Willie’s Joy Was Contagious

I was absolutely baseball crazy.

It was 1958, I was six years old, and I was falling in love with baseball.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t play it very well. Even though I would eventually play Little League, I was good at only one thing — getting hit by the pitcher. Together with the occasional walk ,that was the only way I got on base, except for the clean single I made in my last game.

I was falling in love even though my inherited fan interests weren’t going the right way. Those interests were: 1) rooting for the hometown team; and 2) rooting against the Yankees. Since my hometown team was the Phillies, and the Phillies were going to come in eighth out of eight that year (and the next and the next and the next); and since the Yankees won the pennant the year before and were going to win the World Series that year; it followed that I was in love with the game itself. (READ MORE from Shmuel Klatzkin: Civilization Means Power Used in Service to the Public)

And part of the reason for that was Willie Mays.

In 1958 my father took me to the ballpark for the first time. It was Philadelphia’s old Connie Mack Stadium, a hand-me-down from the Athletics, the city’s old glory team that had packed its bags for Kansas City and eventually the West Coast. Of the three games I saw there that summer, two were against the Giants. And that’s when I saw Willie Mays.

The whole scene of the ballpark was exciting enough. It was a comfortable old park, no one too far away from the action. Philadelphia still had some great players from their last pennant-winning team. Robin Roberts had pinpoint control and could still win lots of games — 17 wins pitching for the cellar dwelling Phillies that year. Richie Ashburn, like Roberts, would wind up in the Hall of Fame. That year, he would lead the majors in batting average and he was s superb center fielder who made great defensive play seem the easy.

But something else happened when Willie Mays came out on the field for the Giants. Your eyes went to him immediately. His overflowing energy grabbed everyone, even those crusty, belligerent Phillies fans — they sat up and took notice. He seemed almost to bounce, barely able to keep his drive channeled inside. He knew and everybody knew that he would look for every opportunity to let it loose, and if no opportunity came, he would conjure one up.

Older fans there knew much more about him than my six-year-old self. Calls of “Say Hey!” came out to greet him, the Say Hey Kid, the name he was dubbed when in 1951 he arrived in New York to play with the Giants.

He excelled in everything, pretty much. He was a power hitter, a four-time home run champ, and he hit for average. He was a tremendous centerfielder with great range, a preternatural ability to track the ball, and a cannon of an arm that stopped runners from taking extra bases. Already in 1954, he had nailed down the most famous fielding play in baseball history, turning his back to the plate and running down Vic Wertz’s screamer of a hit to deepest center field to preserve the Giants’ World Series sweep.

And one more talent on his list: in an age in which the art of stealing bases had been nearly forgotten, he brought it back to center stage.

That’s what I saw that first game. I don’t remember his fielding that day, nor do I remember how he got on base. But I vividly remember how, on base, he took his lead, making excited moves that got the Phillies tight and apprehensive of the move he was surely going to make.

The funny thing was — the fans were excited. The Phillies fans, who had the worst reputation in the majors (well-deserved) and were regularly obnoxious — they came alive. It didn’t matter that he was the other team’s man. He was so alive, so totally into making something happen, so filled with the spirit of play at its highest level, that everyone responded.

It was almost anti-climactic when he executed perfectly, got the jump, sprinted to the base, and made a perfect slide. And he did it again. Everybody knew he would. And he did. And the Phillies fans, the champion boo-birds of baseball, gave him cheers and applause.

I saw a lot of great baseball moments. I was in Yankee Stadium with my grandfather in 1964 when Mickey Mantle hit a walk-off homerun to beat the Cardinals in Game Four of the World Series. In 1960, I had just run in from the school bus to turn on the TV and see Bill Mazeroski stride to the plate in the bottom of the 9^th inning of Game Seven of the World Series, score all tied. I was as ecstatic as the Pittsburgh crowd when his legendary blast sank the mighty Yankees. I would see my favorite ballplayer, Stan the Man Musial, and experience his graciousness when he sent me an autographed picture signed to me (there’s another story there). (READ MORE: Willie Mays, the Game’s Greatest, RIP)

But in that first baseball summer, the one who worked the enduring magic was Willie Mays. The pure joy and energy that he brought to his job taught a life lesson that I had little idea I was learning back then. Excellence speaks for itself. But it never speaks louder than when it is accomplished through contagious joy. When you see that, you don’t forget it.

Thanks for the gift, Willie. I’ll do my best to pass it on.

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