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I was eight
years old. At that moment in my life, nothing was more important
to me than baseball. My team was the New
York Giants, and I followed the doings of those men in the
black-and-orange caps with all the devotion of a true believer.
Even now, remembering that team—which no longer exists, which
played in a
ballpark that no longer exists—I can reel off the names
of nearly every player on the roster. Alvin
Dark, Whitey
Lockman, Don
Mueller, Johnny
Antonelli, Monte
Irvin, Hoyt
Wilhelm. But none was greater, none more perfect nor more
deserving of worship than Willie
Mays, the incandescent Say Hey kid.
That spring, I was taken to my first big-league game. Friends
of my parents had box seats at the Polo Grounds, and one April
night a group of us went to watch the Giants play the Milwaukee
Braves. I don’t know who won, I can’t recall a single
detail of the game, but I do remember that, after the game was
over, my parents and their friends sat talking in their seats
until all the other spectators had left. It got so late that we
had to walk across the diamond and leave by the centerfield exit,
which was the only one still open. As it happened, that exit was
right below the players’ locker rooms. Just as we approached
the wall, I caught sight of Willie Mays. There was no question
about who it was. It was Willie Mays, already out of uniform and
standing there in his street clothes not ten feet away from me.
I managed to keep my legs moving in his direction and then, mustering
every ounce of my courage, I forced some words out of my mouth.
“Mr. Mays,” I said, “could I please have your autograph?”
He had to have been all of twenty-four years old, but I couldn’t
bring myself to pronounce his first name. His response to my question
was brusque but amiable. “Sure, kid, sure,” he said.
“You got a pencil?” He was so full of life, I remember,
so full of youthful energy, that he kept bouncing up and down
as he spoke. I didn’t have a pencil, so I asked my father
if I could borrow his. He didn’t have one, either. Nor did
my mother. Nor, as it turned out, did any of the other grownups.
The great Willie Mays stood there watching in silence. When it
became clear that no one in the group had anything to write with,
he turned to me and shrugged. “Sorry, kid,” he said.
“Ain’t got no pencil, can’t give no autograph.”
And then he walked out of the ballpark into the night.
I didn’t want to cry, but tears started falling down my cheeks,
and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Even worse, I cried
all the way home in the car. Yes, I was crushed with disappointment,
but I was also revolted at myself for not being able to control
those tears. I wasn’t a baby. I was eight years old, and
big kids weren’t supposed to cry over things like that. Not
only did I not have Willie Mays’ autograph, but I didn’t
have anything else, either. Life had put me to the test and, in
all respects, I had found myself wanting.
After that night, I started carrying a pencil with me wherever
I went. It became a habit of mine never to leave the house without
making sure I had a pencil in my pocket. It’s not that I
had any particular plans for that pencil, but I didn’t want
to be unprepared. I had been caught empty-handed once, and I wasn’t
about to let it happen again. If nothing else, the years have
taught me this: if there’s a pencil in your pocket, there’s
a good chance that one day you’ll feel tempted to start using
it.
As I like to tell my children, that’s how I became a writer.
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