It's a fitting tribute. Mays and McCovey didn't just play baseball in San Francisco — they defined an era of Giants baseball that gave this city an identity beyond the fog and the cable cars. The Say Hey Kid and Stretch were the kind of larger-than-life figures that made Candlestick Park feel like hallowed ground, even when the wind was trying to blow you into the bay.

But here's the thing about naming infrastructure after legends: it works best when it's clean and simple. And cramming two honorees onto overlapping portions of the same bridge and freeway corridor feels a little... crowded. San Francisco has a habit of layering tributes on top of each other until the gesture loses some of its punch. We already have McCovey Cove and the Willie Mays Gate at Oracle Park. At some point, the naming becomes more about politicians checking a box than about creating something truly memorable.

Don't get us wrong — both men deserve every ounce of recognition the city can muster. Mays is arguably the greatest all-around player in baseball history. McCovey terrorized pitchers for two decades. These aren't participation trophies; these are earned honors.

The real question is whether anyone crossing the Bay Bridge at 7:45 a.m. in bumper-to-bumper traffic is going to pause and reflect on the legacies of two Hall of Famers, or whether they're just going to keep white-knuckling it past the Treasure Island exit like the rest of us.

If the city truly wants to honor its greats, maybe invest in making the infrastructure bearing their names actually work — smooth traffic, maintained roads, functional transit connections. Nothing dishonors a legend quite like sitting in gridlock on a bridge named after him.

Still, tip of the cap to the two Willies. San Francisco was lucky to have them both. Even if the bridge has to share.