Say Hey, So Long

It was the last contest of the 1954 World Series, and the New York Giants had a deciding 3-0 edge in games over the Cleveland Indians. Cleveland had two outs and a man on third when the batter drove a long fly ball to deep center field. Willie Mays made one of his patented "basket" catches. Thinking there was only one out, he then wound up and fired a perfect strike to Catcher Wes Westrum at home plate in hopes of catching the runner trying for home (who was already dejectedly trotting toward the dugout). A Cleveland sportswriter turned to the boys in the press box and said: "Well, we've finally found Mays' weakness. He can't count!"

True. There were no weaknesses in Willie Mays' career except a refusal to count the years. But last week he had to add up 42 of them, complete with fluid-swollen knees that had to be drained almost daily, an agonizing shoulder that would not let him throw, aching ribs that barely permitted him to breathe. "Maybe I'll cry tomorrow," Mays said, but he finally decided to hang it up after 22 resplendent years in baseball.

Mays was the last of the superstars who could do everything with consummate grace and skill. It was only fitting that he wind up his career with the Mets in New York, where two generations of ghetto kids have practiced basket catches and echoed his favorite cry, "Say hey!" through the streets of Harlem.

Willie Mays, season after luminous season, made myths come alive and heroes, American-style, believable.

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