Never Can Say Goodbye to America

Willie Mays is 75 years old today. A diamond birthday for the king of the diamond. Perfect.

Willie Mays isn’t an old man, however. He’s Willie Mays. He was still young when he was at the end of the trail when we got him. How could he be old now?

What’s that? Fell down in centerfield, hit .211, bumped Tommie Agee from the lineup, was a burden on Yogi Berra, disrupted the team by his enormity and sense of entitlement?

So I’ve heard.

I’ve never believed it.

I never will.

Willie Mays played for the Mets. I still can’t get over that. I still can’t fathom that some cash and Charlie Williams gave us almost two full seasons of perhaps (?) the greatest player the game ever knew in a Mets uniform. That’s always made me smile, right from that first Sunday he donned our colors and hit us a home run and won us a game against his old team.

Joan Payson should be in the Hall of Fame for arranging that. Willie Mays built a legend in New York, went somewhere else because his job took him there and got to come home. That’s an owner with the best interests of baseball at heart. She was a real sportsman.

Just watched Willie Mays being interviewed by Bob Costas. The excuse was Barry Bonds, his celebrated and vilified godson. Costas obviously wanted Mays to condemn Bonds. He wouldn’t do it. Let me know when you condemn your family on HBO.

Willie Mays is family, Mets family. Estranged and twice removed but still a great uncle in our genealogy. Still the man who wore 24 after Jim Beauchamp and before Kelvin Torve and stood before an adoring Shea Stadium and acknowledged that it was time to say goodbye to America — though before he did, he drove in the fourth and scored the sixth runs of the 7-2 win that clinched the 1973 National League pennant. You gotta believe? You can’t without Willie Mays.

One of the first things I learned as a baseball fan was Willie Mays was the best there was. It went, essentially, Mays then Aaron then Clemente. Saw just enough of each just in time to understand. They weren’t villains to us. They were too great for that. It wasn’t that star-sucking-up-to that ruined too many McGwire Cardinal, Sosa Cub games in the late ’90s. It was reverence. Especially Willie. Mays was New York’s, merely on loan to San Francisco during all those trips when he came in with his relocated team. To have him reappear on an apparently permanent basis in a cap with our NY on it and have him take the field for us, not against us…wow.

He’s been back with the Giants for good for more than a dozen years and that’s all right, I suppose. San Francisco never deserved him but now it embraces him. Better late than never for a city so beautiful in so many ways. I’m disappointed that he slipped away from the Mets organization somewhere in the early ’80s. Old ballplayers without portfolio and clearly defined responsibilities don’t always find a place at the table, even if — especially if — they are far bigger than the table (or have you seen Tom Seaver around Shea lately?). I’m glad Willie’s not divorced from baseball.

I continue to maintain that No. 24 should have been taken out of Mets circulation circa 1974. Nobody would have blinked if it had been. Since then, three-plus decades have come and gone and to the naked eye, Willie Mays seems no more significant to Mets history than Willie Montañez. He was just some washed-up player who didn’t know when to quit, reportedly more than a bit of a distraction.

Uh-huh. And New York cheesecake is just another dessert.

I had exactly one opportunity to interact with Willie Mays in my life. It was 1982. I tagged along with my sister to a trade press event promoting the introduction of Tron: The Game. I didn’t understand why both Willie Mays and Hank Aaron were part of the festivities, but there they were, dispensing autographs and just enough bonhomie to earn their fee. It seemed inappropriate, so I didn’t approach them. Tron had nothing to do with baseball. The two greatest players of my youth were picking up a paycheck. I remained distant. John Updike said of Ted Williams that gods do not answer letters. They shouldn’t plug video games either.

This is the part where I tell you that I regret my one chance to say hello, say something, say anything to Willie Mays. But I won’t tell you that. Twenty-four springs later, it still seems inappropriate, both the currency of Willie Mays used to hype arcade/movie tie-ins and the idea that I could say anything that would be worth his listening to, even perfunctorily.

But if I could say anything to him right now, it would be, happy birthday, Mr. Mays. To me, you’ll always be a giant among Mets.