A Hero

Yesterday, I learned that Willie McCovey passed. I found myself crying. In a year of so many personal losses, it was this news of the demise of a childhood hero that evoked an overt avalanche of emotions. It was a catalyst of the past and the present exploding in my heart.

As I proceeded to read the articles and tributes, there seemed to be a common thread in the messaging. This was a man whom none of us really knew but whose impact was so deeply personal that his passing has brought powerful memories, emotions to the forefront. He was not a President. He was not a family member. He did not change the course of history. But he belonged to each of us.  And there is nothing left to do but weep in the silence of our loss. To re-phrase a now famous quote, at such a time, there is crying in baseball.

There is something about baseball. Its energy compels. Its imagery etches into the soul.  It defines a home city and establishes itself within the fabric, heartbeat of its citizens. It is energy. It is pride. It is life. And when there is defeat, when there is loss…it pierces into depths of our being. That too is life.

For today’s younger generations of San Franciscans, McCovey is known as the once Giants first baseman whom, as they have been told, was a great baseball player. He was the man behind the name of McCovey Cove and the statue that looms in the now stadium that the Giants call home. Alongside the great Willie Mays, he epitomized a glorious time of pennant and World Series wins. Some may even know he was called Stretch and that his number was 44. And they are all correct in their understanding of what is now relegated to local baseball lore.  

For the generations that actually saw him play, that collected his baseball cards, that witnessed his looming figure hover over first base with the grace of a dancer and the skill of an athlete—he is all of this and more. He defined our allegiance to the place we proudly embraced as our home. He was a daily part of our conversations. He was a symbol of our perception of San Francisco greatness.

Willie McCovey, Willie Mays, and all the Giants of the time captured the spirit of the city. It did not matter what part of the city you lived in, what nationality, race or religion you were, what your social standing was. Baseball brought us all together in loyalty to our home team, to our city.

The San Francisco Giants dominated my childhood. The memories are vivid for me. I cannot begin to describe the excitement in my heart each time I watched a game on our family television console or listened, on my transistor radio, to announcers Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons describe play after play. I sang the KSFO Giants song. I remember reading the green sports pages of the San Francisco Chronicle. I followed the standings. Being the book worm that I was, I actually kept a log of the games, inning by inning, player by player. I collected baseball cards and glued each into that wired notepad. It became my bible, my scrapbook of loyalty.

My family could not afford to go to Candlestick Park on a regular basis so the few, momentous times that I actually got to go to a game are imprinted in my DNA. There I was, bundled up in so many layers of clothing I could barely walk against the infamous wind that blew through the stadium. So San Francisco. My mother made sure I wore thick underwear that always itched but I did not care because, ultimately, I was wearing my Giants cap. I carried a baseball mitt - prepared to catch a home run. Secretly, I prayed I would not for I could not catch anything. I was terrible at sports. I would be mortified if the ball came to me and I missed. I went with my brothers and my crazy Uncle Joe.  I can still hear him—loud and, honestly, embarrassing me in his unabashed, seemingly crazed enthusiasm. I will always remember him as he sat in the rickety seat, chanting, “bye, bye baby”. I still see my brothers, channeling their enthusiasm into physical hits upon each other—and me. But smiling through the gaps of lost baby teeth and dirty faces. We were San Francisco kids; we were happy.

And the impact never leaves. I recall years later, when, for business, I was given a private tour of the new Giants stadium, floor after floor.  While trying to keep a professional appearance, my heart was pounding. As I walked through hallway after hallway of large framed photos of former Giants, I found myself telling my colleagues and the very young Sales rep, “That is Mike McCormick…Orlando Cepada…Jimmy Davenport…Gaylord Perry etc.etc.” Instant recognition.  My work mates were surprised. How can this woman dressed in a business suit and wearing pearls, know this? I smiled. I was and always will be the little girl with the statistics notebook and baseball cards. I will never forget. Never.

I have to admit that I was also angry when I heard of McCovey’s passing. Angry that fate takes the best (no matter how old) from those who are left to live on. Angry that life is so fleeting and that the moments that define are relegated to memories of people and times that will never be again. I was angry at getting older. And, yes, I was angry that my San Francisco is gone. As I sat in the darkness of my tears, I wanted to return to the places and people that made me comfortable and innocently happy...that familiar knowingness of the past.

I felt the need to reach out to that once toothless little brother whom I protected and loved as a big sister. I wanted to talk about our childhood. I wanted to go back.I knew I could not call him as he never picks up in his busy adult life with family and work. So I texted him...

“Willie McCovey died. So sad and sorry. He defined our childhood.”

“Yes I saw that. Very sad”

He then he sent a photo of his son in his Halloween costume and I replied with photos of my granddaughters in theirs. 

And that was that.

For you see, we cannot go back, no matter how much we yearn to return to places of hope, innocence, and love. We can just remember and mourn the passing of a hero. Heroes inspire and heroes, like the treasures of our past, remain in our hearts.

I will never forget Willie McCovey. Rest in peace Stretch. Thank you!

In closing, I do want to invite you to read the previous, recent blogs about San Francisco and the summer of loss. Simply click on the link:

A Tale of City: San Francisco and Its "Lost" Child

Eulogy: A Requiem For the Living