This is a guest opinion column

Last Tuesday (June 18), as my friends and I walked through the gates of Rickwood Field, we were greeted by a makeshift museum exhibit dedicated to the legends of baseball’s Negro Leagues. Colorfully designed pillars paid tribute to players like Jackie Robinson, Josh Gibson, and Satchel Paige.

But I couldn’t help but point at the picture of Willie Mays. “Y’all know he was the greatest of all time, right?” I said to anyone willing to entertain me. And I didn’t get any pushback—even from the Braves fans among our crew.

Though this is far from a bold take, it’s one I became increasingly willing to make over the years. I grew up putting Hank Aaron on a pedestal, equating home runs with the pinnacle of baseball prowess. But as I learned more about the game and began to appreciate its many nuances, I understood that Willie couldn’t just do it all—he excelled in every respect.

And he just so happened to grow up in the same county that I did. Sure, he was born into drastically different circumstances than I was. And yes, he played his last professional game more than a decade before I was born. But I’m proud to be from the same place as Willie, despite the complicated context that comes with such a statement.

It’s hard not to think about Mays when you’re at Rickwood Field. Countless legends have passed through and played on that field, but it was Mays’ home turf—his first home turf as a professional ballplayer (who hadn’t even graduated high school yet).

As we settled into our seats along the third base line—just a few sections away from the Willie Mays Pavillion—I thought about how special it was that his Giants would be playing here in Birmingham later in the week. Even though he had released a statement to the San Francisco Chronicle stating that he couldn’t attend, the game would be a beautiful tribute to the Say Hey Kid, yet another reason to give the 93-year-old his flowers.

But midway through the game, I received an ESPN notification on my phone that took my breath away. It felt like a cruel joke of cosmic proportions. How could this parade turn into a funeral? How could Willie be gone?

There’s a terrible sensation that comes over us when we receive bad news. It’s near impossible to keep it to ourselves, as if the weight of information is simply too much to bear alone. And so we pass it along to whomever we’re with, whoever needs to know, as if witnessing their reaction helps to alleviate our own.

In this case, it was Bill, my friend Jon’s father, whom I’d only met a time or two before that night. I put my hand on his shoulder and showed him the alert on my phone, repeating the news as if the text itself wouldn’t sink in: “Willie Mays just died.” He couldn’t believe it. As the news spread along our row, none of us could.

After enjoying hours of camaraderie, I suddenly didn’t feel much like bantering. My mind couldn’t make space for any other thoughts. Mercifully, minutes later, that awful news that I couldn’t unlearn was shared in between innings as the announcer paid tribute and Mays’ photo graced the scoreboard in memoriam.

The crowd was silenced as we all listened, processing together, sharing our disbelief. And then there was nothing else to do but stand and applaud. As a form of group catharsis, it was effective. But as a salute to Birmingham’s native son and one of baseball’s most undeniable talents, it simply didn’t feel like enough. Didn’t they have fireworks laying around? Weren’t there any cannons nearby that could be deployed? Couldn’t somebody assemble a makeshift jazz band in the walkways?

Willie Mays lived 34,012 days on this earth and left it just two days shy of seeing his San Francisco Giants play a ceremonial game in his hometown. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem fair. He should’ve been at Major League Baseball’s first game at Rickwood Field. He should’ve seen and heard that standing ovation.

Then again, maybe it was perfect. When the world found out that it had lost a baseball titan, Rickwood Field was open for business. The stands were full. And the home team was wearing the uniforms of the Birmingham Black Barons. After running the bases for a living, Willie Mays found a way for his life to come full circle that night.

And those of us who were there will keep telling that story to anyone who’ll listen.