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Willie was dead right. He was indeed a pro ballplayer, and the big-league scouts soon had their eyes on him. In the spring of 1950, agents of the Chicago White Sox and the Boston Braves were waiting for his class to graduate from Fairfield High so that they could make him an offer. While they waited, a couple of hustling Giant scouts, Ed Montague and Bill Harris, came to Birmingham to take a look at the Barons' first baseman. That night Montague telephoned New York. "That first baseman won't do," he reported. "But I saw a young kid of an outfielder that I can't believe. He can run, hit to either field, and he has a real good arm. Don't ask any questions. You've got to get this boy."
Wily Jack Schwartz, chief assistant to Carl Hubbell, the pitcher who now runs the Giants' farm system, was convinced. He told Montague to go get Willie. "Don't leave without signing him," ordered Schwartz. The Braves had already made a "win and if" offer to the Barons' manager—$7,500 for Willie's contract, $7,500 more if he made good. Montague promptly upped the ante to a flat $10,000 for the Barons. After Willie's graduation, Montague offered him a personal bonus of $5,000. Willie signed on as a New York Giant.
Ground Broken. Young, impressionable, little-tutored in the ways of the world, Willie Mays might not have been a wise gamble had he come along a few years before. But by the time the Giants signed him, the ground was well broken for Negroes in the majors. The Brooklyn Dodgers and Jackie Robinson had been the pioneers, and the New York Giants, by the time Mays signed his contract, had already taken on Hank Thompson, Monte Irvin and a Cuban catcher named Rafael Noble.* Willie Mays was able to meet the test strictly on his merits as a ballplayer.
Willie started with the Giants' farm club in Trentom, N.J. in the Class B Inter-State League. By the next spring (1951), he was up to Triple A ball in Minneapolis. Willie was working overtime on his hitting. He collected pictures of his favorite ballplayer, Joe DiMaggio. He studied Joe's stance in the batter's box, patterned his swing after the Yankee Clipper's. Mays began to connect almost every other time at bat.
In the field, however, Willie was content to be just Willie. DiMag, with his effortless ground-eating lope, made the hard ones look easy. Willie, with his jackrabbit sprint and his flashy, breadbasket catch, made even the high, arcing flies that fielders call "cans of corn" look hard. Willie could break a batter's heart with astonishing, acrobatic saves. Everything he did in the field he did instinctively well.
"God gave Willie the instincts of a ballplayer," explains Leo Durocher. "All I had to do was add a little practical advice about wearing his pants higher to give the pitchers a smaller strike zone. Otherwise, I let Willie's instincts alone. Hit the kid a fly with a couple of men on and he'll peg to the right base without thinking. Maybe I'll tell him where to play for this or that batter, or when to wait out a pitcher. That's all. Hell, I learn about baseball just by watching the kid."