If you grew up as a Dodgers fan, you hated McCovey ... the ultimate sign of respect.
RIP to a great one.
I came of baseball age in Redlands, where you either were a Dodgers fan or kept your mouth shut (although the Angels with Fregosi, Knoop, Reichardt and Johnstone were getting some support by then). I got a Jim Lefebvre glove for my eighth birthday -- and didn't even know who he was or how to pronounce his name. Maury Wills? Willie Davis? All I knew was their rotation was Koufax, Drysdale, Claude Osteen (my grandfather's first name) and a young Don Sutton.
However, Gene Autry broadcast most of the Angels spring training games from Palm Springs, and I got to see a ton of the Casa Grande-based Giants. (Remember, the Dodgers were still in Vero Beach in March). So I turned to the Dark Side. When tossing the ball in the backyard, I imagined I was Hal Lanier or Jim Ray Hart, scooping up hot shots and making the turn at second where McCovey would stretch to nip Wills by a step. It didn't hurt that our Sages Markets uniforms were orange and black that year.
Sadly, by the time I finally got to a game at Candlestick Park in 1973, the Giants were the June-swoon, Charlie Fox-led shells of their glory days. Johnnie Fricking LeMaster, fur chrissakes!
About that time, someone swiped my Jim Lefebrve glove, so I replaced it with a Joe Rudi model, which I still have in my basement office, even though I've carried four decades of hatred of all things Green and Gold and Charley O.