It was a beautiful summer Sunday. My father had promised that we would go to Candlestick and watch the Giants play, my first memory of seeing a live professional game. It was probably 1965, and I was perhaps 6-years old, so my memory of details could easily be mistaken. But I think they were playing the Dodgers that day. Or at least I want to believe that.

To my dismay, we had to go to church first. Church got out at noon, and we left soon after, and I remember being nervous about missing the first inning because the game started at 1 PM. We did arrive late, but the timing of our arrival was like a Hollywood script.

We showed our tickets as we entered and I could hear the crowd noise through the tunnels. It was obvious the game had started. But did we miss the whole first inning? We walked through the tunnel, and I looked up to see the scoreboard. Bottom of the first. Two outs. I did the quick calculation … that meant … yup, there he was, standing at the plate with a bat in his hands. Willie Mays.

I stood still on the steps as my father headed to our seats. I was transfixed by the “Say Hey Kid”. The greatest baseball player ever and already a legend. Nobody played with the skill Mays had. Home runs, average, RBI’s, steals, incredible base running, a cannon of an arm, and the best defensive center fielder ever. The only two who might come close were Joe DiMaggio or Mickey Mantle, but even they called Mays the greatest. I’m sure my mouth was open in awe as I watched him stand there at the plate, casually swinging the bat in anticipation of the pitch. I vaguely remember my Dad urging me to get to our seats. But I remained motionless. Then the windup, the pitch, and that incredible one of a kind swing…BAM, the ball was gone. Willie had done it — a home run. What a great time to show up for the game!

Batting fourth in the lineup, my other great hero strode to the plate. Willie McCovey. I remember being awed at how big he was. How strong he looked. McCovey took a few pitches, and then WHAM….that huge long body of his unfurled like a coiled snake and just smacked the ball. I couldn’t believe how far it had gone. I’d never seen anything hit that far in my life. To this day, my memory measures all other home runs to that one. None of them can match the memory of an impressionable 6-year old. Best of all, the Giants were up 2-0 in the first inning.

What a great time to arrive for a baseball game!

I don’t remember much else about the game. I was buzzing after that first inning for weeks. And I’m sure the memory has grown as time has passed. But one thing was clear; I had become a baseball fan. And Willie Mays was my favorite player.

On the heels of reading about another hero of my childhood, astronaut Buzz Aldrin, I read the latest biography of Willie Mays. Both about the same age, both legends. The Willie Mays biography seemed especially timely given the start of the new baseball season. The book covers little new ground and if you are my age you’ve heard all the stories before. Still, it is great fun for Giants fans, Willie Mays fans, and baseball fans in general.

What comes out of the book is the sensitive childlike side of Willie Mays. He just wanted to play ball, but the demands of his fame often overshadowed that love. He put up with a lot of unjustified criticism and far too many people thought he was dumb, overrated, and not a team player. The sports press would call him over paid — this after a year in which he either led or was second in the league in every batting category. It all had an undertone of racism, something that I was too young to understand. My Dad, never a fountain of progressive thought, set me straight with a clear statement: Willie Mays was a great ballplayer and a wonderful role model, so pay attention to him and appreciate him. I took that advice and made Willie my number one childhood hero.

During his career Mays dealt with a racially charged atmosphere (he entered the league just a few years after Jackie Robinson), a difficult divorce, mystery illnesses, poor financial planners, and the civil rights movement that asked him to be a spokesperson when all he wanted to do was play ball. Willie did not handle change well; he’s one of those people that needs praise, stability, and simplicity. Yet he never got that in his career, and things like the Giants moving to San Francisco really threw him for a loop. All of that is covered in the book.

Also in the book are stories and stats that bring out what a phenom Mays really was. Nobody had all the tools that Willie had. He won batting titles, home run titles, stolen base titles, Gold Glove titles…and he had that unmeasurable skill of baseball genius. But even beyond all that, he played with joy and passion his entire career. That’s what made him really stand out. Most players end up being paid mercenaries who just want a paycheck, but Mays always played like a little kid who couldn’t believe somebody was paying him to catch, throw and hit a baseball. It was sheer joy to watch him play because you could see his sheer joy in playing. That intangible is what made him the greatest ever.

If for no other reason than the childhood memories it revived, I really enjoyed this book. If you are too young to have seen Willie play, then read the book and find out what you missed. And if you remember watching the great Willie Mays play, you’ll love the memories. It’s a book every baseball fan will enjoy. Even if you are a Dodger fan.