Rant #3,375: Say Hey

Yesterday, Juneteenth, was a national and federal holiday, so banks and post offices were closed, but my son's workplace was open, so I was busy transporting him back and forth to work.

It is warm out, very warm, but at least right now, it could be worse ... much worse.

In my neck of the woods, it got up to 86 yesterday, but we are supposed to hit into the 90s for the next few days.

And happy summer ... today is the first day of the season, isn't it?

The summer for my family will be a bit different this year.

Without a house, we don't have our pool anymore, so my wife and I decided that we would join a town pool ...

But we couldn't do it yesterday, because it was Juneteenth, and such offices were closed for the holiday.

We are going to try and do it today before I go to physical therapy.

And that leads me to the gist of this Rant, because when you talk about summer, you invariably talk about baseball, and that leads me to one of the greatest "boys of summer" of them all, Willie Mays.

Mays passed away at age 92 on Tuesday.

Not to knock.players like Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron, but some believe Mays was the greatest baseball.player of them all.

He certainly could do.it all, that's for sure.

Mays was a great hitter, a great fielder, and if not the best bsseball player ever, he was certainly in the top 10, or perhaps in the top five.

Everyone of a certain age has a Willie Mays story, and beyond all the statistics and the basket catches and everything else he did which you can readily read about all.over the Internet, I have my own story of Mays, one that has stayed with me for the past 50-plus years.

I am a long-time New York Yankees fan, as you very well know if you are a regular reader here, and I don't root for any other baseball team--

Except one time.

Most of Mays' exploits were done with the New York/San Francisco Giants, but he spent his last two seasons with the New York Mets.

He was not the same player when he got to the Mets, but he still had the same fire he had when he was a younger player, and help the Mets get to the World Series in 1973.

Anyway, I went with some friends to old Shea Stadium to see a doubleheader during that 1973 season.

I don't remember who the Mets played, but my friends and I were there for the entire two games. 

We sat in the upper deck, which was the only level of tickets we could afford, as we were all 16 years old or so.

Anyway, during about the fifth inning of the first game of the doubleheader, an older man came to the previously vacant seats and sat right in front of us with a young man, who i presumed was his son.

His son did not look right, not that he was sick, but to me, he looked shaken.

The young man, who must have been in his 30s, was sickly, and you could visibly see the young man was not right.

He was very restless, and I kind of knew something was not right when he kept on saying, or screaming, "Willie Mays!" Over and over and over again.

I could see that the young man was mentally disabled. The more he said, or screamed, "Willie Mays," the more I could see his condition, and I really felt sorry for his father, who kept on telling his son to tone it down a bit and hugged his son many times to comfort him.

It was late in the game, and if I remember correctly, the score was tied.

For several innings, the young man kept on screaming "Willie Mays" no.matter who came up to.the plate, but when Mays actually came up in what I think was the bottom of the ninth with the score tied, I really felt for the father and his son, and when Mays singled, the son was just so excited.

I really felt for the father, and i decided right then and there that for the first time--and probably only time--in my life, I was rooting for the Mets to win.

I believe there was an out or two in between, but Mays was on third base, the potential winning run.

As the young man in front of me kept on screaming "Willie Mays!" over and over and over again--and with his father trying to calm him down--the Mets batter--I don't remember who it was--got a base hit and with the throw coming from the left fielder, it was going to be a close play at the plate.

The ball and Mays came to home plate at just about the same time, Mays made his signature slide, and the catcher's outstretched glove just couldn't get to him with a tag.

The Mets won the game, but more importantly, the son and the father were jumping up and down hugging each other, with the son now screeching "Wille Mays!" over and over and over again.

I just felt so good for the father, as he could have a real father and son moment together in what must have been a normally difficult situation.

The father and son did not stay for the second game, leaving as the son continued to yell "Willie Mays!" over and over again.

That was who Willie Mays was to me.

Even in his 40s, he could change the complexion of a game with one move, and even though he didn't know it, he gave a father and son a memory that I guarantee they never forgot.

And I never forgot it either.

R.I.P. Willie.

You were the best.