WILLIE MAYS
The Life, the Legend
By James S. Hirsch

A long time ago in America, there was a beautiful game called baseball. This 
was before 30 major-league teams were scattered in a blurry variety of 
divisions; before 162-game seasons and extended playoffs and fans who watched 
World Series games in thick down jackets; before the D.H. came to the American 
League; before AstroTurf on baseball fields and aluminum bats on sandlots; 
before complete games by pitchers were a rarity; before ballparks were named 
for corporations instead of individuals; and long, long before the innocence of 
the game was permanently stained by the filthy deception of steroids.

In that vanished time, there was a ballplayer named Willie Mays.


And long time ago in America, there once was a beautiful thing called SIMS. 
This was before 30 major-league saints regularly toured the country encouraging 
a vast hoopla of Selfism; before 162-hour raja drone-on marathons, a time when 
fans who braved winters in Berkeley and Westwood in $29 sports coats; before 
the Designated Donor subsidized outrageous ticket prices so kids can learn and 
see the game; before phallic palaces and golden crowns, when initiations were 
held is spare neighborhood bedrooms; when week long mumbo jumbo pseudo-science 
circuses were a rarity; before centers were named for big time donors instead 
of brilliant teachers; and long, long before the innocence of the game was 
permanently stained by the filthy deception of yogic flying.

In that vanished time, there was a great ballplayer named Jerry Jarvis.



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