Willie Davis, 1940-2010Willie Davis died this past week at age 69, in his apartment in Burbank. A terrific ballplayer who won several Gold Gloves as a centerfielder and who was Speedy Gonzales on the basepaths, his personal demons led him into some dark places both during and after his baseball career was over—a fate that all too often overtakes major league athletes no matter what their sport.
I'm a SoCal transplant and was for many years a devoted Dodger fan. I saw Willie play in quite a few games and listened to many more on the radio. I loved those 1960s Dodgers—Maury Wills, Tommy Davis, and, atop my own personal Mt. Olympus of baseball players, Sandy Koufax—and struggled to stay loyal to them after moving to Davis, but one day realized the team and organization I'd loved had been replaced by something I didn't recognize any longer. And, after spending a couple of years in baseball limbo, embraced the Giants as my own. Now, you couldn't pry me away.
Funny thing, though; despite my now-fierce love for the orange and black, I can't bring myself to hate the Dodgers. Hope to shellack them each and every game, hope to see them in the cellar at the end of the season, boo Manny til I'm hoarse . . . but hate them? Can't do it. No matter what happens as time passes, first love is always special.
