This is a conventional baseball biography, in the best version of that genre. It's a positive book for the most part, and the criticisms of Mays are stated in polite, oblique terms. This is not a tell-all book, and that's fine. We don't need to have our heroes chopped down by every angry anecdote that can be dredged up. I was very happy to read a book that's mostly about triumph.
The writing in the early chapters neatly and poignantly evokes life in segregated Alabama, where Mays grew up, and the Negro Leagues where he began his quick march to fame. Those chapters set a tone that's carried throughout the book of pointing out in sportswriterly terms the achievements of Mays (great catches, big home runs, his flair and stylishness), and also the slights he endured as a Black man and an essentially shy person in a public role. Author James Hirsch has a knack for describing in words the balletic achievements of Mays, such as his ability to run back on balls and seemingly always go to the right spot for the catch, and then to instantly spin or turn to make a hard throw to the infield. But at the same time, Hirsch explains that those throws often went too far, as Mays couldn't resist trying to make the spectacular play. That need to entertain carried throughout his career on an equal level with his need to win.
Hirsch does a good job as well of showing how Mays seemed to be in the right place at the right time over and over. This doesn't diminish his achievements on the field, because he wouldn't have been in the right place if he wasn't one of the best and easily the most dynamic player in the game. But it's still remarkable that Mays played in the Negro Leagues in their last few years of popularity, then was the first Black player in his minor league, and then joined the NY Giants early in integration and played in a World Series as a rookie, and then had the defining moment three years later in the first televised World Series, and then was their most high-profile player when they changed the face of baseball by moving to San Francisco, and then played into the era of expansion and free agency that continues to drive the game today. Plus, he barnstormed in the winter in the US and then Latin America, the former as the star of the last successful barnstorming offseasons, as that 50-year old tradition died. Pretty remarkable that Mays was everywhere.
Through it all, a few themes seemed to emerge. First, Mays was distant and often a bit unsophisticated; not unintelligent, but untutored. Second, he distrusted most sportswriters because they would eventually criticize him in order to get attention. Third, he loved kids, shown with his early-career stickball games in Harlem (which continued on a less frequent basis for the rest of his career), and his endless visits to hospitals and fundraisers. Fourth, he hated to lose, so he played hard every day, pushed himself to play 150-plus games per year, ran into catchers all the time, and was an on-field coach who positioned all his teammates. In general, he was a remarkable baserunner, if the anecdotes in the book are true -- and the research seems very solid. Over and over, Mays would keep running on simple plays, and thus move from first to third on a bunt, or pretend to stop at third on a single to the outfield, and then when the outfielder started his soft throw, Mays would turn on the jets and score. Fifth, it seems that pitchers threw at him constantly, with the author saying he had to hit the deck once per game. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that baseball would tolerate so much head-hunting against a star player, but maybe it's true. The violence of the game in general -- Mays spiking catchers, beanballs, etc. -- is pretty shocking compared to today. This wasn't the 1910s and Ty Cobb, this was the 1960s and ABC's Game of the Week.
Mays must have been remarkable to see, as the book gives endless anecdotes about his catches in the outfield, his daring baserunning, his line drive homers. And the fact that he played hard every day set a standard for his team that surely led to more victories, even when Mays would have benefited from a day off here or there for rest.
I mentioned that the book isn't a tell-all. It doesn't ignore Mays's warts, but it downplays the controversial things that are the source of titillation in bad baseball biographies. For example, there's a brief discussion of the use of amphetamines, which was rampant when Mays played. Mays was accused by a Mets teammate of using and even having some available for other players. This seems highly plausible, given Mays's insistence on playing through injury and the exhaustion of travel and other stuff as a high profile player (interviews, TV shows, etc.). Plus, the author notes several times that Mays took sleeping pills daily -- which is a common need by athletes and entertainers to come down from speed. And it's further bolstered by Mays needing several times in his career to be hospitalized for a few days, which feels to me like weaning him off speed. But the author just mentions these things chronologically, as if they are unrelated, and he doesn't delve into their significance.
Same thing with womanizing. I'm fine that the author doesn't go into details about Mays's sex life, as lets keep the focus on him on the field. But at the same time, it's a big incongruous to say that for nearly a decade after his divorce, Mays dated a woman on again-off again, while "dating" other women. And of course, as a good-looking, wealthy, famous guy, he had women available all the time. And he had old-fashioned views about what women should do. So, a hard-hitting biography would look at this more closely.
The one non-sports area where the author does try to pull together a full view is race, and this is, of course, the most appropriate one to do. As noted, Mays rose to prominence just as Black players were becoming commonplace at least on American League teams and the general civil rights movement gained steam. But Mays stayed aloof from it for his entire career and post-career life. As the author notes, using comments from Mays over and over, he wanted to look forward, not backward, and to see progress, not harm. Leading figures in civil rights, including Jackie Robinson, were highly critical of him for his stance, but Mays never wavered. He understood that he got better-than-average treatment from Whites because of his fame and skills, but he also faced closed restaurants, homes that wouldn't be sold to him, and racist assumptions by fans and sportswriters. But he never publicly complained. That wasn't his way; his way was to show a positive, cooperative future. Others could do the fighting, and he could show what the world could be. I think that's a defensible position, and the author makes the case well. At the same time, he asks repeatedly what this did to Mays as a person having to hold in his anger and sadness about the indignities. It's very poignant.
In that same context, the author explains how over and over, Mays was a leader, even if it didn't look like it to the sportswriters who said he was a "natural" who didn't have to try hard and who was selfishly playing for himself only. There's the famous case of him tackling Orlando Cepeda when he was running onto the field vs. the Dodgers with a bat in hand, ready to escalate one of the ugliest brawls in baseball history that resulted in Juan Marichal hitting John Roseboro over the head with a bat. Mays actually helped lead Roseboro off the field and cradled him in his arms while medics checked his injuries. Those actions literally averted a riot, according to all accounts.
Meanwhile, Mays always mentored young players, coached them on and off the field about behavior, and set an example of being a non-drinker and non-smoker.
The bottom line message of this book is that Willie Mays defined an era of baseball, shining above an amazing array of stars. He was the one person that everyone would watch from batting practice to the last out. And he did it under the spotlight for more than 20 years, playing hurt, playing tired, playing while insulted and underpaid and unfairly criticized. It wasn't just about talent, it was about class. And Willie Mays had that to spare.