I had a Willie Mays poster on the wall of my childhood bedroom. I tried finding an image of that poster online after hearing that he’d died at the age of 93 to no avail. Besides, it showed him batting and when I think of Willie Mays it’s his fielding that comes to mind first.

I’m old enough to have seen Willie Mays play at the end of his career. He wasn’t the player that he used to be, but he was pretty darn good until he was 40 years old. He still possessed the on field elegance and grace that’s been the subject of so many tributes since his passing.

I met Willie Mays twice. The first time was in San Diego in 1969. A family friend was an executive with the San Diego Padres, and he gave me a backstage tour before a Giants-Padres game. He knew I was a Giants fan and that I wanted to meet their big three: Mays, McCovey, and Marichal. I recall showing Juan Marichal my impression of his high leg kick, but I resisted the temptation to squeeze Willie McCovey’s bulging biceps.

Willie Mays was warm and friendly at that first meeting. Somewhere there’s a picture of the younger me with him. I haven’t seen it for decades, but I was the kid with a big grin on my face and my arm around the greatest Giant of all. It was an historic day for Willie Mays: he hit his 600th home run; a feat only accomplished by Babe Ruth at that point in time.

The second time I met Willie Mays was less pleasant but quite revealing. Sometime between 1976 and 1978, I accompanied my father to a business dinner with Willie Mays and Hal Perry. Perry was a lawyer and deal-maker best known as a guard on the Bill Russell-KC Jones USF college basketball championship teams.

I don’t remember what the business proposal was or whether it ever happened, but I was glad to spend some time with Willie Mays. He had recently retired from baseball, which is a difficult time for any athlete. At that point in time, he was bitter about the free agency driven salary explosion in the game to which he devoted his life. He spent much of the evening bitching about how little money he made in comparison to stars of that day like Reggie Jackson and Catfish Hunter. I was crushed but I get it now: Willie Mays was the greatest player of all-time and he made chump change compared to those who came after him.

I have to give Willie credit for noticing my discomfort. He apologized for being a jerk and we parted on good terms. That story is one reason I hesitated to write a tribute to my boyhood hero: I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but what’s really important were Willie’s on-field exploits and the joy they brought baseball fans everywhere. He was the best. I just caught him on a bad day.

Until  his death on June 18th, Willie Mays was the greatest living ballplayer. That crown has passed to his godson, Barry Bonds. Willie was universally popular when he played, Barry Bonds was booed everywhere but San Francisco. I saw Willie Mays at his worst, so I’ve always been less harsh about Barry than most baseball fans. In the end, nobody’s perfect but Willie Mays sure could ball. That’s what really matters.

The last word goes to The Treniers: