In James S. Hirsch’s splendid book, “Willie Mays: The Life, The Legend,” there is an extended passage about Mays’ famous misadventures during the 1973 World Series, the chapter of his career that would serve as a forever reference point to any and every athlete who would stay a song or two too long at the dance. In Game 1 of the Series, Mays stumbled back to first after hitting a single, then booted a ground ball to center field. Between innings, Joe Garagiola stepped out of the NBC-TV booth and spotted a friend.
“It’s got so you pray they won’t hit a fly ball to him,” Garagiola said.
The next day was even worse. In the ninth inning, Mays pinch-ran for Rusty Staub, and on a base hit to right field, Mays stumbled turning the base at second. Tony Kubek, never one to mince words, said on the air what everyone was thinking: “Here’s the unusual thing: one of baseball’s all-time greatest runners had an easy shot going from first to third. And he fell.”
The coup de grace, though, happened in the bottom of the ninth, when Mays lost a ball from Deron Johnson in the sun and wound up on his knees, unaware of just where the ball had landed. This is the image we talk about when we refer to “Willie Mays falling down in the outfield,” and this time Kubek’s observation was tinged with sadness, as he spoke to his partner, Curt Gowdy: “Boy, Curt, this is the last thing I think all sports fans in all areas hate to see — a great one playing in his last years having this kind of trouble, standing up and falling down.”
OK. All of that said, Willie Mays was 41 at the time, and LaDainian Tomlinson is 31. But those are football years. And I have to admit: watching Tomlinson struggle for a yard here and two yards there against the Jets in the AFC playoffs, there was one person I kept thinking about: Willie Mays, in the Oakland sunshine, unable to pull off being Willie Mays anymore.
Maybe Tomlinson will be different. Maybe working behind the Jets’ O-line — the best in football — will rejuvenate him, allow him to show more flahses of who he used to be. Marcus Allen once had that kind of renaissance late in his career as a Chief, also behind a tremendous O-line. But Allen had fallen out of favor with the Raiders, he hadn’t fallen into disrepair. His lack of production was because of a war with Al Davis, not opposing linebackers. No matter who you are, 99 times out of 100, when a running back starts to go in the NFL, he winds up going the whole way, irreversibly.
I hope I’m wrong about LT, partly because I’d like to see the Jets remain interesting next year, mostly because of the memories, still vivid, of the way he used to dominate football games the way precious few ever have out of the backfield. I’m dubious. But I do hope I’m wrong.
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Paging Floyd: Seeing as how Manny Pacquiao’s dominant win over Joshua Clottey Saturday night was barely a fight — hell it was barely a quarrel — you can actually hear the winds of boxing begging for a Pacquiao-Floyd Mayweather bout somehow, somewhere, some way, down the line. Without it, I’m not sure there’s another bout between any two men in the world that can make boxing seem, and feel, interesting again.
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Who you calling a basketball town: New York City: zero NCAA Tournament teams (with upstaters Syracuse, Siena and Cornell serving as our tenuous links to the Dance). New Mexico: two teams. Utah: two teams. There isn’t anything wrong with that picture?
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Beautiful. Just beautiful: John Maine “wasn’t in” to his relief appearance yesterday, when he relieved Johan Santana, got two outs to start the fifth and then never got another out in surrendering three walks and three doubles and five runs? Really? You know, I like Maine, I admire how he beats himself up after starts, I admire how he’s come back from arm woes. But you know what you do if you realle and honestly feel that way? You keep it to yourself.
