Baseball had more broken hearts than broken bats and breaking sliders.

Willie Mays, the “Say Hey Kid” who became “The Greatest Living Player,” died Tuesday.

He also shared his first name with my mom and his love of baseball with my dad.

So, in solace, sorrow and silence, the world stood still for moments of aMaysing memories.

Seventy years ago this week on my eighth birthday, my father announced that my present was a train trip from Memphis to St. Louis, hard by the mighty Mississippi, for my first major league series between the Cardinals and the Giants.

“You’ll get to see the Cards’ Stan “The Man’’ Musial and that young player you love for New York, Willie Mays.’’ I would be the luckiest boy on the face of the Earth as I clutched the 1954 Topps baseball cards of Mays and Musial next to my heart in my shirt pocket, and my oiled-up baseball glove on my knee, during the long ride as Woodrow and Woody talked ball.

Dad was orphaned at age two and diagnosed with diabetes at seven – and had to spend a year in a hospital. The charity ward’s window looked out on the Memphis minor league ballpark, and he consumed every game. When his own son was seven they became regulars at Russwood Park. I asked dad, who grew up picking cotton in Tupelo, Miss., why Black folks had a special section in left field. “It’s just wrong,’’ he said simply. I didn’t understand, so he took me to a Memphis Red Sox Negro League game against the Birmingham Black Barons and said, “Son, here we can all sit anywhere we want, and Black players can play.’’ I believe I understood.

Wille Mays, Hank Aaron and Red Sox player Charlie Pride (who became a country music star) certainly understood.

My dad, who had taken a second job to pay for our adventure, checked us into the Chase Hotel where the visiting teams stayed when playing at Sportsman’s Park, and we ate 10-cent burgers at White Castle. We waited in the lobby as the Giants came through, and I spotted Willie. As I tried to get an autograph I was shoved into a crowd.

The ’54 Cardinals had their first Black player – Thomas Edison Alston.

On July 15, dad and I kept a scorecard, bought caps of both teams and almost caught one foul ball in the second deck. Was this heaven? Better than. The Giants shut out the Cardinals 4-0. Willie was 0-for-4 and Stan 2-of-3. The next night the Cardinals won 5-4 as Musial hit his 27th homer of the season, but, lo and behold, Mays slammed his 32nd. And in the wild finale the Giants prevailed 10-9. But both my heroes were hitless.

I slept to sweet dreams all the way home.

Mays became the National League’s MVP that season with 41 homers, 110 RBIs and a .345 batting average. Stan Musial finished sixth (35 homers, 126 RBIs, 120 runs, 103 walks and .330 average). The Giants won the NL pennant and met the Indians in the World Series. In the opening game all Willie did was make the greatest, all time over-the-shoulder unique basket catch, running at full speed, 425 feet in center field. Then he turned and threw to the infield. The Giants swept the Series.

My dad bought our first TV to watch the Series, and I stayed home from school. I decided to become a sportswriter.

In the summer of ’64, Woodrow’s graduation gift to Woody was a Deja vu revisit to St. Louis for a series between the Cardinals and the San Francisco Giants. Musial had retired after the previous season, but Mays remained one of the best ever at 33, with 47 home runs, 111 runs batted in and a .296 average. His teammates included Willie McCovey, Orlando Cepeda, Juan Marichal, Duke Snider and Harvey Kuenn. The Cardinals were led by Bob Gibson, Curt Flood, Lou Brock, Bill White and a Memphian I played junior baseball against – Tim McCarver. In four games at Busch Stadium, June 18-21, Willie blasted three home runs. But only was shut down by Gibson.

This time my father, suffering the devastating long-term effects of diabetes in his 30s, slept on the train back home. Those were our last games together before he died too young.

I did get to take my mom, Willie Belle, to her first Major League game in Denver, and she became a loyal Rockies fan until she died.

Because of my job I often saw Willie Mays, who was with the Mets in his final season, at a 1983 old-timers game in Denver, during All-Star events when he was honored and annually at spring training.

Two years ago friends and I went to a Scottsdale steakhouse frequented by MLB types. At 91, Mays was slumped behind a table selling merch. He had slowed down considerably and was aided (?) by several associates. I approached and said: “Willie, I’m Woody. I saw you play in 1974, and I couldn’t get an autograph then. Would you sign this ball for Woodrow and Willie?’’ He didn’t look up as he scribbled an unrecognizable signature. The man behind him said: “50 dollars,’’ It was a cheerless conclusion with my favorite ballplayer.

Willie, Mickey and The Duke, Stan The Man, Woodrow and Willie are, sadly, all gone.

I will think of them all and thank them all June 27.