Being Willie Mays

In those two months between the end of grade seven and the beginning of the eighth grade, I was agreeably resigned to spending my summer vacation on the family farm, as I had done every summer in my life to that point. There was no wiggle room for negotiation on the matter anyway. My family had no money for travel and there were so many things to manage, including hogs to look after and plenty of summer field work to be done. So, there always had to be at least one adult around and, one adult realistically meant two and, two meant the kids would be staying put as well. For me there were plenty of house and garden chores to go around and, neither did I mind doing barn chores, like feeding the pigs. I actually looked forward to helping as much as I could with the barn-cleaning each morning – carrying straw-bales and pushing wheel-barrows full of manure. You see, my passion was playing baseball and I believed that all this work would provide me a much-needed opportunity to improve and strengthen my skinny little frame, for the game I loved.

I played little league ball once or twice a week in town, but usually rode the bench. I wished I could have played more than I did, but so many of the other boys on the team were truly amazing ball players. They were big and fast and skilled and athletic and there was little chance for me to replace any of them in their respective roles. I always hoped, however, that one day, if I became stronger and kept practicing diligently for long hours, I would get to start a game in centerfield and go on to finally make the game-winning catch in the bottom of the ninth inning and be heralded as a home-town hero like Willie Mays.

After chore-time each day, I played in the Major Leagues on my favorite team - the San Francisco Giants. I followed Juan Marichal’s starts in the pitching rotation and I often spelled off Willie McCovey and Orlando Cepeda on first base. My greatest joy though, was playing left field alongside my friend (and idol), Willie Mays, who played in centerfield. So many times, I looked to my left in awe, as Willie sprinted effortlessly from almost the infield grass, all the way to the chain-link outfield fence at Candlestick Park in pursuit of seemingly uncatchable fly balls. Occasionally, Willie would holler to me in left field, for my help and I would move in to make the catch with Willie looking on, smiling that big smile of his. He always had something encouraging to say after I would make the grab or as I was relaying the ball back to the infield, “Sensational work there, Johnny boy!”, or “I am glad you were out here to get that one!”

I played in three major league parks that summer, equipped only with my glove, hat and baseball-sized rubber ball. The ‘parks’ were selected, from a modest list of more-than-suitable out-building possibilities in the farm yard, for their expansive sidewalls and adjacent flat areas on the ground. The first of the three was Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles, which was the big east-facing wall of the north barn. There was also Wrigley Field in Chicago which was the long wooden grain bin west of the big “Grandpa Smith” maple tree. My favorite venue, however, was the east side of our little house, across the road from the farm yard. The bounce-surface of this ball park was the big blank exterior wall between the windows of my bedroom and the windows of my sister’s bedroom on the north and south corners of the house respectively – a 15-foot-high façade of brick-patterned, asphalt sheeting better known as Candlestick Park. Because Candlestick Park was, in real life, the home of the Giants ball team, I figured that it only made sense to have MY Candlestick Park at MY home. I loved the familiarity of my home park compared to the harder surfaces in the farm yard across the road. When needed, it was easier to get a drink at home after long innings, and there were no chickens or dogs or pigs to interfere with ground balls either. And, perhaps most importantly, the outhouse was more convenient for in-between-inning rest stops there at Candlestick.

Hundreds and hundreds of times each day, the ball was thrown from my hand and bounced off of those walls, into the air, and inevitably, and almost always without error, back into my waiting glove. Hundreds and hundreds of times each day I would narrate the events of the Giants’ games against the Dodgers and Cubs. And, hundreds and hundreds of times each day, each play ended with a miraculous catch made by me, Willie, one of the Alou brothers or any of the other San Francisco players – each catch, leading inevitably, to a new major league record of some sort and each catch strengthening the bond between Willie and I, because each catch was always the most important of the game, and the season, to that point.

One day in the fourth inning of a home game between the Dodgers and the Giants at Candlestick, my mom called me to the phone. “What?” I thought. “Who calls me? And, in the middle of a very important game, with Maury Wills on base and Willie Davis in the batter’s box no less!!” Anyway, I asked the umpires for, “Time,” and I went in to take the call. It is was my Little League coach asking me if I would be interested in playing on the team scheduled to compete in the upcoming Provincial playoffs. Whoa!! Is Willie Mays the best baseball player ever?

“Yes, yes, yes, oh yes please!!!”

Perhaps coach had noticed my extra work at practices. Maybe playing every day with Willie and the Giants in the big leagues was finally paying off. Of course, he did qualify his invitation with the fact that I probably wouldn’t be a starter. That didn’t matter to me. I just wanted a chance to maybe be a pinch-runner or a late-inning defensive replacement for one of the other guys. On a more practical and less fantastical note, there would be practices twice a week with weekend tournaments throughout the rest of July and August. I made a mental note-to-self, “Remember to inform the Giant’s players and coaches that I will now not be available for as many games through the remainder of the season . . .”

My heart rate jumped to a three-digit magnitude with the crack of the opposition bat-on-ball. From my vantage point in the middle of the field, I looked skyward to a dizzying vista of cumulus-stratus clouds floating in a rich sea of summertime blue. It was my job as centerfielder to, within this picturesque scene, pin-point the towering, pea-sized baseball, which was up there somewhere and no doubt hurtling in my direction. Willie’s words of advice drummed like a familiar mantra in my ears. Words I had heard him speak a million times on newsreels and Games of the Week and Ed Sullivan shows and in Baseball Digest magazines, “Get to where the ball is gonna land, and then wait for it!” That made sense to me. Then, even if I missed the ball, I could just bend over and pick it up. “Good thinking,” I reckoned. The big problem for me now was to actually discern where the ball was. Was it to my right or to my left? Heads for right, tails for left – heads it was!!

