Yesterday was the 90th birthday of Willie Mays, the oldest living Hall of Famer (as my cousin pointed out to me in an email). He was also the player who made me break from my family of Phillies fans and root for the San Francisco Giants when I was a boy. I have never loved an athlete the way I loved Willie Mays. He played the game with the talents of a superstar and the enthusiasm of a kid (his nickname was “the Say Hey Kid”), and the joy one got from watching him – even I suspect those rooting for the opposing teams – was in direct proportion to the joy with which he ran the bases (his cap flying theatrically off his head) and roamed the outfield. It was a joy that, for those familiar only with the modern game, is difficult to imagine.
