Three things stand out in my mind about the late Willie Mays, who died recently. One of them demonstrate, in an odd way, just how good he was and could be.
Warren Spahn was unquestionably one of the all-time great pitchers, and it was my luck that he played in Milwaukee, not far from where I lived. It was additionally my luck that our next door neighbor, Ed Schumacher, was an admirer of his (being left-handed helped), and would occasionally pile the Schumacher and Cebulski boys into his station wagon to County Stadium to watch Spahn pitch.
One of those nights was called Spahnie Night, concocted to honor Spahn upon his winning of 300 games earlier in that 1961 season, which practically later guaranteed his entrance into the Hall of Fame. It wasn't timed that way, but Spahn was the starting pitcher that night against the San Francisco Giants.
Maybe it was the hype surrounding it that threw Spahn off, and maybe, as pitchers do, he simply had a bad night. But the Giants tore him to shreds, and that included his old nemesis Willie Mays.
Mays' first major league hit was one of his 660 home runs, back in 1951, against none other than Warren Spahn. He followed that with a deep slump which drove him, apparently if legend has it, into some despair. But his manager then, Leo Durocher, comforted Mays with his belief that Mays was the best center fielder he had ever seen, and that his presence in the Giants' lineup was still secure. That reportedly jolted the young fellow out of his slump, and the rest, as we know, is history.
But part of that history was messing up Spahn's night, big-time. Mays crushed a grand slam home run that night, and I was there to see it. I remember thinking that, if anyone was allowed to do that, it had to be Mays, who was well-established as one of the greats of the game ten years into his career.
Earlier that same season, back in April, Mays became one of the few players ever to hit four home runs in one game--and he did it in County Stadium against the Braves. The first two were off Lew Burdette, also one of the National League's best pitchers at the time. As they say in sports, Mays wore the Braves out.
Spahn had one great year left in him in 1963, when he won 23 games at the age of 42. He struck out few people, relative to those with blazing fastballs back then, but had a nasty, tantalizing screwball that baffled hitters and often made them ground out. Spahn and the Giants' Juan Marichal squared off on July 2 of that year for what has been called the greatest game ever pitched (starting pitchers are now almost always relieved by the 7th or 8th innings, so the following scenario will probably never be repeated). Both the Giants and the Braves had plenty of power hitters, but the pitchers' duel went scoreless into the 16th inning--when, wouldn't you know it, Spahn hung one of those screwballs to Mays and Mays launched it over the fence for a 1-0 win.
But even that wasn't the most remarkable thing about Willie Mays in my experience. Does anybody remember Strat-O-Matic Baseball? It was a combination of dice, cards, and someone's calculations about what hitters would do in certain situations. The ultimate in respect was given to Mays.
Why? Because room was given to great players to have hot streaks. When Willie Mays was hot, he was ridiculously unstoppable. In fact, the game allowed a Strato player opposing the Giants to let Mays, if he was on one of those hot streaks, walk with the bases loaded, because there was a good chance you might allow fewer runs than if you let him hit. In real life, the only other player who was afforded that kind of respect was Barry Bonds, Mays' godson, after it was clear he had juiced himself up on steroids.
Willie Mays never needed that kind of artificial assistance. Besides those homers, he had over 3,000 hits. He made 24 All-Star teams, several at the end of his career just because people wanted to watch him play. He made amazing plays in center field, including The Catch during the 1954 World Series, when he ran down a sure triple by Vic Wertz of the Cleveland Indians while running with his back facing the plate, then getting the ball back into the infield in time to keep a runner who had tagged at second base from coming all the way home.
I saw him in Milwaukee three times. He's still the greatest player I've ever seen, and I saw Hank Aaron play far more often. Hank was my favorite player, great wrists and all, but Willie Mays was the best. He made the amazing seem routine. Like Aaron, he was not a large man, which made the power in his bat all that more remarkable.
Whenever anyone mentions Willie Mays, I think about those three things. Oh, yes, there's one more: A book called Willie's Time, written by Charles Einstein, who covered the Giants for the San Francisco Examiner and then the Chronicle in Mays' heyday, 1958-70. If it was to be seen, it was seen by him--and he blended the civil rights' revolution (or, I might say, the attempted revolution, because it really hasn't worked very well yet) into that time as well. Probably because of the notoriety of Mays' passing, it's pretty expensive right now, but give it a couple of weeks and it'll be back down. But it's well worth your while.
Another great one has passed. Plenty of us who followed baseball back then, and now, will miss knowing he's still around. He might just be the greatest five-tool player (run, hit, throw, field, hit for power) ever. His like might never be equalled. Maybe the young Ohtani, now with the Dodgers? Okay, possible. But it'll take a whole career to match Mays' numbers, and I seriously doubt I'll live that long. Besides, I'll have to see Ohtani have a season like Mays did in 1957, when he had at least 20 doubles (26), homers (35), stolen bases (38) and triples (20)--which few people around here noticed because that was the only season a Milwaukee baseball team went all the way and won the World Series. Let's see him match that, in eight fewer games, to boot.
Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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