Willie Mays was the greatest “Five tool player” in baseball history. In baseball parlance, that means the ability to hit for average (the number of hits divided by at bats), hit with Herculean power (the number of those 108 stitched baseballs one can send over ivy-covered walls into orbit), run with a light-speed purpose on offense and defense (stealing bases, making catches) and, finally, the ability to throw out runners with a strong, powerful sniper-like arm to nail opposition runners on the bases.

At one time, Major League Baseball had not one, not two, but three great centerfielders, all located within three boroughs of New York City: the Bronx, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. Mickey Mantle manned centerfield in Yankee Stadium. In the 2001 movie, "Dem Bums, The Brooklyn Dodgers," which is baseball’s version of “US Steel,” Duke Snider patrolled for “Dem Bums,” the loveable neighborhood Brooklyn Dodgers, and Mays covered the vast acreage of the Polo Grounds for the New York Giants between Coogan’s Bluff and the Harlem River.

To say he was a defensive whiz is simply an understatement. He used his blazing speed, supple hands, and cannon arm to track down, catch, and then mow down the rival players all on differently configured outfields, everywhere from the Polo Grounds in New York to Seals Stadium to Candlestick Park in San Francisco and, finally, to Shea Stadium when he played his last years with the Mets. His defensive plays were something to marvel perhaps more so than his hitting feats. John Saccoman explains,

Others would say that a double play he initiated against the Dodgers with a spectacular catch of Carl Furillo’s slicing line drive and a whirling throw to nab Billy Cox at the plate, preserving a tie, was the best. Dodgers manager Chuck Dressen said, “I’d like to see him do it again.”

It was not just Mays’ superhuman talent but his baseball acumen that separated him from fellow Hall of Fame players. Mays scouted from the center and would direct his fellow teammates on his left and right and in the infield to put them in better spots defensively and prevent batters from getting hits. “I would try and help everybody, because the game was so easy for me. It was just like walking in the park.”

Carl Erskine of the Dodgers noted, “I always heard that Babe Ruth had great instincts for baseball, that Ruth would never throw to the wrong base or make a mental mistake. I thought Willie was like that.”

Mays employed baseball analytics before advanced math and spreadsheets became protocol in the front office computer nerds.

Although San Francisco was a culture shock for Mays, and he was never embraced the same way as he was by New York fans, it didn’t deter him from his supernova performances on the field.

Playing in San Francisco, Mays, suffering from a stomach ailment, still hit four homers in a game. He became the first National League player to hit over 600 homers and notch 3000 hits. Additionally, he was named to 18 All-Star Games, won 11 Gold Gloves, and won his second MVP, all while playing primarily, according to metrics, in a slightly pitcher-friendly stadium with the environment frequently being cold and gusty. Mays, despite the hostile environment, walloped 203, although he “...claimed that the park cost him over 100 home runs.”

While San Francisco fans could never really call Mays their own, the rest of baseball loved him. Baseball fans across America couldn’t ignore or pooh-pooh his enthusiasm, energy, charisma, leadership, baseball IQ and, obviously, once-in-a-century talent. After all, they checked the box scores.

Mays also had a flair for dramatics.

He used the All-Star Games as his stage, showcasing his “Five Tools” while entertaining and thrilling national audiences. Hitting lasers, stealing bases, and making defensive plays no one else could, he made fields in both American and National Leagues, places such as Boston, Milwaukee, Detroit, and Cincinnati, his personal Broadway.

Fittingly, his return to New York via a trade with the Mets in early 1972 added more sense of theatrics to Mays' career resume. Aging but still an occasional force, Mays returned home to Gotham and, in his first game in royal blue and orange, knocked a home run to beat the Giants 5-4.

In his last Major League game, one in which his 43-year-old legs finally gave out on chasing a fly ball, Mays showed his brilliant warrior spirit by confidently driving in the winning run in extra innings, evening the 1973 World Series against the defending champion Oakland As.

Sadly, with Willie Mays’ passing, another icon of the 1950s has departed “gently into that good night,” taking with him another important piece of the Baby Boomer generation. That era is now just another fond memory of the Boomers’ joyful, fun, and so much more innocent childhood.

Image: Wikimedia Commons, via Picryl // public domain