For Mr. Mays, and my Gram

My grandmother most certainly knew him though. Gram was a concessions worker at Candlestick Park for 40 years. She started working there in 1960, during the second home stand the Giants ever played there. She went on to work Giants and 49ers games until closing out Candlestick with the Giants in 1999, and moved over to then Pac Ball Park, managing the Doggie Diner stand on the lower concourse on the third-base side back of the Giants’ dugout, until she retired after the 2003 baseball season.

Gram knew Willie Mays and Willie McCovey — I still have both their personalized autographs she gifted me — and, in working the mezzanine level at Candlestick nearest the luxury suites and press booths for many years, she was well acquainted with all the Giants’ writers and broadcasters. Years later, at an employees’ event at the new ballpark, she took an amazing Kinderfoto-style picture with Barry Bonds. They were both smiling ear to ear in the picture, likely because she was regaling him with stories about his godfather.

My grandmother was quite the people person.

When Willie Mays died last Tuesday, I’ve got to admit, the emotion that struck me was selfish. Not that I didn’t have reverence and a distant affection for him. My grief, however, wasn’t for Mr. Mays. Not directly.

I heard the news of his death in real time by happenstance. I was supposed to be at a Little League game. It wasn’t for work, but as a field trip with my mom, who gets a kick out of Little League baseball. I was planning on taking her to an evening game in Foster City, but en route we hit gridlock on Highway 101. By the time it let up, it was 15 minutes past game time. So, instead of being late for the game, we called an audible and decided to go for dinner instead.

We went to the Swingin’ Door on 25th Avenue for fish and chips. It was a beautiful evening, and we found a cozy bench on the patio out back. I found it strange all the TVs in the place were turned to Game 5 of the Stanley Cup finals while the Giants were playing, but the staff there is always super warm and welcoming, and the bartender was quick on the trigger of the remote control to put the Giants game on one of the patio TVs upon my request.

It was one of those surreal moments — the ones you don’t realize you’re about to experience that you’ll remember the rest of your life. I returned to the patio with sodas for my mom and me, sat down, noticed a ray of sunshine gleaming through the overhead sunscreen and shining right on my face. It was at that moment the announcement was made on the Giants’ television broadcast that Willie Mays had died.

My mom and I were both quiet for a moment. My thoughts, as I’m sure hers did as well, went immediately to my grandmother. I thought of the smile she shared with Barry Bonds in that photo. I thought of the way she gave the world of baseball to me, and all the days and years I’d tag along with her to Candlestick Park.

Then I thought of the in memoriam she never received from the San Francisco Giants.

My grandmother, Helen Katherine Robles, died Feb. 20, 2022 at the age of 97 after a long bout with dementia. I remember thinking the day she died it was too bad she didn’t go two days later. Gram always had a thing for recurring numbers. She’d love those times of the day, like 4:44, when she could announce “4! 4! 4!” with glee. Once when she was on a break from the concession stand at Candlestick Park, and she came to keep me company in my seat in Section 4 of the upper deck, one of those glorious scoreboard moments occurred with with 2 balls, 2 strikes and 2 outs with No. 2 at bat. She rejoiced “2! 2! 2! 2!”

Had you died on Feb. 22, 2022, Gram, it would have been perfect 2s. I can still hear your voice rejoicing nonetheless, saying “2! 2! 0! 2! 2!” It would have made you just as happy.

With my grandmother dying just over a month prior to Opening Day 2022, I contacted the Giants and asked to have her included in the traditional Opening Day in memoriam shown on the videoboard that includes all those the Giants’ family lost over the previous year. I was told they could not include her because she was not a current employee of the Giants when she died.

I understand there is a line any professional organization has to draw when it comes to these sorts of things, but wherever the Giants choose to draw that line, my grandmother certainly belongs on the other side of it. She worked for them for 44 years. I understand that’s not quite as long as Mr. Mays worked for them, but she, like he and Barry Bonds — who I will always defend against naysayers for one simple reason, if it wasn’t for him and the sacrifices he made to stay on the playing field, there would be no Oracle Park — helped to build the legacy of the park, and the organization.

There isn’t enough homage to pay for the brilliance the Say Hey Kid gave to all of us who love the game of baseball, and the wonder he brought to the greater community at large of San Francisco and the Bay Area. I guess this really hit me Monday during the Giants’ pregame tribute to see, while not surprised, how saddened Barry Bonds was.

My heart goes out to you Barry, as it does to the Mays family, and all those grieving the loss of Mr. Mays. I hope to see you smile again the way you’re smiling in that picture with my Gram.