There are tinges of gray in his hair and his body is bulkier now, made thicker by the advancing years. His face, once so smooth, has lines in it, creases etched there by all those innings, all those games.
Willie Mays turns 70 on Sunday.
He will always be remembered as young and strong, fast and flashy, perhaps the best player of his time, perhaps the best of any time.
He will always be outrunning fly balls in center field, covering the ground effortlessly, running the bases with abandon, his cap flying off as he dashes from first to third, taking chances and daring anybody to do something about it.
He will always be playing the game with a joyful exuberance, the energy of youth wrapped around skills and instincts that can't be taught and can barely be described.
He will always be the Say Hey Kid.
There is a housing project in the heart of Harlem, at the upper reaches of Manhattan, a place where a ballpark called the Polo Grounds once stood and a team called the New York Giants once played. It was in that ballpark and for that team that Willie Mays began to weave his legend and legacy.
Mays spent the bulk of his career in a wind tunnel called Candlestick Park, but he first became a star in the Polo Grounds.
This was a ballpark built for polo, shaped like a horseshoe, short down the foul lines with a huge expanse of real estate in the outfield. It was the perfect showplace for a center fielder who could run down balls, a center fielder like Willie Mays.
He was one of the greatest hitters in history. His resume includes 660 home runs, third on the career list, 3,283 hits and 1,903 runs batted in. There were two MVP awards, nothing unusual there. What was remarkable was that they came 11 years apart, the first in 1954, the second in 1965.
But it was defense that set Mays apart. He had athleticism and speed, skills that turned long drives into nothing more than long outs.
In the first game of the 1954 World Series, Cleveland's Vic Wertz hit a ball about as hard and as far as it could be hit. His mistake was hitting it to straightaway center field at the Polo Grounds, Mays' territory.
When Wertz connected, Mays turned and ran toward the bleachers. The sign on the wall read 483 feet and he was heading straight for it. With his back to the plate, Mays caught the ball, then whirled and relayed it to the infield, keeping two runners from advancing.
Naturally, his hat flew off.
The catch defied reality, dazzling everyone in the old ballpark.
Don Liddle, a left-hander, had been brought in to pitch to the lefty-swinging Wertz. Now he would be lifted for righty reliever Marv Grissom. When Grissom arrived at the mound, Liddle, equipped with a dry sense of humor, quipped, "Well, I got my man."
That catch was perhaps the most famous of Mays' career, largely because it came in the spotlight of the World Series. He made others, though, that were comparable, perhaps even better.
In the heat of the 1951 pennant race, the Giants had started their pursuit of the Brooklyn Dodgers so far behind that every game became crucial for them. One afternoon in August, the Dodgers were in the Polo Grounds when Mays, a rookie then, put his mark on the race.
In a tight game, the Dodgers got Billy Cox to third base. Carl Furillo lofted a fly ball to right field, where Don Mueller was stationed for the Giants. Mueller, a fine hitter, had a mediocre arm and the Dodgers knew it. As the right fielder prepared for the catch, Cox tagged up.
If the Dodgers knew that Mueller's arm was only average, so did the Giants. Mays came racing over from center field, made the catch and then whirled around and uncorked a perfect throw to catcher Wes Westrum.
Cox, running with his head down, never had a clue about what Mays had done. He had to be the most amazed man in the ballpark when he arrived at the plate and found Westrum waiting for him with the ball.
It was a stunning play, a once-in-a-lifetime play, a play that defined Willie Mays.
After the game, Brooklyn manager Chuck Dressen was asked about the marvelous catch and the startling throw, about the breathtaking defensive skills of the kid in center field. Never willing to give an inch in the heat of the Dodgers-Giants rivalry, Dressen sneered.
"I'd like to see him do it again," he said.
Three years later, Mays did.