One inevitable, and unenviable, task of getting older is accepting that people who made an impact on your life die. Today, they might be termed “influencers,” although for me, influence stemmed from actions and accomplishments beyond looking fashionable, promoting consumer goods, saying or doing outrageous things, or gaining skin-deep endorsements from a painfully shallow public.

Compared to the shocking, unexpected deaths of younger people, these predictable deaths offer a choice of reactions. One is mourning, lamenting a person’s absence and the void left behind. Another is celebrating their lives through timeless memories, including their challenges, achievements, and heartbreaks. I try to do both.

Generally, I think these emotions are best reserved for family and loved ones. But for many of us, our sense of extended family and community extends further. I’ve been deeply influenced by people I’ve never met or known in the flesh, including writers, musicians, and actors, as well as social activists, and athletes.

Paul Simon (another personal influencer) wrote and sang extraordinary songs, including these lines in 1968: ”Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.” This summer, Willie Mays, one of the greatest and most exciting baseball players of all time, left us. Those lucky enough to witness his performances turn our lonely eyes to “Say Hey Willie.”

Baseball is now a game overwhelmed by statistics. Some are recently invented and worthless, and a few would-be experts — e.g., influencers — compare players’ greatness using only numbers. If that’s your bent, Mays’ totals place him among the all-time greats. He was one of the rare players who displayed all “five tools” at the highest levels: He could hit for average, hit for power, play superb defense, throw strongly and accurately, and blind opponents with speed in center field and on the bases.

Two images from his career stand out for me: One is his over-the-shoulder “basket” catch in a World Series game in 1954 followed by a whirling, 100-yard, no-look throw to second that the live-TV announcer called “an unforgettable sight.” That single play demonstrated his speed, defense, and cannon arm. (You can relive it by simply Googling “Willie Mays catch.”)

The second familiar image appears at the end of the play: Willie Mays with his cap flying off. His speed in running and stealing bases, often stretching a double into a triple (third all-time since 1950), meant that he regularly “ran out from under his hat.”

A full generation later, Bill Walton forever changed the role of basketball big man and exuberant cultural misfit. With flowing red hair (and later beard), he forged a new identity after shining in the church of basketball fundamentals under preacher John Wooden at UCLA. Walton may have been the most fundamentally sound big man in college history by rebounding, defending, and scoring as needed, including the greatest performance ever in an NCAA Finals game in 1973 against Memphis State: 44 points on 21-for-22 shooting along with 13 rebounds.

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After college, he let his hair grow long and wavy, continued to wear tie-dye T-shirts, pursued a vegetarian diet, and was welcomed backstage as one of the Grateful Dead’s biggest fans, in both size and notoriety. He pointedly criticized the U.S. government and praised those who helped hide bank robber Patty Hearst. After injuries and strained relationships in Portland, he finally won the hearts of Trailblazer fans by leading the team to the NBA championship in 1977.

Later, Walton turned introspective, tearfully apologizing to Portland fans for multiple misunderstandings by admitting, “I wish I could do many things over, but I can’t.” Personally, I wasn’t a great fan of his later media career, which included over-the-top praise for even pedestrian plays and players. But his commentaries were rescued by his enthusiasm for the game and delight in being alive.

I’ll never forget the image of his runaway joy within the structure of basketball fundamentals: running down the court after a rebound, he often raised both arms above his head, and twirled his index fingers forward, as if turning an invisible wheel in a larger machine, encouraging his team to keep going, keep moving, keep searching for the best execution on the floor.

Willie Mays and Bill Walton: born a generation apart, but forever united in the purity of athletic effort and achievement. They didn’t play for the money (although neither turned it down), but found unrivaled pleasure in individual and team effort. They clearly influenced me, and I’m a better person for it. I mourned their passing and celebrate their memories.

Allen Woods is a freelance writer, author of the Revolutionary-era historical fiction novel “The Sword and Scabbard,” and Greenfield resident. Comments are welcome here or at awoods2846@gmail.com.