The death of Willie Mays brings back precious memories of an 11-year-old boy who was among the 52,751 fans at the Polo Grounds who witnessed Mays’ amazing catch. A Cleveland fan, he was awakened at 5 a.m. that September 29, 1954, and told his uncle was taking him and his cousin to New York to watch the World Series.
This was a joke, he thought, until he saw that his mother had laid out his Sunday clothes for mass. And sure enough, his uncle and cousin came to take him to the airport. Since he had never been on a plane before, the flight itself was an experience of looking down at the clouds and looking for landmarks.
Then New York City. Could you hurt your neck straining to look at the gigantic buildings from the back of a taxi? The Polo Grounds, home of the New York Giants, loomed ahead, with thousands of fans gathered at the entrances, mostly men, many wearing suit jackets, ties and hats. Seats on the third base sideline, about 20 rows from the field. What more could a baseball-mad boy want?
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At this point, the game was almost irrelevant, although the sights and sounds were fascinating compared to what had been seen and heard at Offermann Stadium. “The Catch” came in the eighth inning, with two Indians on base and the score tied 2-2. Vic Wertz hit a fast ball over May’s head in center field. May’s speed was breathtaking, but I still thought with his back to the infield and the center field wall in front of him, he would never make it. But somehow he did, spun around and threw a ball into the infield that froze the two men on base.
And so the score remained tied as the game went into overtime. “We have to go,” my uncle said at the end of the ninth inning. Your cousin (she’s 10 and doesn’t care about baseball) wants to go to the Empire State Building, your aunt wants me to pick up a cheesecake at Lindy’s, we have a reservation at Mama Rosa’s, and we have an 8:30 p.m. flight to catch.
“But, but, but,” I stammered, “it’s the World Series.” But how much can an eleven-year-old object to being invited to the fall classic in New York City? So we left the Polo Grounds, took a cab, and boarded an elevator at the Empire State Building. As we went up, the elevator operator, a 9-volt battery radio to his ear, began yelling. “What happened?” my uncle asked. “Dusty Rhodes just hit a home run in the 10th inning, winning the game for the Giants,” he said.
“Damn, we should have stayed. We were at the game,” my uncle said, showing the ticket stubs to the incredulous elevator operator. “You mean you left the World Series to go to the Empire State Building?” the elevator operator asked incredulously. “Get off my elevator,” he ordered, bringing the elevator to a stop on the next floor. “Take another one up.”
We did, but my uncle warned my cousin and I not to mention the game in Act 2. Then we had dinner at Mama Rosa’s, grabbed a cheesecake at Lindy’s on the way to the airport, and caught the 8:30 flight home.
And now, 69 years later, I still remember seeing Willie Mays’ catch, but not Dusty Rhodes’ game-winning home run.
