Growing up, I was in awe of Willie Mays. In our games of streetball (or drivewayball), Anthony McBride, a year older and infinitely more talented than I, always got to be Willie, and I was perfectly contented to be Bobby Bonds. When Willie was traded to the Mets in '72, I had my first intimation that something in the cosmos was very wrong: the name "Charlie Williams" still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. This book is valuable in the depth with which it examines the beginnings of the man who was my first flesh and blood hero (Curious George and Batman were my first two, for anybody out there keeping score). I had known that Willie's nickname was "Buck"; I hadn't realized that was a shortened form of the nickname "Buckduck" (he ran like a buck, he walked like a duck).
This book is much more than a Marvel Origins tale; it is also a poignant account of the death of the Negro Leagues. In addition, it is a celebration of the men who nurtured Willie's phenomenal talent, and who readied him fo his entry into White Baseball, particularly Lorenzo "Piper" Davis, the player/manager of the Birmingham Black Barons, who guided the Barons to the 1948 Negro American League pennant.
A minor qualm I have with this book is its portrayal of Buck O'Neil as an Uncle Tom. I paged through I WAS RIGHT ON TIME, O'Neil's autobiography, and found six references to Tom Baird, the Klansman owner of the Kansas City Monarchs for whom O'Neil served as player/manager: one of which refered to Baird (and three others) as "Kansas City friends", one of which mentions that Baird helped secure a job as schoolteacher for O'Neil's wife, and four others which were passing references. This hardly constitutes ass-kissing.