Shea: Remembering Willie Mays, one year after the death of an American icon

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One of Willie Mays’ familiar lines to people who came across him was simple and sincere.

“Need anything from me?”

As in, “What can I do for you?” As if he didn’t do plenty during his 93 years as the greatest all-around ballplayer who ever lived and a man who inspired millions on and off the field.

“No, I’m fine, Willie, thank you” was my usual response, always amazed that he’d propose such an offering. But that was Willie Mays. Giving. Generous. Unselfish. Unentitled. Considering his influential status as not just a Hall of Famer but an American hero, he had quite a remarkable persona and humble spirit.

The last time I visited Willie was just before Major League Baseball’s tribute to the Negro Leagues on June 20, 2024, at historic Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama.

In a bid to be like Willie, I asked if he needed anything at Rickwood — a cap or jersey. Then I kicked myself. You dummy. It quickly hit me that I was speaking to a man who could easily pick up the phone and have a dozen boxes of caps or jerseys shipped the next day.

“No, I’m fine, John, thank you.”

Before I left, I held his hand and said, “Love you, Willie.” Don’t know why I said it. Just said it. In retrospect, so glad I did. Six days later, he died.

Even though Willie was in his 90s and had been dealing with health issues, I couldn’t believe he was gone. When I got the call June 18, two days before the Giants and Cardinals were to play a regular-season game at Rickwood, it initially made no sense to me. Even in his later years, Willie mentally and physically got up for the big game, the big event, including any Giants reunion or ceremony at Oracle Park or when the team honored him every May 6 — his birthday. I figured he’d certainly get up for the Rickwood game, which might as well have been called the Willie Mays Classic.

This time, he didn’t. He took a pass. It was a while before I began to fully grasp it all. Willie got us all to Alabama — his roots, where he was born and raised, where he turned into a professional ballplayer, a heartwarming, full-circle story — and then he left us. Peacefully and with very few in his presence. He was never one who wanted a fuss made over him. It was as if he were telling us to move forward without him and celebrate the Negro Leaguers, particularly those who played before him and didn’t get the opportunity he did because of the color of their skin.

Mays always played the game on his terms. He lived life on his terms. And now he left us on his terms.

I grew up in the Bay Area and saw Willie play at Candlestick Park in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Like any kid at that time and in that place, I was mesmerized by his ability and passion and tried to emulate the way he hit, the way he threw, the way he ran — looking back, an impossible task. So imagine the privilege I felt covering the Giants starting in the 1980s, with Mays regularly in the clubhouse, not to mention Willie McCovey and other legends who’d hang out in manager Mike Murphy’s office.

I was all eyes and ears whenever Mays held court, of course, and wrote about him at every opportunity, eventually taking on the privileged duty of serving as his liaison to the world by sharing his important messages. I was lucky and honored to form a relationship over the years and build a trust with a man who called me a friend.

In our business, you’re not supposed to become friends with people you cover, but if there were an exception, it might as well be your hero.