It was getting late. The few employees still left in the store were skillfully avoiding eye contact. There was a party down the block, a real rager according to the night manager. I was too young to grasp the implications of that type of fete, imagining it involved a surplus of candy and multiple television sets all tuned to the most popular cartoons of the day. I called to one of the fellas sweeping up, “hey there, stock boy.” He turned, barely. When I flashed some cash, the combination of my allowance and car wash money, he begrudgingly came on over.
“You know we’re closing soon.”
“I’d like a fitted hat. A nice one, like the players wear.”
I had grown tired of adjustable caps with their cheap plastic backing, breaking and cracking at the slightest head tilt.
“Okay, but we have to measure your head first.”
I thought he said, “we have to measure you headfirst.” I ran to one end of the store bending over, steadying myself for a toboggan-style torpedo sprint.
“Hold on, what are you doing? Sit down, sit tight. I gotta go in the back to get the tools.”
Fifteen minutes later, the guy returned from the back carrying five tools in his hand. But I could only make out some measuring tape, a pair of metal calipers and a staple gun. I assumed, from what adults had told me, that these sporting goods goobers would take my word for it. This isn’t like buying shoes where they get down on one knee and measure your soles. I’m here to buy a hat, not a suit.
“Are you licensed to do this?”
“This won’t hurt.”
It didn’t seem right that some high school kid making less than minimum wage should be handling something as delicate as my precious noggin. So I threw what money I had at his feet and grabbed a hats several sizes too small. From there on out, I embraced ill-fitting clothing, as much as you can embrace something with that many folds. If it was good enough for the great Willie Mays, born 90 years ago, then by God, it was good enough for me.
Like Willie, I wished to create an atmosphere of unadulterated joy everywhere I went. There was the time in French class when I used my neck tie to lasso an insolent classmate, unwilling to conjugate the verb “partir,” much to the amusement of all involved. And after a few minutes of laughter, I let him go. I caught a frisbee in the college with one of my khaki cuffs. I first made myself known in advertising by hiring a few unemployed street artists to paint my lengthy shirt sleeves. It’s not like I was about to get tatted up to fit in. Instead of using regular fabric, I wore two firehoses as long as the Holland Tunnel. More than a few people fled the building thinking there was an impending emergency. At around 4 pm, after hours struggling to get a grip on my shirt, I was finally able to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Willie Mays let his hats fly off in the outfield or while rounding the bases, providing a genuine thrill for the adoring Giant faithful. If the hat didn’t fit, you’d know it was a base hit. He was a showman, an entertainer, a genius. I never played stickball with neighborhood children, but I did learn to play pétanque under the tutelage of elderly, ornery Frenchmen, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes in Bryant Park. There, in the shadow of the Grace Building, I came to appreciate the finer points of boules. Not so easy with a round object. Although, in this respect, I was one of the children in awe of Guillaume Labyrinthe.
Some might say Willie Mays was out building his brand with bespoke content. Not me though.
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