This year, for reasons not entirely clear—whether because of weariness brought on by too much baseball, or indifference brought on by a one-sided pennant race, or disdain brought on by a too appreciative evaluation of his own worth—W. Mays, outfielder, just doesn't do things like that any more.
It's a shame, too, because it wasn't Willie's .345 average, his 42 home runs, his great catches, that made him the most treasured ballplayer in the country. It was the way he played, with that wild, boyish abandon. He never cheated the demanding baseball fan. He gave everything. When he gives up now, even on a hopeless quest, he isn't the same Mays.
I suspect this Mays would never have caught the ball that Vic Wertz hit in the World Series. He'd know he couldn't get to it.