We've reached a frightening new stage in the best-of-the-century madness. Someone has to stick up for Willie Mays.
The last we checked, he was running fourth in the voting for Major League Baseball's All-Century team. Never mind that there were some pretty fancy names ahead of him; Mays doesn't run fourth to anybody. And in Sports Illustrated's list of the 20 "favorite" athletes -- the ones who were truly exciting, made a difference in how we felt about sports -- Mays wasn't listed at all.
There is no room here for the full defense of Mays' case; if you're a Giants fan, you've already read the book. But in our recent research on the 1961 All-Star Game at Candlestick, Mays' name kept coming up. Not as a great or influential player, but as a virtual deity among men.
Nobody could get over how Mays carved out his Cooperstown career in San Francisco -- mostly at the old, pre-renovation Candlestick, where the place was about as protected from the elements as a Nebraska cornfield. So many times, watching on television as a young Dodger fan in Southern California, I remember Mays launching one deep into left field, an absolute no-doubter, only to have it hauled down by Wally Moon, Tommy Davis or Lou Johnson at the warning track.
Remember, there's only one man in the 600- homer club. Mays resides alone there with 660. He is not a boastful man (if he were, he would have gone permanently hoarse by the late '50s), but I asked him how many home runs he lost in the Candlestick wind.
"I guess about nine or ten," he said. "Maybe 12."
Total? That's it?
"No, I think I lost that many per season," he said.
The only two men ahead of him, Henry Aaron and Babe Ruth, played in ballparks ridiculously well-suited to their power (imagine Mays at County Stadium, where he once homered four times in a game; mind-boggling). Put Mays anywhere else -- and give him the 1952 and '53 seasons, most of which he lost to military service -- and he's the all-time leader. Let's just say 788, for the hell of it.
So there's half of the argument. What really confounded observers and fellow players in the '60s was Mays' defensive command of the Candlestick horrors. For broadcaster Lon Simmons, the memories are as fresh as this morning's coffee.
"Very few outfielders, now or then, play fly balls the correct way," said Simmons, "and that is going to the place where the ball is going to land, rather than drifting with it. Mays played shallow, figuring more balls would be hit in front of him at Candlestick than behind him. And except for the cases where he had to run all-out, he went to the spot where the ball was going to be. That way, if he wind altered the flight of the ball, he could change his path. And he'd be in better position to make a strong throw than the guys who drift along with the ball.
"Another thing is the way he caught the ball. Everybody says the basket catch was "showboat" or whatever, but it's the only way you can see the ball all the way into your glove; put the glove up over the head and you're covering your eyes.
"As much natural ability as he had, Mays put so much thought into it," Simmons went on "Before the game he'd talk to the pitchers about how they'd approach certain hitters -- especially (Juan) Marichal, who could throw it anywhere he wanted to -- and gain an extra 3-4 steps by 'cheating' a little as the ball was thrown. And maybe the biggest thing was his style in general. He wasn't concerned what would happen if something went wrong. He was trying to make something happen to make it go right. You just don't see that. People play, manage and coach so they won't look bad in losing. Willie was always trying to do something that might help you win."