June 19, 2024

By Bob Elliott

Canadian Baseball Network

The other day on an Okotoks Dawgs bus barreling through the Alberta night, someone asked what is your “best baseball story ever?”

I had no idea I would be writing it Tuesday night.

Not a story for the paper or the Canadian Baseball Network, but a true story to tell. I had forgotten that I’d never ever written it before. Have told it plenty of times, but I’d never written it. Apparently. Neither myself not our crack research staff could find it.

So here goes ... as we mourn the passing of Hall of Famer Willie Mays, gone at age 93.

It’s all about Willie and Me in Cooperstown one afteroon in 1999.

That year it was the Toronto’s turn to serve as head of the Baseball Writers Association of America. Some people thought it was a big deal, but in actuality it rotated through the 25 chapters (one each in Chicago and New York, plus Anaheim-Los Angeles and Baltimore-Washington) and in 1999, I was in charge (loosely) of our local chapter..

However, it was a humongous deal that July. The class of 1999 included the late umpire Nestor Chylak, Orlando Cepeda, a choice of the veteran’s committee, plus writers’ choices Nolan Ryan, Robin Yount and George Brett.

Those five inductees drew a then estimated record crowd of 50,000. It was my job to mumble/speak for two or three minutes and then present the writer’s award to to San Francisco’s Bob Stevens.

(The current attendance record stands at an estimated 82,000 came to see Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn in 2007. The next largest crowds were 55,000 in 2019 and 53,000 in 2018.)

Since I was to sit on the stage at the Clark Centre I was backstage and I recall a few things before we get to Willie ...

Linda Lavin due to sing the national anthem that day was in the room with the 500-home run hitters, the 300-game winners and the executives. Her son was going around asking Hall of Famers for autographs. He was told him that was a “no-no.”

Paul Beeston, then president of the Blue Jays and a member of the Hall of Fame board, saw me and kindly attempted to sooth my nerves by saying/screaming “YOU HAD BETTER NOT MESS THIS UP. IT’S ON ESPN. IT’S ON TSN. IF YOU FOUL THIS UP, THEY WON’T LET YOU BACK INTO CANADA. YOU’LL BE A DISGRACE TO THE COUNTRY WE BOTH LOVE.”

Enough of that ... I went for a walk and sat on one of those huge TV trunks ... when along came ESPN’s Tim Kurkjian, a dear friend. Timmy cheerily asked “Bobby ... what’s wrong! You look green ... like you’re going to throw up.”

Enough of that ... So I decided it was best to go for a walk ... and I walked into my best baseball story ever.

“Hey, come here for a minute,” the voice said.

I looked to my left. I looked to my right. I wasn’t sure who he wanted to talk to ...

“You mean me sir?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Willie Mays standing all alone. Ted Williams was my father’s favorite in the American League. Mays was his guy in the National League.

“You and I are going to talk baseball ... tell me a story,” Mays asked in polite fashion.

“Ah, er, um, ahhhh ... a story huh,” I mumbled.

“A baseball story,” Mays said.

“I got one ...” as the light bulb finally went off.

So, the final day I was in Dunedin (March 8 ... I looked it up) Yankee Hall of Famer Joe DiMaggio passed away at age 84. On the way to the Tampa airport, I stopped at then Legends Field as people were placing flowers on DiMaggio’s No. 5 ... even found a Yankee fan from Toronto.

“That’s the story?”

I explained I was just starting ... so then the third week of April the Blue Jays were at Yankee Stadium and a ceremony was held to honour DiMaggio’s past. The next day the New York Post, the Daily News and Newsday all had stories explaining who was NOW the greatest living ball player.

“Who did they say was the best?” asked Mays.

Well, let me get to the next part of the story. I am in Montreal to see the Expos in June and I was talking to manager Felipe Alou.

Starting in 1958, Alou played six years in right field alongside centre fielder Mays with the Giants. After the 1963 season, Alou was dealt to the Milwaukee Braves and spent six seasons in centre while Aaron played right field.

So no one is more qualified -- or wiser -- than Alou to make the call on who was now the greatest living player.

“Who did he pick? Who did he pick?” Mays asked.

