Willie Mays, The Man

They say the character of a man is displayed in what he does when no one else is watching. In an earlier post, I referred to a new, authorized biography of Mays entitled "Willie Mays: The Life, The Legend" by James S. Hirsch. As might be expected, the reader learns not only of Mays' on-field exploits, but also details of his private life. And one of the most endearing aspects of his life was (is) his genuine love for children.

In Chapter 25, the author tells of three heartwarming episodes that would likely not ever be repeated by any of today's athletes.

One morning in June 1961, two ten-year-old boys stood outside Willie Mays' home on Spruce Street in San Francisco, hoping he would give them his autograph. When Mays stepped outside, he gladly acceded to their wish, and then one of them--a boy named Billy Knox--got a wild idea.

"Hey, Willie", he said, "We got tickets to today's game and we were going to take the bus, but how about a ride to the game?" Mays told them to hop in.

As soon as they pulled out, the boys realized they had forgotten their tickets. "Where do you live?" Mays asked. Five blocks away, said Knox's friend, and Mays drove them there to get the tickets. Then Billy exclaimed "Willie! My mother made us bag lunches for the game. She'll kill me if we don't pick up our stuff, and she would worry where we were." Mays then drove across town to Billy's house.

"To this day", Knox recalls some forty years later, "I can still see my mom standing at our dining room picture window with her hands on her hips, mouth ajar, awestruck as the green Cadillac pulled out of our driveway and sped off."

In 1963, a writer for the Pittsburgh Press named Les Biederman asked Mays if he would speak to a group of youngsters at the Western Pennsylvania School for the Blind. Mays readily accepted. During the Giants' next trip to Pittsburgh, Biederman drove Mays to the school, and when he entered the auditorium whispers rippled through the crowd of about 200 students. "That's him", one boy said. "He really came."

Mays was introduced, and became--in Biederman's words--'the eyes of these sightless youngsters". Mays stood for over an hour and answered the kids' countless questions. After the talk, he waded into the crowd and touched the hands and arms of the students, who reached up to touch his face. "I gave them only my time and a little bit of baseball", he later said. "And they gave me their hearts".

In 1965, Richard Martin was a 24-year-old director of the St. James Center in Pittsburgh, an afterschool program for disadvantaged children. The center planned an awards ceremony for a Saturday in June and Martin, wanting a sports celebrity to present the awards, checked the schedule and saw that the Giants were going to be in town to play the hometown Pirates. He called Bill Nunn, the editor of the Pittsburgh Courier, who said he would contact Mays. The day before the Giants were coming into town, Nunn called and asked how many kids would be in attendance. "About two hundred", Martin replied. "Then he'll be there", said Nunn. "He just wanted to make sure it was really an event for the kids".

That Saturday, Martin drove to the hotel where the Giants were staying and called up to Mays' room. "Mr. Mays, this is Dick Martin...I believe Mr. Nunn spoke to you about our program tonight?"

"Yeah, man. I'll be right down", Mays replied. Ten minutes later, Mays introduced himself, wearing a sharkskin suit, and Martin drove him to an obscure youth center in an impoverished part of town. He sneaked Mays into the building through a fire escape and then instructed the astonished 14-year-old master of ceremonies--who nearly fainted--on how to introduce the guest of honor. "And now, to present the Most Valuable Junior and Senior Softball Awards, possibly the greatest player of all time...Willie Mays!"

The curtain opened, and Willie walked out. The audience at first sat in stunned silence. But when they realized it really was him, they shouted, whistled, cheered, and clapped for several minutes. Mays stepped to the microphone and said "Some people may think winning a softball award in a small neighborhood is no big thing. But I'm telling you that when you win the most valuable award in anything, you're doing something!" After presenting the awards--and knowing that Mays had another game the next day--Martin whisked him out and drove him back to the hotel.

Martin, who later became a teacher and school principal in Arlington, Virginia, recalled "I must have thanked him a dozen times for his exceptional generosity. One of the greatest athletes of all time did this for no money, no publicity, no conditions whatsoever. He did it just because he loved kids, plain and simple. What a selfless gesture, what an amazing human being."

In little more than three weeks--on May 6--Mays will turn 79. He was my boyhood hero. And he still is.