My Long Overdue Apology to Willie Mays
© Jeffrey Robinson 2024
Gary Cohen, the play-by-play announcer for the New York Mets was in the booth on Tuesday night June 18, along with his sidekick, Met’s legend Keith Hernandez when, in the middle of the fourth inning Gary announced, slowly and somberly, “We just got some horrible news. It’s just been confirmed, the passing of the great Willy Mays.”
Arguably the greatest ball player who ever graced the field of dreams, was dead at the age of 93.
For the rest of the game, Gary and Keith spoke about Willie. Both of them were kids who’d grown up watching him. Me too. As adults, both of them had known him well. Gary was mournful. Keith teared up. I kind of did too.
In my youth there were three teams playing in New York. The Yankees were up in the Bronx. They were in the American League and only showed up in Manhattan or Brooklyn for the World Series. The Giants were just across the Harlem River from Yankee Stadium at the Polo Grounds. The Dodgers were at Ebbets Field in Flatbush. They were both in the National League and, for a time, they were the greatest rivalry in American Sports. Certainly they were the oldest, stretching 133 years. They met for 22 games each season and, when they did, they lit up New York.
Mickey Mantle roamed center field for the Yankees, taking up where Joe DiMaggio had left off. My hero, Duke Snider, held court in center at Ebbets Field. But Willie was the best of them all, making every visit to the Polo Grounds magic.
He electrified baseball.
And now he is gone.
So are Duke and Mickey. So are the New York Giants. They live in San Francisco. So are the Brooklyn Dodgers. They live in Los Angeles. And sure, we have the Mets, often just as hapless as the my old Dodgers could be. But it’s not really the same.
Not without Mickey and Duke and Willie.
I listened to Gary and Keith, then went on to listen to all the others who spoke with such reverence about Willie, and as I fell asleep my sadness was tinged with a small regret.
I’d never told Willie, “I’m sorry.”
It was 1966 and I was a young writer spending my last university summer working on The Mike Douglas Show. I’d been at KYW-TV3 in Philadelphia for a year, where I was kind of the station writer, given the unofficial title by my dear friend in heaven, a television legend, named Jack Reilly. He’d hired me out of sympathy to write promos for our television shows, and for our radio station, and to work on documentaries and sometimes, to cover a news story. I spent that winter writing a Saturday morning kids’ puppet show and came back for the summer to be the writer on the Mike Douglas Show.
Actually, there was no official job title called writer. I was just there, doing whatever anyone asked me to do to help make a 90 minute midday talk show starring an unoffensive 1940s band singer who was very popular with housewives and grandmothers.
We produced Mike’s show every day from the basement of KYW on Walnut Street in Center City. It was then syndicated across the country. Jack put me in there, where I spent my time writing interviews, writing a joke or two, occasionally warming up the audience, helping Mike do skits on the street, and sometimes writing the secret phrase for Charades. When we couldn’t think of what to do for one segment, Mike and his guests played charades. Every now and then I’d also chase down guests.
That’s what happened one morning when someone said, the Giants are in town, can we get Willie Mays on the show? Being the single unbusiest guy on the staff, I was told, “Try to get Willie.”
I asked, “How?”
My instructions were, “The team is staying at the Warwick”... which was only a block away, off Rittenhouse Square... “so walk over there and see if you can find him. If you can, bring him back to the show.”
Okay. I only had to spend a few seconds thinking about it before I decided I knew exactly how to approach this.
Step One: I left the building and walked to the Warwick.
Step Two: Now I was out of ideas.
My gut instinct was that if I asked for Willie’s room, I’d be told they never gave out room numbers to stalkers and they would promptly escort me out of the hotel.
Instead, I dared, “Willie Mays is expecting me.”
The man at the front desk probably saw through my bravado, but the Warwick is a classy place and he didn’t dare throw me out on my ass just in case Willie was indeed expecting me.
He replied, “You’ve got to discuss that with the manager.”
I thought he was referring to the hotel manager, except that he directed me to Herman Franks’ suite. He was the Giants manager.
I knocked on his door.
Probably thinking it was the maid, he shouted, “Come on in.”
I found him in the livingroom reading the papers.
“Excuse me for bothering you.” I told him my name. “I’m from the Mike Douglas Show.” Everyone in the country knew the show so I didn’t need any further credentials than that. “Our studio is right down the block and we would love to have Willie Mays on the show.”
He shrugged, “So what are you asking me for?”
I tried, “Your permission?”
He waved me off. “Willie’s a grown man. Go ask him.” He gave me the number of Willie’s room, pointed to the door, I thanked him and left.
Taking the elevator to Willie’s floor, I found the room, hesitated, then knocked.
Nothing happened.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I couldn’t think of anything else to do except knock again. And then knock a fourth time.
That’s when I heard someone grumbling from inside the room.
I tried, “Mr. Mays?
A voice boomed, “What the ****? Who the **** is it?”
“Ah.. well..."I said to the door. "I’m from the Mike Douglas Show and we would love...”
That’s when the door was flung open and Willie Mays, in his underpants, was standing right there.
"Who the **** are you?”
I never got a chance to explain.
“What the **** are you doing? You woke me the **** up. Get the **** away from my room. Leave me the **** alone.”
With that, the door slammed shut.
Many years later he wrote an autobiography. It’s a wonderful book. Even though, for whatever editorial reason, he decided to leave out the story of me waking him up one summer morning in Philadelphia.
Nevertheless, his is a great American story. It’s the story of a poor black kid from Westfield Alabama, growing up in the extreme racial hatred of the south to overcome all the hurdles that black athletes in the 1940s and 1950s and 1960s had to overcome.
It’s the story of a great American gentleman – except for those ****s when someone woke him up – who earned his place as a proper hero to three generations.
It's the story of a legend who long ago took his deserved place on the mountain face with those few others. There’s the Babe. There’s Jackie. There’s Hank. And there’s the “Say Hey Kid,” Willie Mays.
I really wish I’d apologized. I really wish I'd had the chance to say, “I’m sorry I woke you."
That’s what I thought as I was falling asleep on Tuesday night, thinking about him.
Too late now for that.
But perhaps not too late now to say this:
Thank you Willie Mays. Thanks for being you. Thank you for everything.
*****
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