The day Willie Mays drove house me house in his pink Thunderbird

My mom dropped us off at the main entrance to Seals Stadium. “Remember to save some of that money (15 cents) for the bus and streetcar home!”

There we were, best friend Kent Eagleson and me, at a Giants-Dodgers game in 1959. 

During the game, Eagleson casually said, “After the game, let’s ask Willie for a ride home!” 

“What? Willie? Willie Mays? We can’t ask Mays for a ride home! We’re just a couple of kids! Where do we find him? What if he says no?”

Game ends, Eagleson says, “Come on!”

Minutes later, Eagleson and I are outside the Giants clubhouse waiting along with reporters for the players to exit. We saw Daryl Spencer, Felipe Alou, Leon Wagner, Jimmy Davenport, “Sad” Sam Jones, Jose Pagan, Willie Kirkland and others answering reporters’ questions. Where in the heck is Mays?

Finally, someone shouts, “Over here, Willie!”

My heart is pounding, eyes wide open, searching for Mays. Darn! It’s not Willie! Well, yes it is Willie but the wrong Willie! It’s McCovey. Darn! A minute ago we saw Willie Kirkland, now Willie McCovey. We’re running out of Willies!

Mays, all of a sudden, appears out of nowhere and is immediately surrounded by reporters. Finally, he strolls away from them. We approach and Eagleson makes his move.

“Mr. Mays, we live out by you! May we have a ride home?” Eagleson is confident and cool. I’m a mess.

“Sure. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kent Eagleson and this is Tommy O’Toole.”

We shook hands. I know I can talk. Heck, I’ve been talking Eagleson’s ear off the entire game. But now, nothing. If I can say anything, it’s going to come out sounding like a chipmunk. Best to say nothing. Let Eagleson handle things.

As the three of us walk to Willie’s car, fans either stare at Mays or say things like, “Great game, Willie!”

Mays acknowledges everyone with a nod, a smile, sometimes both. No one approaches for an autograph. No one is bothering him except maybe the two seventh-graders climbing into his pink 1958 four-seat Thunderbird. Eagleson is riding shotgun. I’m in the back. Willie Mays and his two new best friends pull out onto Potrero. I keep glancing out the window, hoping a classmate, anyone, recognizes us. I also keep glancing at Mays. Yep! That’s still him.

We take a right at 16th Street and head west. Just before Bryant — at the same place my mother dropped us off hours ago — Mays honks and pulls over to the right, surprising not only us but four Dodgers walking down 16th Street. Willie shouts, “Good game!” Maury Wills and Jim Gilliam bend down and peer into the car. Wills smiles and says, “Hey, you, too, Willie! Come on have a beer with us,” pointing to the bar across from the Double Play. 

“No, man, I gotta get these kids to their home!”

One of the other players offers, “We’re stayin’ at the Pickwick — you can always come by and play cards.”

Mays says, “No, not tonight. See you guys later.”

As we speed away, Eagleson asks, “Hey Willie,” no more Mr. Mays? “that player with the gold tooth, is that?” 

“That’s Charlie Neal!”

Suddenly, another thought runs through my mind: Our parents are going to kill us. We must have died and somehow made it to heaven, and now we can’t make it home for dinner!

I wish I could say there was a lot of talking. But Eagleson and I were absorbing each second of being with Willie Mays. Mays seemed intent on getting these two kids home. On Upper Market Street, Mays is flying! I’m thinking, “This is too cool!” Looking at Eagleson, he must have been thinking the exact same thing. We both lose it and start laughing. Willie Mays is smiling.

I’m hoping we get pulled over by a cop who may know my Dad. (“Yep! I pulled over Willie Mays doing at least 50 on Upper Market yesterday. I cut him loose. He said he didn’t want your son and his pal to be late for dinner.”) No such luck. Ironic, since this is the luckiest day of my life so far.

We sail pass juvie, down Portola to Miraloma. Left at Miraloma and Yerba Buena. Please, God, don’t let this end! Finally, left onto his driveway. 

Willie stops at the top of his driveway. We exit. Kent and I go over to Willie’s side of the car and shake his hand.

“Gee! We really appreciate the ride! Thanks, Mr. Mays!”

“Now you go ahead,” Willie says, “and tell your parents you’re gentlemen.” 

I’m thinking, but still can’t speak.

I’d like to say, “Mr. Mays, here’s my home phone number. Would you mind telling them? They’re sure as hell not going to believe me!”

Thomas O’Toole owns Pacific Bancnote Co. and lives in Grass Valley (Nevada County). (Kent Eagleson is retired and lives in Novato.)