Our culture has always been confused about the difference between heroes and celebrities. Even more so now. We seem to equate the well-known with the exceptional. No wonder all manner of folks from a professional wrestler to a professional con-man has been elected to political office.
Recently, we've lost some real cultural heroes. That they became famous and thus celebrated has more to do with their character and deeds than their air-time. How do you compare a Hank Aaron or a John Lewis, with a loudmouth salesman, a mediocre actor, or a paranoid bully?
You can't. The medium really has become the message, hasn't it?
I'm bracing myself for the loss of more true heroes. I'm at the age when my childhood idols are passing the torch and passing from this world. Seems like they come in bunches these days. But there are two, just over the age of 80 that will hit the hardest.
My first two idols were Willie Mays and then Bob Dylan. Like millions, no doubt, they were influential and transformative in my passage from childhood to adulthood.
I've never met either in person but came close once. In the early 1980s, I went to the California State Fair in Sacramento. I was on my way to Lake Tahoe for the weekend with some friends and we stopped briefly in Sacramento. They wanted to check on another friend who lived there and I drove over to the Fairgrounds to stop by the Press Box at the racetrack there. It was August, and in my second job as a correspondent for a thoroughbred magazine a slow time for big races. I thought I'd just check-in and pick up the latest press releases, talk to a few of the media reps I knew, and get caught up on recent developments before a relaxing weekend.
Walking across the fairgrounds, I heard an announcement. "Attention fairgoers, the autograph session featuring Johnny Unitas and Willie Mays will end in 10 minutes." Apparently, those two sports heroes were signing autographs near the saddling paddock of the racetrack. The session ran from 11-12 pm. It was a good way to draw folks to the fair, and especially to the 10 race program to begin at 12:15 that afternoon.
I momentarily thought of rushing over there. My watch said 11:53 and I figured I was about a 10 min. walk from the track, so I just smiled and slowed my pace. I reached the track a few minutes past noon and then began to figure out how to get to the Press Box. Press credentials in hand, I asked a security guard near the entrance. He told me that unlike other fair tracks, this Press Box was only reachable by a staircase almost hidden from the entrance. I thanked him and then located the door that opened to a wide cement staircase, much like one in a parking lot. As I began the climb, I heard voices and noticed that three people were above me on the staircase, taking their time and laughing and joking as they climbed the steps. I recognized the director of publicity from my time in track Press Boxes, but who were the other two gray-haired gentlemen? As I got within a few steps from them, it became clear. Standing about 5 feet from me and completely unaware of my presence was Willie Mays and Johnny Unitas, arguably the two greatest athletes of the 1960s.
Was this my chance to get a Mays autograph?
Major dilemma. I knew how much these two cultural icons valued their privacy. Wouldn't I be just another autograph hunter. And out of bounds, too because their time for signing was over.
I slowed my step, remembering something I'd learned at the Bay Meadows Press Box. The Bay Area track's Press Box was often frequented by Joe Dimaggio. When I became a regular, I was told to avoid talking to him and to respect his privacy--always. I got that. So that became the norm.
As I relented I started making excuses in my mind for why I never approached Willie Mays. What if I got dissed big time. What if he was angry that someone ambushed him for one last autograph. I'd read that Mays could have a short fuse, especially given the abuse and discrimination he had to endure in the early part of his career. I let it go. Sometimes just getting close is enough.
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