Woody Paige: The 'Say Hey Kid' inspired many...even a kid who became a sports writer

Baseball had more broken hearts than broken bats and broken sliders.

Willie Mays, the “Say Hey Kid” who became “the greatest player alive,” died Tuesday.

He also shared his first name with my mother and his love of baseball with my father.

So, in comfort, sorrow and silence, the world stood still for moments of dazzling memories.

Seventy years ago this week, on my eighth birthday, my father announced that my gift was a train trip from Memphis to St. Louis, near the mighty Mississippi, for my first major league series between the Cardinals and Giants.

“You’ll get to see the musical Stan ‘The Man’ from the Cards and that young player you love in New York, Willie Mays. “I’d be the luckiest kid on the planet if I held the 1954 Topps .Mays and Musial baseball cards next to my heart in my shirt pocket and my oiled baseball glove on my knee, during the long drive while Woodrow and Woody talked ball.

Dad was orphaned at the age of two and diagnosed with diabetes at seven – and had to spend a year in hospital. The charity service’s window overlooked the Memphis minor league ballpark, and he consumed every game. When his own son was seven, they became regulars at Russwood Park. I asked my father, who grew up picking cotton in Tupelo, Mississippi, why black people had a special section in left field. “That’s simply not true,” he said simply. I didn’t understand, so he took me to a Memphis Red Sox Negro League game against the Birmingham Black Barons and said, “Son, here we can all sit wherever we want and the black players can play. » I think I understand. .

Wille Mays, Hank Aaron and Red Sox player Charlie Pride (who became a country music star) certainly understood this.

My father, who had taken a second job to pay for our adventure, put us up at the Chase Hotel where visiting teams stayed when they played at Sportsman’s Park, and we ate 10-cent hamburgers at White Castle. We waited in the lobby while the Giants arrived and I spotted Willie. As I tried to get an autograph, I was pushed into the crowd.

The 1954 Cardinals had their first black player – Thomas Edison Alston.

On July 15, Dad and I held a scorecard, bought caps from both teams, and almost caught a foul ball in game two. Was it heaven? Better than. The Giants blanked the Cardinals 4-0. Willie was 0 for 4 and Stan was 2 for 3. The next night, the Cardinals won 5-4 as Musial hit his 27th homer of the season, but lo and behold, Mays hit his 32nd. And in the wild finale, the Giants won 10-9. But my two heroes were unharmed.

I had sweet dreams all the way home.

Mays became the National League’s Most Valuable Player that season with 41 home runs, 110 RBIs and a .345 batting average. Stan Musial finished sixth (35 homers, 126 RBIs, 120 runs, 103 walks and a .330 average). The Giants won the NL pennant and met the Indians in the World Series. In the opening game, all Willie did was make the greatest single field goal catch of all time over the shoulder, running at full speed, 425 feet into center field. Then he turned and threw toward the infield. The Giants swept the series.

My dad bought our first TV to watch the show on and I would stay home from school. I decided to become a sports writer.

In the summer of 1964, Woodrow’s graduation gift to Woody was a deja vu return to St. Louis for a series between the Cardinals and the San Francisco Giants. Musial had retired after the previous season, but Mays remained one of the all-time greats at age 33, with 47 home runs, 111 RBIs and a .296 average. His teammates included Willie McCovey, Orlando Cepeda, Juan Marichal, Duke Snider and Harvey Kuenn. The Cardinals were led by Bob Gibson, Curt Flood, Lou Brock, Bill White and a Memphian I played against in junior baseball – Tim McCarver. In four games at Busch Stadium, June 18-21, Willie hit three home runs. But it was only Gibson who closed it.

This time, my father, suffering from the devastating long-term effects of diabetes in his 30s, slept on the train home. Those were our last matches together before he died too young.

I was able to take my mother, Willie Belle, to her first major league game in Denver, and she became a loyal Rockies fan until her death.

Because of my job, I often saw Willie Mays, who was with the Mets in his final season, at an alumni game in Denver in 1983, at All-Star events where he was honored and every year in spring training.

Two years ago, some friends and I went to a Scottsdale steakhouse frequented by MLB guys. At 91, Mays was slumped behind a table selling merchandise. He had slowed down considerably and was helped (?) by several associates. I walked over and said, “Willie, my name is Woody. I saw you perform in 1974, and I couldn’t get your autograph then. Would you like to sign this ball for Woodrow and Willie?” He didn’t look up as he scribbled an unrecognizable signature. The man behind him said, “$50.” It was a sad conclusion with my favorite baseball player.

Willie, Mickey and The Duke, Stan The Man, Woodrow and Willie are all sadly gone.

I will think of them all and thank them all on June 27.