At the time Mays was 68. He was slouching a little. From stealing 339 bases or crashing into the fence at Candlestick Park? Or simply from growing tired of my story ... I was unsure.

I answered, “He picked you sir.”

Suddenly he stood ramrod straight -- like a drill sergeant or Jean Beliveau or John McHale.

I told Mays how Alou said he the two had played together in winter ball, in Japan and in the major leagues. Alou had never seen anyone as intense who had as much talent. How Alou said guys would try to score the winning run and Mays would throw their butt out at the plate, how he hit 660 homers and won a batting title.

Alou said he was Mays’ teammate when it 420 feet to straightaway centre, 390 to the power alleys and there weren’t outfield bleachers. I told him Alou said, “Willie Mays the one player I tell my children that I played next to, a slugger with speed, ran headlong into fences and never, ever got hurt.”

“Good story man ... I liked it, I always liked Felipe,” Mays in his high-pitched voice with a smile.

Could I ask a question, sir?

“Sure,” he said.

“Why did you call me over?” I asked.

Mays gave a careful gaze around the room as it was time for people to line up for the parade of Hall of Famers and added “look to your left, then look to your right when you leave.”

Looking to my left was New York Gov. George Pataki.

To my right was Texas Gov. George Bush.

Ah, the ink-strained wretch was a better choice than either governor.

And that’s my best baseball story ever ... Willie Mays, the greatest player I ever saw, and I shooting the breeze.

* * *

The story or the day did not end there

_ The presentation went off without a hitch, sort of ... I mentioned Larry Walker, how I was probably the only Canadian who didn’t love hockey and a couple of other things. Whew, I got through it. Then, all I had to do was read the plague and give it to Bob Stevens.

The last graph was something like ...

“He was know as a fair and accurate ...”

Except I said “acc-U-lat.” Then, “ack-U-tate.” And finally “ack-YOU-latte.” I threw up my hands and said “sorry, I just have to know how to spell it.” They tell me some people laughed.

After the pictures I headed back to my seat alongside Harmon Killebrew and Bob Feller, Brooks Robinson stopped me, shook my hand and said “Well, done son.”

_ Chylak’s son told how his late father used to hide down line and watch him play. He said it he looked hard enough he could see his father checking in on him now. Next were Cepeda, Ryan and Yount.

Before Brett took his turn I headed behind the stage for the washroom. Just sitting down in a van was Gov. Bush, who I had interviewed many times as part of the Texas Rangers ownership.

Bush jumped out of the van and came towards me saying “Great job, great job.” I put my right hand up to my left ear and was going to whisper some Canadian humor.

WHACK!

Suddenly I received an elbow to the solar plexis from a Texas Ranger -- and not the kind who wore uniforms in Arlington, Tex. but the governor’s secret service.

“No, no, he’s OK,” Bush said. “What were you going to say Bobby?”

“Ah, to tell you the truth, I lost my train of thought.”

* * *

We would often see Mays again in San Francisco and at Cooperstown, but never did we have a memorable session like that day in 1999.

He was the greatest.

* * *

One from the coast: Mays did have a sense of humor.

Larry Stone, the former superb San Francisco ball scribe, tells it this way ...

“It was opening day of 1994 at Candlestick Park in front of capacity crowd. Barry Bonds had won the MVP in 1993, and he was to be presented the trophy by Willie Mays. Bonds had also won the MVP award from the Bay Area chapter of the BBWAA. I was the chapter chairman, so I was to give him our modest pen and pencil set on the field before Mays.

“Just before the ceremony began, a Giants official runs up and says, “We’re running late. We have to give the two awards out at the same time.” So they PA announced said, ‘Now to present Barry with an award, Larry Stone of the San Francisco Examiner ... and Willie Mays.” I walked out onto the field with Willie, to the only standing ovation of my career.

“They had assured me I wouldn’t have to say anything -- just hand the award to Barry and shake his hand. But Willie said, “You’ve got to say something, man! You’ve got to say something!” and pushed me to the mike. I mumbled, “Congratulations, Barry,” and gave him our meager trophy, which looked feeble compared to the giant NL MVP trophy. Barry was actually quite gracious in thanking me, but he clearly was far more interested in the award Mays gave him next.

“That’s my Willie Mays story -- a definite career highlight.”