OK, I suppose it’s a bit macabre to suggest that news of Willie Mays’s passing at age 93 last week was good in any way, but in the midst of this unrelentingly nasty presidential election race, we were all treated to a brief respite full of warm memories of the Say Hey Kid and a reminder of a simpler time with genuine heroes whom we could revere forever.

For my first 12 years, our family lived in baseball Mecca — the greater New York City area and its THREE major league baseball dynasties: the New York Yankees (with Mickey Mantle), the Brooklyn Dodgers (with Jackie Robinson), and the New York Giants (of course, featuring Willie Mays). And those superheroes were each surrounded by a pantheon of baseball greats, future Hall of Famers like Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Pee Wee Reese, Yogi Berra, Monte Irvin, and others.

At my Catholic Elementary School in Merrick Long Island, we wore uniforms, but we had to demonstrate visible allegiance to just one of those teams via ball cap. Mine was Royal Blue with white “B” for Brooklyn, and I wore it to school every day. About 80% of our class were Dodger or Yankee (Navy Blue with white NY logo) fans — not surprising, given the near-annual Yankees-Dodgers World Series matchups.

Like most young boys of that era, eventually, I was treated to the great revelation of live baseball. In those days, we heard ball games on the radio (I listened with my grandfather in the front seat of his car, parked in our driveway), or we watched on grainy black and white TV sets. But one day, I went with a classmate and his dad into the city via the Long Island Railroad, then the subway, walked forever through gray canyons between tall buildings, then ultimately into the upper deck of Yankee Stadium — and I will never forget my first glimpse of the dazzling expanse of brilliant green dotted with players in bright white uniforms. (The Yanks beat the Senators, 3-1).

A few years later, I finally had a chance to see my personal heroes, the Dodgers, at Ebbets Field, thanks to a Cub Scout or Altar Boy day trip — I can’t remember which, but I do remember seeing the great Jackie Robinson. That day, he played left field — not his usual spot — and our seats were in the left field bleachers, so there he was right in front of us. My recollection was awe — he was BIG, sweating in his white flannels under the hot sun. And he was black, significantly, but I don’t remember giving that any thought — his presence, power, speed, and grace stole the day. I knew the color barrier was a big deal among the grown-ups, but we Dodger fans barely noticed it.

Our hero worship was idealistic. Over the years, biographies of ballplayers revealed the cracks in their armor, but their life-long dedication to the craft of baseball was and still is undeniable. That dedication was amplified by the practice at that time for players to spend their entire careers with one team.

In later years, after Curt Flood’s famous hold-out and subsequent court rulings, we learned that their “dedication” to one team was the unavoidable consequence of the team owners’ unfair contractual restrictions on player trades — but no matter, we die-hard fans knew that OUR heroes would always be there, playing for US on OUR team, year in and year out. That was particularly important for Dodger fans, stuck with “wait ‘til next year” condolences after each annual World Series trouncing by the hated Yanks.

We emulated our heroes by playing baseball, or some semblance of baseball, all summer long. In my neighborhood, we played in a triangular empty lot across the street, with room for three bases (trees, actually), not four, but close enough. We had made-up rules, no uniforms, no coaches, no umpires, no parents — just kids. We used old baseballs wrapped in black electrical tape (nearly invisible — and lethal — after dark). We played in the afternoons, went home to supper, then back out until mothers started calling us in from their back porches. My prized possession was my glove, a MacGregor first baseman’s mitt purchased (I think for $7) with paper route money. I still have it.

Our alternate venue was the church parking lot, two blocks away. There we played stickball, another ersatz baseball game, with pink “Spaldine” balls and broomsticks for bats. That gave us more room, but with the major downside that home run balls that cleared the convent wall had to then be retrieved — a risky foray into the imposing nuns’ no man’s land. Absent a courageous volunteer, the perilous rescue usually fell to the unfortunate home-run hitter.

As an 80-year-old, I look back at what was a much simpler, easier time to grow up in this great country. I know that we can’t unwind history or un-invent our 21st-century conveniences. We had no cellphones (although Dick Tracy in the comic strips planted the idea), no social media, no worries about riding our bikes (usually with two aboard) through unsafe neighborhoods, no agonized concerns about whether we were born in the “right” body. We were kids, allowed to be kids.

What a gift it would be if we could find a way to restore that simplicity to the lives of today’s youngsters.