May 6 was always a special day when I was growing up because it was Willie Mays' birthday. (Today the greatest baseball player who ever lived turns 77.)

In Phillipsburg, NJ, in the 1960s you were either a Yankees fan or a Phillies fan (like my parents, my brothers). I was the exception: a diehard San Francisco Giants fan.

The reason was number 24, the "Say Hey" kid. What was amazing about Mays, even back in those days, was his all-roundedness: he could field, he could steal bases (unlike a certain Yankee slugger), he could hit for power, he could hit for percentage. Whenever he stepped up to the plate, or got on base, or zeroed in on a fly ball, you felt the energy level rise.

One September, perhaps in 7th grade, I returned to school and saw a postcard on a girl's desk of Candlestick Park, where my beloved Giants played. Her family had taken her to San Francisco for vacation. I, as every summer, had been to the Jersey shore. I had never envied someone so much. The idea of going to San Francisco - the city of cable cars, Rice-a- Roni, Willie Mays - was something I could hardly fathom.

So I grew up longing for someplace else. I went to Europe five times before I ever saw California, and when I finally visited the city on the bay, in 1985, Willie Mays was long retired. You didn't dare ask for Rice-a-Roni. I had returned to the faith and become a Phillies fan. But I walked the hills with an almost uncontrollable feeling of joy, disbelief, and gratitude. The emotions you want on every journey.

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You gotta love this country.

The USA, that is.

Yes, I love Mexico too. Been there three times: a long weekend in Mexico City, a week of English teaching in Guanajuato (one of the world's loveliest college towns), a drive through the Yucatan, from Merida to Cancun (where all the students in Guanajuato dreamed of spending their vacations).

But back to the U.S. What other country takes the holidays of its immigrants and turns them into grand celebrations? Not just that, we take holidays that are pretty subdued in their countries of origin and make them all-inclusive parties.

St. Patrick's Day was always a sober day of church-going in Ireland, just as Cinco de Mayo is marked mainly in Pueblo, the town where the Mexicans successfully defeated the French.

Our embrace not just of immigrants but their holidays is admirable, but there's so much more that we can do. Why have we overlooked the English, and their St. George's Day on April 23? We have a lot of people of Polish background, and we completely ignore Polish Constitution Day on May 3. And with all the Cubans in South Florida, isn't it time we started celebrating Jose Marti's birthday January 28?

What are some others? Help me out here. With all our diversity, we should be partying - I mean, honoring the proud histories of our many peoples - every week.

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The holiday has lost a lot of its lustre since the break up of the Soviet Union, back in the days when Russians and Eastern Europeans took to the streets with banners and red carnations in their lapels.

Twenty-six years ago today I was in a counter May Day demonstration in Warsaw, Poland (where I was an English teacher), protesting the fifth month of martial law and the continued imprisonment of the leaders of Solidarity - oddly enough, a free trade union. I got my first taste of tear gas.

Union members still march in much of the world, celebrating international workers' day. Though before Marx and Engels, the day had a very different meaning.

When I was at Villanova, my history professor told us that at Bryn Mawr College young women danced around a may pole on May 1st in what was, he explained, an ancient fertility rite. "Over at ----- ," he added, mentioning another nearby women's college, "they don't need a may pole."

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This holiday used to be a uniquely American party; in Ireland people observed the day quietly by going to church. But now that the Irish pub has infiltrated cities around the globe - it's almost like you know your town's made it when you can buy a glass of Guinness - St. Paddy's Day has become a worldwide celebration.

Seventy years ago the sun never set on the British Empire. Today the sun never sets on the Irish pub. A sweet revenge.

Favorite Irish pub: JohnMartin's in Coral Gables. It's more upscale than your typical Irish watering hole, but the staff is friendly and the food (not all of it Irish) is excellent. And they team with neighboring Books & Books to celebrate Bloomsday every June 16.

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