DAVIS: Willie Mays, last day at Polo Grounds, and my dad

ANALYSIS/OPINION

Last week’s column described life with my 10-year-old son, Josh. I received a better response to that column than to anything I have ever written before. As one Very Important Person said to me, “You need to write more personal columns that people identify with than just writing about politics.”

I tried not to take this as indicating that few people care about my political opinions. (My 10-year-old son tells me he cares; my wife tells me she doesn’t.)

So in this column, I am writing a sequel to last week’s column, which ended with my accolade to my hero, Willie Mays, who, from all the e-mails I received about last week’s column, clearly was a hero for many people, both men and women.

On Sept. 29, 1957, my dad took me to see Willie Mays play his last game in New York for the New York Giants. The next season, the Giants were moving to San Francisco.

We expected all 54,555 seats in the old Polo Grounds on Coogan’s Bluff in the Bronx, just across the ravine from Yankee Stadium, to be filled. Instead, the stands seemed virtually empty. It seemed that Giants fans were angry about the move to San Francisco, and also, the Giants were mired in sixth place. (We later learned the attendance was only about 11,000 fans.)

But there was an advantage to the poor turnout. My dad was able to take me to the empty seats right behind the Giants’ dugout, near the rail to the field. None of the ushers seemed to mind. So close to Willie!

In the first inning, when No. 24 came up to bat (batting third), my dad urged me to yell, “Say hey, Willie,” and I did. He turned, looked and smiled at me! I swear he did.

Then he proceeded to get a single. But the game didn’t go well for the Giants. They were down 9-1 going into the bottom of the ninth, when Willie came up with one out. Thank goodness, I thought, he won’t be the last out in the last inning.

Oh, please, please, I prayed to the God of Baseball, let Willie hit a home run in his last at-bat at the Polo Grounds. But that was not to be. Willie hit a one hopper to the pitcher, and he was quickly was thrown out. Yet he hustled all the way to first base and beyond. Oh my, oh my, I thought: My hero hustled to the very end.

Two outs. And then came the last batter, grounding out add to shortstop, and it was over. As fast as that.

All of a sudden, I saw No. 24 literally leap up the steps of the Giants dugout, right in front of me, so close I could almost touch him, and there he was tearing full speed toward center field to the safety of the clubhouse and the team locker room.

As soon as I saw Willie lead the way out of the dugout, I had only one thought: I HAVE TO SHAKE WILLIE’S HAND AND THANK HIM AND SAY GOODBYE. I HAVE TO! Without the slightest hesitation, I jumped over the rail and ran after him.

I ran as hard as I could. A few other people apparently had the same idea like virtually all 11,000 fans who also were also lining the railings for the last out. A few people (seemed like a few thousand) stopped, as I did, to get souvenirs from the field. I grabbed a handful of Polo Grounds infield dirt the same dirt, I thought, that Willie might have stepped on! I put it in my pocket. I kept that dirt in a paper cup in my desk drawer for years.

Other fans grabbed the infield bases. Others were tearing down the outfield walls. It was a mob, and it was a mess.

Story Continues →