It was my daughter tonight who made me aware that Willie Mays passed away today. I'd been so busy at work, I never got on my cellphone and perused the news, and when I got home, I avoided all electronics. I sit here tonight, having received the text from her, and I am taken back to the first time I got a chance to photograph Willie Mays in 2013, where he was doing a special talk event at Tommy Bahamas in Scottsdale, Arizona, as part of the spring training events occurring that year.
My opportunity was literally dropped in my lap; my friend Mike Eller was supposed to do the shoot, but he had a scheduling conflict. He was supposed to be in New Mexico for a different gig. He recommended me to the PR firm handling the event, and like that, I was hired to shoot the event.
The event comprised of 75 attendees and their plus one, for a nominal fee of course. For their ticket, they got a meet and greet with Mr. Mays, a quick portrait (and a print) with him, a signed baseball, and after the meet and greet, Mr. Mays would talk about his career. My job was to photograph the event documentary-style. A different photographer (my apologies, I cannot recall his name) was to do the meet-and-greet shots and provide the prints at the event.
There was much hustle and bustle for the event. Mr. Mays had glaucoma, and couldn't see in bright lights. The strobes for the meet-and-greet shoot had to be dimmed low, and on continuous mode, as not to perturb Mr. Mays. Everyone was tense, doing their best to make sure the event ran perfectly, and most of all, that he was happy. We were going to be in the presence of a demigod of epic proportions.
That night, I saw a couple of things. The attendees ran the gamut. Members of the San Francisco Giants franchise in all manner of positions, everyday Joe Schmoe dads who brought their young sons, and everyone in between...all of them were starstruck, I don't care who it was. They were in the company of a man who broke barriers, who loved baseball unconditionally, and who showed commitment to the art of the game, every day of his life.
That last statement sounds like fluff and exaggeration, but something else I saw that night exemplifies exactly that.
During the meet-and-greet, things seemed to be going fairly well. A few excited attendees got more than a little handsy with Mr. Mays, but all things considered, it was running along nicely.
Suddenly, Mr. Mays' management team was on high alert. As Mr. Mays was handing out signed baseballs, he came across the first box that appeared not to have any signed baseballs in it. The management team looked through the boxes, and several had no signatures. The team gathered and whispered tensely amongst themselves. They originally concluded that signed baseballs would be sent to the attendees that didn't receive theirs.
No.
Mr. Mays was quite obviously agitated but would not have any of the idea they proposed as the solution.
"I will sign these baseballs," he firmly stated.
All things stopped, and Mr. Mays proceeded to sign several boxes of baseballs, taking approximately 20 minutes to do so. I realized I was watching how important every single attendee was to him, and Mr. Mays was not going to disappoint his fans. I took an opportunity to photograph those hands that saw 660 career home runs, a World Series, a .301 batting average, and 3, 239 hits. Hands that saw military service, Hands that transcended race, time, and barriers.
I was hired to photograph Mr. Mays again in 2014, and I considered myself doubly lucky. The 2014 event at Tommy Bahamas was smoother than the 2013 event, but I saw a man who remembered who he was, and appreciated how much the people loved.
Thank you, Mr. Mays. You will be missed, but surely not forgotten.
