Hey, Major League Baseball.

Now you say it back, the way Willie Mays did as a young Buck in the big city, when he couldn’t remember your name but didn’t want to be impolite. Imagine. After all the names people who looked like him were called by people who didn’t.

Then he came along with his bat and his spikes, his glove and his arm, running out from under his hat, running down that line drive over his head, daring fear and ignorance to keep up. How could you hate a man with those skills and that smile?

You’re here in large part because he’s from here, and as the sign says, it’s nice to have you in Birmingham. We wanted Willie to be here, too, to watch his San Francisco Giants play the St. Louis Cardinals at Rickwood Field to honor the Negro Leagues. It would have been a fitting last public act for the man who roamed center field at Rickwood for the Black Barons, who did the same for the Giants before and after they moved from New York to California.

We hoped he would feel fit enough at 93 to come home for one last thank you for something more important than the 3,292 hits, the 660 home runs, the 12 Gold Gloves, the first-ballot Hall of Fame selection and the inclusion on any credible short list of the greatest players ever.

Say this the loudest about the Say Hey Kid: At a time when the whole world watched the worst of us, Willie Mays showed them our best.