Mays turns 90; he gave us our strawberries in winter time

When he was the 49ers’ coach, Jim Harbaugh would ignore my questions. But as he walked by me, he often posed one of his own, to wit, “Who was better, Ruth or Mays?”

As much out of belief as Bay Area bias, I answered, “Mays,” meaning of course Willie Mays as compared to Babe Ruth.

Harbaugh would pause, then say, “Ruth pitched.” To which I would respond, “Mays could have.”

As Mays himself would remind when I told him the story, “I did pitch.” Indeed, he did.

Maybe not as a professional, but everywhere else along the way. “And I was good,” he would add.

Willie Howard Mays turns 90 years old Friday. The “Say Hey Kid,” as he was called because in his early days in New York he addressed people, “Say, hey,” is no longer a kid. But he remains a beacon and a reminder. To have watched him, at Candlestick Park, on television, was our good fortune.

There was no magic in his approach. There merely was brilliance. As kids we all play baseball, such a simple game. “They throw the ball,” Mays said, “I hit it. They hit the ball. I catch it.”

Two observations defined a career that produced 660 home runs, 3,283 hits and in 1954 arguably the most famous catch in World Series history.

This from Garry Schumacher, the onetime Giants public relations man, in New York and San Francisco, after Mays came up to the Giants in 1951: “We got to take care of this kid. We got to make sure he gets in no trouble because this is the guy — well, I’m not saying he’s going to win pennants by himself, but he’s the guy who’ll have us all eating strawberries in the winter time.”

This is from Bob Stevens, who covered baseball, Seals and Giants, for the San Francisco Chronicle from the 1930s to the 1990s, on a Mays extra-base drive past an outfielder: “The only man who could have caught it, hit it.”

No question Mays hit the spot for an America seeking sporting excitement after emerging from World War II, an America looking for good times and new heroes.

Baseball still was our game. The NFL would get its burst in the 1958 overtime championship game between the Baltimore Colts and New York Giants. And fate and fable combined to provide NYC with Mays, Mantle and Snider — Willie, Mickey and the Duke.

There were debates in Queens and Brooklyn. Years later, there was a song by Terry Cashman. Now there is only Mays. Father Time hasn’t quite caught up with the guy who could catch anything on a ball field.

Tallulah Bankhead, an actress, amongst other purists, once said, “There have been only two geniuses in the world, Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare. But darling, I think you’d better put Shakespeare first.”

Geniuses are not always easy to comprehend, especially as in Mays’ case when they grow up in the segregated south of the 1930s and ‘40s. Mays developed in the Negro Leagues, but when he arrived in New York, sportswriters from the city’s six dailies looked out for him, rather than looking for trouble.

Mays was uncomfortable when the Giants shifted to San Francisco before the 1958 season. He couldn’t immediately find housing. He didn’t know the territory or the journalists. Finally, a banker, Jake Shemano, befriended Mays and helped him with his finances and locating a residence.

Willie was private, maybe suspicious. His story remained untold until 10 years ago, when he agreed to do an autobiography with James Hirsch, a former reporter for the New York Times — that NYC connection again. Then in 2020, Mays and San Francisco Chronicle baseball writer John Shea cooperated on 24: Life Stories from the Say Hey Kid.

My dealings with Mays were peripheral. A golf junkie, he knew of me writing the game. At spring training, I would reintroduce myself to Willie, and invariably he would ask about Tiger Woods.

And not, as Jim Harbaugh might have phrased it, if I thought he was better than Jack Nicklaus.