TALKING WITH WILLIE MAYS AT HIS BAY AREA HOME
Just before the pandemic started in 2019, I signed on two documentary projects, one as director and the other as a producer. I directed a documentary about baseball great Willie Mays, who was then ninety-one, and worked as a producer on a documentary series about Tupac Shakur and his mother Afeni, which led us to interview former Black Panthers in their seventies. During this period I also had two long phone conversations with jazz giant Sonny Rollins, who was ninety-two. Subsequently I would interview civil rights icon Andrew Young, who’d been an advisor to Martin Luther King, the first black Mayor of Atlanta, and United Nations ambassador, who was also ninety-two years old.
Aside from these famous names, work has led me into conversations with their friends and colleagues, including a minister in Alabama who was ninety-five, and others in their late ‘80s. These elders had been baseball players, revolutionaries, and jazz musicians. Some were legendary. One notorious to law enforcement. All had lived longer than all my mentors and my father. When hey sat for my questions, their mood shifted from amused to irritated to bored, depending on what I asked and how long they’d been sitting. While still reeling from the death in 2020 of my father and several close friends, these conversations served as a counter balance, offering me a perspective on life from extremely grown ass men.
Number one their sense of time fascinated me. In some cases, events from thirty, forty and, fifty years ago, came back to them in great detail, bringing smiles, frowns, and faraway looks as those moments happened again as we spoke. What they had for dinner last dinner may have been a murky memory, but a ball game in ’65, a recording session in ’58, or a police shoot out in ’71 was crystal clear.
There was no need to try to be clever in interviewing them. They’d been answering questions from journalists, family members, and wives longer than I’d been alive. What they didn’t want to talk about they weren’t going to talk about. Period. As a group they were very much about their money. They were happy to talk about the past, but it had a price and I’m not talking about a wired deposit. A check, but especially cash in hand, made them happy. They weren’t talking for their health or for good PR. The feel of U.S. currency made them comfortable. One interview subject gave us three great stories and then got up and left, three having been his quota of “free” stories. Another man, who hadn’t been out of his house in a year because of Covid-19, still walked around with a fat role of Benjamins in his pants. They wanted their time to be respected because they knew it was precious.
Every man was dealing with some health issue. Parts of their bodies were wearing out, a fact that clearly pissed them off. Yet the life force that had sustained them so many decades still radiated, especially once they got talking. Getting into the interview chair sometimes made them seem fragile. But once comfortable, the men cursed, laughed, and instructed with the same passion I saw in photos and YouTube videos from their twenties and thirties.
Now that I’ve reached my sixties, I’ve experienced a two headed monster of fear: one, that I’ll die too young to have accomplished everything important to me, professionally and personally; two, that I’ll live too long and become a weak, feeble old man, unable to talk care of himself. Truth be told, both out comes are out of my control. Pretty much, these men all had the same attitude: it is what it is. Whether they believed in God or the overthrow of the U.S. government, they still loved life and were not ready to go, prepared to fight death with whatever remaining strength they had. (Only one of them has passed since we spoke.)
Whenever I inquired about whether they regretted any decisions, none of these elders were interested in “What if?” Sure, they had a regret or two, but what lingered with them was what they’d done and acceptance of those decisions. If they’d done bad things – picked a woman’s pocket or choose a crooked business partner – they saw it as a lesson learned. Maybe that was a defense mechanism (who wants to see themselves as the villain or victim of their story?) but there was an understandable pragmatism in their thinking.
Several were literally the last man standing - their wives, their childhood pals, co-workers and, sadly, even some of their children - were dead. Who do you apologize to? Perhaps God, but then why rush that? You’d be speaking face to face with God or whoever soon enough. If they’d done something deemed heroic – made the great catch or played a legendary solo – it was cool, but there was always a moment that few remembered that, for them, was truer and more important.
What I took from these conversations was that, with time, you must balance any sadness with acceptance of who you were. Instead, focus on turning regret into understanding. I was just a kid to them. I could not just have been their son, but conceivably their grandson. I wanted to ask them the secret to a long life, but it was clear from our conversations they didn’t have one. Besides, that wasn’t really an important question. Life isn’t just about length. It’s about engaging with the world with time you have.
Love this reflection! First, what an honor to be able to break bread and record and extend the history of these icons. Their stories are important and so are their reflections. The fact that you truly appreciate this is a gift and it comes out in your work. Turning 59 this year, I also think about these things but find myself reminding myself that "this is your life...right here..right now..."..Thxs for sharing!
I have those same concerns that you have being in my early 60's