a city reader

American Idol. (He was mine for sure.)

Willie Mays. The name alone still moves me.

Once in the college years, someone from school, a guy I hardly hung with, ran into someone in another city who knew me. After my name came up, to certify I was indeed the guy in question, the classmate said, “You mean the guy who wears black Converse and likes Willie Mays?” Oh, did I like Willie Mays. Countless nights were spent in boarding school and college, with me, the lone Mays guy, arguing with the smug, deluded, true believers in Mickey Mantle, whom I didn’t mind, but come on! The contrarian in me certainly understands the impulse to say Mantle, or Roberto Clemente, were better. But they weren’t. In my lifetime, only Michael Jordan was in his league. I’ve often told the oldest of my three daughters: If I’d known I wasn’t going to have a son, I’d have named you Willie.

Photo Caption: I’d know that smile, that ear, that thumb, anywhere.