Barry Tompkins: Long-ago Mays interview led to lifelong friendship

Every now and again there is a bonus that comes with being the oldest guy in the room. Mine, in this case, is that I will proudly go to my death bed knowing that I could call Willie Mays a friend.

Everyone who has put words to paper in the last 48 hours has noted what the whole world seems to agree on – Willie Mays was the greatest baseball player ever.

I was 24-years old and had somehow talked myself into a job at KCBS Radio writing on-air promos for the station. From the moment I walked in the door I was in the ear of Sports Director Don Klein, wearing him out with my bold ambition to be a sportscaster.

I owe my career to Don Klein, but on that day I think he was giving me the ultimate survival test when he said, “Go out to the ballpark and bring back an interview with Willie Mays.”

There were a couple of things that stood in my way of Don’s request. The first was that I had no idea how to do an interview. The second was that I had to carry a giant tape recorder that I had no clue how to operate. And the third was that Willie Mays had a reputation as someone who could not only be elusive to reporter’s inquiries, but that he ate newbies like myself for breakfast.

So there I was, standing amid a slew of reporters, all of whom were at least 30 years older than me and already grizzled, when I saw Mays standing alone by his locker.

I probably should have known that he was only standing by himself because he’d already driven off the herd of reporters without saying a word. Mays had a “don’t tread on me” look – lower lip curled over the top lip, and a scowl that would drive Santa Claus away. Who knew?

But remember, I was young and stupid. And Mays knew that.

My voice cracked like a teenager and I think it took me about a full minute to somehow spit out the words, “Can I get a few minutes with you Mr. Mays?”

He looked me up and down in a manner that I only recognized years later when I saw Mike Tyson look at an opponent he was about to assassinate. There was a pause that I could only estimate to be roughly a month and a half. Then he said, “Meet me up by the clubhouse door in 20 minutes.”

The clubhouse door at Candlestick Park was also the way to the parking lot and I was sure Mays – were he to show up at all – would then grasp me firmly by the shoulders and deposit me into the driver’s seat of my car with a note to Don Klein saying “Don’t send this kid to me again.”

He showed up. The tape recorder worked. I managed to pose a couple of questions that he took delight in answering. He took pity on my innocence – and stupidity – and somehow a professional and a personal friendship was born.

I grew up with the Pacific Coast League before the Giants and Dodgers moved west, and one of my childhood heroes, Piper Davis, played for the Oakland Oaks. He became my hero for a simple reason. I asked for his autograph and he gave me a baseball. What kid wouldn’t make that guy his hero?

Turns out Piper Davis had also played for the Birmingham Black Barons. So did Willie Mays. Davis  was my hero, but he was Willie Mays’ mentor.

From that point on I was invited to play pool and talk baseball at Mays’ house in Atherton a couple times a month. We’d have lunch and he’d talk about growing up with the game, about his time in New York, about his philosophies. He’d tell stories and he’d laugh. The funnier the story the higher pitched the laughter, until it turned into an outright cackle.

The ultimate compliment for this Richmond district kid who somehow got adopted by the greatest player ever, was when Mays said, “Call me Buck.”

He didn’t respond much to “Say Hey,” or any other nickname. But those closest to him knew him as “Buck.” I don’t know where it came from, but it was a badge of honor to be included.

Mays would talk about the catch off of Vic Wertz in the 1954 World Series and always add, “It wasn’t the catch, it was the throw that held the runners.” The throw saved the game. The Giants won game one in 10 innings.

He’d relate that he always wore a cap that was one size too small, “so when I ran the bases it would fly off and be a distraction to the outfielder.”

He’d talk about running just fast enough to draw the throw. “But you better know that you can beat the throw, too,” he’d add.

The year that George Brett toyed with hitting .400, Sports Illustrated Magazine did a story on how you do it. They went to every great hitter of the time – Ted Williams, Tony Gwynn, Rod Carew, and Brett himself. They all had in-depth philosophies of how to strike a baseball. Ted Williams had the swing broken down to 100 parts. Mays was the last to answer the question. His response was what probably made him the greatest ever. “They throw it, and I hit it,” he said.

A St. Louis Cardinal pitcher, Harry Brecheen, was asked how he pitches to Mays. He said, “The same as I pitch to everybody else. But I don’t let go of the ball.”

A long-ago actress named Tallulah Bankhead offered up this quote that stands the test of time. “There have been only two authentic geniuses in the world,” she said. “William Shakespeare and Willie Mays.”

Yesterday I heard many quotes from recent Giants’ players talking about how Mays would talk to them in the Oracle Park clubhouse. He wanted to see their bats and their gloves. He wanted to know what made them tick.

I once asked Mays about managing or coaching. He said, “No, I can’t do it. I would expect everyone to be able to do what I did.”

You’re right, Buck. They just can’t.

Barry Tompkins is a 40-year network television sportscaster and a San Francisco native. Email him at barrytompkins1@gmail.com.