The earliest incidence of my Gumpy tales happens in 1965 when I was 10. I was with my dad visiting his uncle in St. Louis.
Because I’d been on a champion baseball team a year before and had a significant interest in baseball, Dad gifted me with a pro game between the St. Louis Cardinals and the San Francisco Giants. He could only afford the cheapest tickets so we sat in the cheap wooden bleachers behind left field. There were very few around us. I of course had brought my mit just in case there was a fly ball.
Which there was. Willie Mays’ came up to bat and knocked a home run right into the bleachers beyond left field. Right at me!
Mays was a hero of mine, as I’d spent several years across the bay and the Giants were my team. Nothing could have been more thrilling!
The ball came flying out of the sky and bounced on an empty bleacher about a dozen rows ahead of us. I grabbed my mit, ready to catch the ball flying right at my face. But there was a guy sitting in front of us a couple rows. He leapt to his feet and caught the fly. End of story. And a little boy’s connection with the great Willie Mays.
