Willie Mays’s philosophy was simple: They throw the ball, I hit the ball

Playing stickball taught him how to hit curveballs. You never knew how the surface of the street might skew that high, wild bounce. Apart from that, though, he did not have much to learn. His father, nicknamed “Cat” for his slinky prowess on the field, had played baseball between jobs down near Birmingham, Alabama. It was he who taught him how to be a centre fielder and to stick with the game. At 16, playing practically barefooted, he already knew exactly what he had to do. His body was built for baseball, strong, sinewy and graceful, like his Dad’s. He could hit a ball out of the park, defend, outsmart anyone and catch mostly anything. Easy. That happy certainty lasted years.