Willie Mays is 80

I’m not really sure if I know how to explain this, but I’ll try.

I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks, and I don’t mind telling you that I will be 54.   I don’t mind turning 54; in fact, I think I can honestly say that I have yet to have a birthday that really made me feel “old.”  No month-long depression when I turned 30 or 40, or even 50.  It was just another number.  Most days I certainly don’t feel old.  As the great Satchel Paige once said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?”  Some days that would be 12, and there are some days that would be 75.

What I am saying is, I have yet to have a birthday that made me feel “old”, or “older.”

But last Friday somebody had a birthday that did make me feel “old,” and I guess that surprised me a little bit.

When you start arguing about who is the greatest player to ever play baseball, an argument is going to ensue, just as it would if you were arguing who is the greatest football player ever or basketball player ever.  You get the idea.

When you talk about the “greatest baseball player,” are you talking about all-‘round ability, or most home runs, or someone who had the most hits?  You have to define the criteria which you are using to make the statement, “the best player ever”, or in my case, “the best player I ever saw in person.”
Stan Musial retired following the 1963 season.   I went to my first Cardinal game in 1964, so I never saw Musial play, except in a couple of old-timer’s games.  So he is not the best I ever saw.

No, this past Friday, while guessing birthdays that Lloyd Lewallen was firing at me on KPOC-FM, he said “Willie Mays.”  I knew Mays came up in 1951, and was Rookie of the Year, made the famous catch at the Polo Grounds in the ’54 World Series against the Indians, was MVP in ’65, and was traded to the Mets in the early ‘70’s to close out his career.  He was, the greatest player I ever saw in person.

But how old was he?  As I quickly tried to do some math, I finally blurted out, “78.”

“No,” Lloyd said slowly, “he is 80.”

Eighty, eight-zero.  Twenty shy of 100.  There is absolutely no way Willie Mays could be 80 years old.  I mean, I saw him play….several times, with both the Giants and Mets.  But 80?  Surely there was a mistake.  I am not old enough for Willie Mays to be 80.

But he is, and I am.

I was stunned.  The rest of the day I kept thinking, Willie Mays is 80!  How can that be?

Well, Willie ended his career at the age of 42 in 1973.  Like it or not, that was 38 years ago, which means, in four years, I will have been out of high school for 40 years.

I remember Mays playing centerfield for some very good Giant teams in the 1960’s.  They had Mays, Orlando Cepada (before he was traded to the Cardinals), Willie McCovey, Jim Ray Hart, the Alou brothers, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bolin.  The Giants were a very, very good ball club.

In my childhood memories, Mays glided around centerfield, patrolling centerfield unlike anyone else.  On nearly every fly ball he made his trademark “basket” catch, holding the glove right in front of his belt buckle, and letting the ball fall into his glove.  He never dropped one that I remember.

Small by today’s standards, Mays was only 5-10, and weighed 170 pounds.  But he crushed 660 home runs, which was second on the all-time list when he retired, behind Babe Ruth.  He laced 3,283 hits and drove in over 1,900 runs.

I can close my eyes and still see him playing centerfield, or watch him struggle hitting against Bob Gibson.

There is absolutely no way Willie Mays can be 80 years old, because if he is, that makes me….middle age?

(The above originally appeared in "Bits and Pieces" in the May 12, 2011 edition of the Pocahontas Star Herald)

Smoke From A Distant Grill

To be honest I am having a hard time concentrating. 

I am sitting at my desk at the Star Herald, the window behind me is open, allowing a strong southerly breeze to overtake me.  The problem is about 300 yards to my south, on the front steps of the Randolph County Courthouse, county employees are grilling hamburgers, hundreds of hamburgers to sell to folks to raise money for flood victims.

As I sit here working on next week's column, the unmistakeable, undeniable, delicious aroma of raw meat cooking over a charcoal fire has literally filled the office, being assisted by the southerly winds.

We are all smiling an having trouble concentrating on our tasks.  I'm looking at the clock and they will be grilling for at least two more hours.  I'm thinking I might as well sit back, close my eyes, and let my mind take me away, imagining I am once again seven years old, and standing guard over the grill with my Grandpa Dalton, on a hot, sunny, Sunday afternoon, soaking in the knowledge he imparts on me of how to properly grill, how to make your own BBW sauce, all the while listening to Jack Buck and Harry Caray broadcast Cardinal baseball on KMOX.

The aroma that still fills my nostrils is intoxicating.  It brings back pleasant memories and I don't want it to end.