Say Hey!

The iconic sportswriter and Pulitzer Prize winner Red Smith once published an accumulation of his best stories from the Brooklyn Herald, the New York Herald Tribune, its successor the World Journal Tribune and the New York Times. It was called “Strawberries in the Wintertime” and the original article introduced the New York City baseball scene to one Willie Howard Mays. The gist of the piece was when the publicist of the then New York Giants was asked how good their new centerfielder was, he replied: “he will have us all eating strawberries in the wintertime.”

In the days when people actually read newspapers for news, and the printed word meant something, that statement said it all and more. The statistics and “the Catch” speak for themselves, but, in those days, baseball in America and, specifically, in New York City, reigned supreme. Willie, Mickey or the Duke? was an everyday discussion point when the city had not only the best teams but the three best centerfielders in the game.

As a white kid growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey, I gravitated to Mickey Mantle with his blond Adonis looks, especially since when I came of age, the Giants and Dodgers had already decamped for the apparently limitless promise that was California. But I grudgingly admired Mays, and in the days when games were not ubiquitous on an alphabet soup of TV channels, I usually saw him only in All Star games (which were two a year in those days) in which Mays time after time beat the ALers with his bat, on the bases and with his glove. His competitive drive meant more then when players tried their utmost to win these games before they become the love-fest exhibitions that they are today.

I did get to see Mays twice in person, once on a church trip to his old stomping grounds the Polo Grounds to face the fledging New York Mets in 1962. He didn’t disappoint, smacking a home run to Willie McCovey’s two and the Giants won 9–3. The second was at the old and decrepit Connie Mack Stadium in Philly on a Boy Scout trip. I remember being astounded that a Mays batting practice home run ball was sold by a local kid to a member of our group for the grand price of a buck.

One thing that I do regret in my singular passion for the Yankees is that I didn’t get to see enough of the National League, which I now know was the more socially progressive league, and following Jackie Robinson, had the superior players including African-American and Latin players such as Mays, Roberto Clemente, Henry Aaron, Bob Gibson, Orlando Cepeda and McCovey.

The fifties and sixties may have been the last golden era for baseball. It certainly was for the game in New York City. From 1947 through 1958, at least one New York team was in every World Series. Mays made one last unfortunate appearance in 1973 as a member of the Mets. But even though he was old and past his prime, his mere presence still evoked Greatness.

Willie, Mickey or the Duke? I think history will show that Mays was the best of them, and maybe the best player ever. But let the debate continue forever. For that is how long the game should endure.