After reading a piece at (I think) National Review Online (not remembering what it was about or who sent me there) which engaged threat level "Boggle," I needed some reminder that not all writers are contemptible prats, and Greg Prince provided that reminder with "Saturdays With Willie Mays."
He has plenty of his own anyway. And this year he wasn’t shy about absorbing adoration for any of it. Willie doesn’t actively court worship. He doesn’t have to. But c’mon, he’s Willie Mays. He knows who he is. He knew where he was, too, on Saturday: in the city where it all started for him, from the days when he was the kid, let alone the twilight when he was the wily veteran whose 1973 with the Mets wasn’t altogether dissimilar from his 1951 with the Giants in terms of pennant pressure and fan appreciation. This time, unlike two years earlier, he wasn’t tired. This time he didn’t raise a force field around him to diminish the adoration. This time he was relaxed, engaged…on.Also, it has become obvious that there is nothing to say about the football championship game that wasn't said in Tank McNamara in the '80s. (Speaking of Tank, guess who the Sports Jerk of the Year for 2012 is? Probably too easy.)
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