The Next Willie Mays

The burden of expectation can crush a baseball player.  The burden of becoming the next Willie Mays takes the "can" out of the aforementioned equation.  The legacy of the "Say Hey Kid" has taken on a life of its own, devouring all comparisons and players that get caught up in its vortex.

Yet, there have been those willing to subject players to that unreasonable level of scrutiny.

And the very first man to have to shoulder that burden was Mays' teammate and good friend, Bobby Bonds. Because he was the marquee outfielder on the San Francisco Giants after Willie Mays retired and because he possessed an impressive array of athletic skills, the comparisons came rolling ominously and inevitably his way.

He ran with the power and fluidity of a sprinter.  His arm was strong and accurate.  He made plays in the field instinctively.  At the plate, his great speed brought him to the leadoff spot but he also possessed the power of a clean-up hitter.  He made his major league debut just after his 22nd birthday and, six seasons later, came within a single home run of becoming the first 40-40 man in baseball history.

And it wasn't good enough.

The man who was supposed to be the next Willie Mays did not hit 660 home runs.  He never made an over-the-shoulder basket catch on a dead run in the World Series.  And he never fully escaped the shadow of the man who did.

In that sense, one might reasonably contend that Bobby's career was doomed from the start.  His home runs were never going to travel far enough or be bunched in great enough clusters.  His defense was always going to be a step too slow.  And no matter how fast or hard or brilliantly he played; he was never going to outrace the legend of the great Willie Mays.

Yet, what Bobby Bonds did accomplish was applause worthy, indeed.  He was selected to three All-Star teams and had a matching number of Gold Glove Awards.  He ended his 14-year career with 332 home runs and 461 stolen bases.  That impressive combination of speed and power earned him a five-time membership in the 30-30 club, now the hallmark of overall offensive prowess.  And, still, those clamoring for the next incarnation of Willie Mays turned their backs on him.

The irony, of course, is that Bobby's son, Barry, is the next Willie Mays.  In fact, Bobby's son is set to pass his godfather as the number three home run hitter of All-Time sometime in the next season or two.  However, Barry has also had the supreme advantage of never having to be the following act to one of the greatest one-man shows in baseball history.  The Herculean task of following in the "Say Hey Kid's" immediate footsteps, of course, fell to Bobby.  And, unfortunately, it would not be the only unfair burden he would be asked to carry.  Earlier this spring, it was revealed that Bobby Bonds has lung cancer.

The man who stole bases at will and who could track fly balls to the deepest of right-centerfield gaps now struggles to gather the strength to go to the ballpark and watch his son play.  It is an especially cruel fate for a brilliantly talented man overlooked and under appreciated by far too many and seemingly forgotten by history.

But in the quiet spaces of his life, I hope he is able to reflect on his playing days with fondness. I hope he knows that there are still fans out there who saw him play and are still grateful for the privilege of having such memories.

And greater still, I hope he realizes what a grand impression he has left on those lucky enough to have met him in person.

About ten years ago, he spoke to my mom's grade school class.  Though he was long retired as a ballplayer, he still looked very much the part.  Except for some slight vestiges of age, a wrinkle or two around the eyes and a hairline yielding slightly, he still looked like he could throw on a uniform and run out to right field without looking terribly different from the men twenty-five years his junior who would be occupying the field with him.  Though the children in my mom's class had no idea of his impressive major league resume, they could see he looked like a ballplayer.  And when he sat down on the carpeted floor of the classroom so he could get an eye-to-eye audience with the class, they listened.

And what they heard was a heartfelt life lesson.  He preached the importance of education and effort and urged the small crowd of tiny faces hanging on his every word to be kind to each other.  His manner was gentle and engaging, and he made great effort to be as inclusive as possible, patiently answering as many questions as the students had the energy to ask (albeit that many were of the endearing but maddening non-sequetar variety to which kids are prone).  When the questions and questioners were exhausted, he stayed to sign multitudes of autographs and shake an equal multitude of hands.  With that, he thanked everyone in attendance and quietly walked out the door.

He may not have been the next Willie Mays, but what he did become is certainly worthy of our respect and admiration.

And as he fights his long, lonely struggle against lung cancer, baseball fans should take the time to include his name among those we wish well.  He is certainly owed at least that much.

Godspeed, Mr. Bonds.  Please know that there are still fans out there wishing you well and who still have wonderful memories of your home runs and base running feats stored fondly in their mind's eye.