BIRMINGHAM, Ala. — Sam Allen, 88, last played at Rickwood Field in 1959 with the Kansas City Monarchs. He returned to the oldest professional ballpark in America on Thursday for Major League Baseball’s “Tribute to the Negro Leagues” game featuring the San Francisco Giants and St. Louis Cardinals.
It was the marquee event of four days of celebrations during which Allen and fellow former Negro League players and their families were honored. Retired major-leaguers hung on every word that Allen shared at receptions and brunches. They gathered around him like children at a story time to be regaled by his tales of a bygone era.
But the long-planned homage had an undertone of sadness. Just days before the game, baseball legend Willie Mays died at age 93.
Mays, an Alabama native, made playing center field an art form over his 23 seasons in MLB. He played for the Birmingham Barons, the team that called Rickwood home, starting as a 17-year-old in 1948 until the San Francisco Giants signed him in 1950.
He hit 660 career home runs and 3,293 hits and held a .301 career batting average. Mays’ career accomplishments included being a 24-time All-Star (1954–73), World Series champion (1954), two-time NL MVP (1954, 1965), NL Rookie of the Year (1951) and 12-time Gold Glove winner (1957–68).
“I thought he was great. He deserved this,“ Allen told the Tribune. “He’s one of the best. He’s my favorite player. I think he’s one of the greatest I’ve ever played against.”
“He meant a whole lot to baseball and he set the bar high for baseball’s Black players. He was one of the greatest of all.”
Allen was a teenager in Virginia during May’s military service in 1952 and 1953 and recalled playing with Mays in Newport News, Va.
“It was exciting,” Allen said. “I was in high school. I was nervous and it took me two or three games to get used to playing with him. He was real. He was a regular guy and he taught me a lot.
“He was stationed in Fort Eustis and they played baseball there. They played Monday through Friday. On Saturday and Sunday he had his own All-Star team and I was one of his players. (Mays and the team) carried me along. They nourished me till I grew into the game.”
We sat in Willie Mays Pavillion, where Allen shared more of his experience with his adult daughter looking on. In the background, with the bright lights and the sounds of the game along with its retro-looking ads, Rickwood Field felt more like its own Field of Dreams.
Rickwood, which was built in 1910, was refurbished for Thursday night’s regular-season game through a partnership between Major League Baseball, the MLB Players Association and the City of Birmingham at a cost of more than $4.5 million.
The event featured a sort of ballpark village with a stage for performances, food vendors and immersive and educational stations where attendees could learn a little more about Mays and the Negro Leagues. For many, it was an introduction to history that had been long overlooked.
Mays’ life and legacy were felt all over, but it carried a different kind of energy. As I walked around chatting with Birmingham residents and fans of the game from near and far, they each would start to tear up as they told me how much Mays meant to not only his hometown but the baseball community. His contributions to the sport are widely known, but hearing his impact on individuals somewhat confirmed all of the legends and stories I had heard. Everyone had something to share about a time they saw him do something incredible in center field, at the plate or just in his everyday life.
The event turned into a celebration, and Mays was the giant, the icon who wasn’t present physically but was somehow still there. His death made me remember my first and only encounter with him. It wasn’t up close, but it is one of the most meaningful baseball moments I’ve ever had.
In 2018, word had spread that the Giants were planning to retire Barry Bond’s number in a ceremony before a game against the Pittsburgh Pirates, the team that drafted him in 1985. Though the official announcement hadn’t come yet, I quickly purchased tickets figuring I could sell them if I was unable to make the cross-country trip from Chicago.
When the time finally came, my best friend, Erik, and I met in San Francisco for the Aug. 11 game. We had no idea what we were in — we were just two baseball nerds in it for the experience. But what we got was something we’ll never forget. At the ceremony, various members of Bonds’ family and the Giants organization spoke of his contributions, including former Cubs manager Dusty Baker and Mays, Bonds’ godfather.
Mays sat in his wheelchair, quiet as usual while others spoke. But someone asked him if he’d like to say a few things, and to the surprise of everyone in the ballpark, he not only took the microphone but he rose to his feet to speak. As he stood, I remember turning to Erik in shock. The great Willie Mays is going to speak! I had never seen him in person. Almost in unison, most people in the stadium rose to their feet and pulled out their phones to record. With assistance from Baker, Mays made his way to the podium and delivered a heartfelt speech about the love he had for Bonds and made a plea for the slugger to be elected to the Hall of Fame before Mays’ passing. It was a moving experience.
Sure, you can feel however you’d like about Bonds, but that isn’t the point. Seeing and hearing from one of the greatest players the game has ever known in San Francisco, where he spoke of maybe the one player who was closer to him than any of us could ever imagine, gave me chills. Just writing this is bringing tears to my eyes.
Before I walked out of Rickwood Field, I looked around one last time, taking in the fact I was standing on hallowed ground. I didn’t want the moment to be “I remember where I was when Willie Mays died” but “I remember being where the legend of Willie Mays was born.”
While Mays’ death might have come at an unfortunate time because of the events planned in his honor, I looked at it differently.
Mays’ spirit ascended at a time in which many who cared for him gathered to pay tribute to his career but instead got to celebrate his life. What’s more powerful than that?
As I exited, I walked past a sign that read “Don’t feel sorry for the Black baseball player. Feel sorry for the ones who didn’t get to see them play.” It was a quote from the legendary Buck O’Neil.
The “Say Hey Kid” was one of the few who made it from the Negro Leagues to MLB, and if you got to see him, you got to see the greatest.
