truth is, it doesn't need to be remembered, none of it, nothing at all of the story I'm about to repeat. When at the age of 41 and more than a little doddering in the knees, Willie Mays, the Willie Mays, told the owner of the New York Mets he'd return to the city and the ball club she ran, only under his own terms--and he did, promising to play only when he wanted to and where he wanted to. 

But the owners wanted him back in the Big Apple, where he'd been a star and a champion when he'd played for the New York Giants. I was a boy back then, and when we'd want to show off a little on the sandlot, we'd gather in fly balls with our gloves in a basket at the waist and come up smiling because every last kids on the diamond knew who we were paroding--it was the "Say Hey Kid," and, I should point out, the nearest black kid was probably sixty miles away in Milwaukee. I'm not sure I knew Willie Mays was black. All I knew is that the guy played ball with a personality unlike any one else, including our beloved Hank Aaron, a rising star for the Milwaukee Braves.

I honestly don't know if I should be bringing all of this up, given his recent death, but it seems to me it's relevant. People still argue the sun's role that afternoon in Oakland. It was game two of the World Series, 1972, and Willie had more than a little trouble fielding fly balls out there in center. Could have been the sun, of course, or it could have been Willie's old wheels which, at that date and time, weren't what they once were. He didn't look good.

Later, Reggie Jackson pock-marked a pitch and sent Mays out towards the wall, something--the sun? his bad knees?--sent him on a fools errand that made him look like a fourth-grader, and a lousy one at that.

Willie Mays hung up the spikes after the Mets lost the series to the Oakland A's, despite the fact that his teammates wanted him to stick around for another year. That was it for "the Say Hey Kid, ' a nickname that will be forever capitalized because of the beauty and grace he brought to the game.

When he died recently, no one seemed to remember his foibles that last season with the Mets, for two reasons, I suppose: 1) his career's brilliance simply removed the shadows; 2) what he brought to the game in every way was unforgettable. And if those two seem like the same reason, I'm sorry--no one can overdo what he gave to the game of baseball.

At this point, no one knows what President Biden will do in the next week or so. I can argue both ways, and so can the rest of the Democratic Party. But our own Say Hey President should remember that when Willie Mays died recently, no one talked much about his gimpy knees. What made everyone's recollection of his abilities was the man's utterly distinguished record as a center fielder, a ball player, and an exemplary human being.

Joe Biden, at least among those of us who are not enslaved to Fox News, could retire just as confident of his place in American history.