Now, before I continue with the account of my pursuit of that fly ball, I need to say something about my prowess as a runner so that you fully understand the velocity of that pursuit. I may not have been a first-string baseball player on my team but I could certainly outrun the majority of the guys I played with. As testament to this fact, during the days leading up to our annual school track and field meet each June, our teachers would draw names for the relay race held at the conclusion of the day’s events. They drew names from four categories of boys (girls had their own relay), based on the evaluation of student running speed in gym classes and recesses throughout the year. Kids like Donnie Evert and Gordie Enderby and Wes Worbowesky were seeded in ‘tier one’ because they were lightning-like. I was in the next group, deemed to be the second fastest bunch of runners. Even though I was a fast runner, I was never able to win an individual first-place ribbon on Field Day because I had to compete against the sprinters from the top group. So, the relay race was always my only hope of getting to the summit of the podium come awards time. On one particular year, the captains of the teams were selected first, followed by the runners from my group. When my name was chosen, it was placed in a particular column on the blackboard indicating that I would be on the same relay team as Tom Hum, a Chinese boy in my grade, who was, hands down, the fastest kid in our school – possibly even in our galaxy – we’ll never know for sure. Anyway, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I remember thinking at that point, “Yes, I will finally have a red ribbon.” And, sure enough, at the end of the day, I did have a first-place finish – thanks in large part, to Tom Hum who passed, on the grandstand stretch, no fewer than three other boys who were ahead of him when he took the baton only seconds before that. The point being, that Tom may have been uncatchable but I was no slouch either and together we had enough speed to make up for the slower boys on our team. Again, I relate this short aside only to give the reader some further background on the events which are about to take place in my continued account.

I turned to my right and ran as hard as I could toward the spot where I imagined the ball would reach earth. (The reader is now aware of just how fast that was). Whether or not the ball was actually heading in that direction, this particular choice would give me the advantage of using my preferred backhand method of catching the ball, should it unexpectedly emerge from the bouncing, jarring sky-scape that was now prominent in my vision. After several strides in that direction, I picked up a trace of motion out of my left eye. “Uh-oh! That’s the ball. I’ve turned the wrong direction.” So, without losing any speed, I turned again, even more to my right, basically giving me an angular displacement of about 300 degrees (just a little shy of a full circle, for those keeping track at home) from my original position prior to the crack of the bat. I remember thinking how I would probably have to jump to reach the ball because it seemed to be well over my head at this point, which I blamed on the slow start I got because of the scenic sky I had to deal with in the beginning of this whole episode. So, indeed I jumped, and as I jumped, I arched my neck and head around and backward in a completely unnatural anatomic configuration to follow the flight of the ball. As I did so, I am sure I heard Willie holler for me to close my eyes. Or, it could have been one of the other players on my team – I don’t know – things weren’t exactly clear at that point. So, I closed my eyes, and as my face, arms, shoulders, hips and knees flattened simultaneously against the weathered, green, plywood outfield fence, my forward motion was halted with such great suddenness and such acute abruptness. I remember feeling nothing less than complete, utter and humbling surprise – sort of like when a balloon one is inflating suddenly explodes in one’s face. Reports have it, that I bounced, “. . . backward, like a cartoon character on Bugs Bunny!” Separate weigh-ins also noted that the ball may have cleared the fence by as much as 20 feet at the same instant that I made contact with the wall.

I do remember having three distinct thoughts as I looked up from my supine position toward the sky. First, I found it interesting that clouds would be white if they were made of clear water. I also wondered if the ball might still be up there somewhere. Finally, I wondered what Willie Mays would have done at this point. I came to the conclusion that he would have gotten up, retrieved his hat and waved it to the crowd as he ‘gazelled’ back to his rightful domain in centerfield. That is what I thought I should probably do. That is so much what I wanted to do at that point. However, the best I could muster were some sobs and a few tears and a sympathy-seeking and teammate-assisted limp back to the dugout. My coach even patted me on the back and said, with a bit of a wink, that I had, “. . . made a real ‘impression’ out there today!”

Although I didn’t make the catch that afternoon, it’s possible that I did make some insignificant catch in some other lop-sided game somewhere along the line in the ‘dog days’ of that summer. But that was certainly my last and most vivid memory of playing Little League baseball that season. I knew from first-hand experience that the imaginary outfield fences in the Majors were much more forgiving than the real ones in Little League, leading me to entertain plans of contract renegotiation from Little League back to the Major Leagues and the Giants. With the Giants I would, for certain, have a starting spot on the team and there, every play would ultimately be meaningful and there, I would be listening to the voice of Vin Scully or Mel Allen as I played daily alongside Willie Mays.

“Okay, there’s the pitch – and it’s a towering drive to left-centerfield. This one could be outta here. Both Mays and Smith are tracking back to the ball. It’s going, it’s going . . . One of them has to have a play. It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . HOLY COW!! THE CROWD GOES WILD!! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!!