The only autograph I have ever kept, I got when drinking in a seedy bar in downtown St. Louis in the late 90s (it’s a long story what I was doing there). Anyway, I was sitting next to a large man who looked somewhat familiar and eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I asked him who he was. His answer was completely unintelligible, but the woman sitting next to him introduced herself as his wife and informed me I was sitting next to Leon Spinks. I don’t normally ask for an autograph, but how many people out there are Olympic gold medalists and The Heavyweight Champion of the World so I asked for one and received one on a cocktail napkin.

I suspect it was a combination of too many blows to the head and alcohol consumed by him that night, but he really could not be understood when he talked. It was kind of sad.

1. Two years ago, I was in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport with my wife and (then) 6-year old son, who I had (even then) successfully converted into a hard-core baseball fan…he knows (knew) the names of more half-of-famers than most adult men, due to his penchant for brousing the HOF website in his spare time. Anyway, I ran into Hank Aaron in the airport. He was surprisingly alone and unmolested (by crowds). I pointed him out to my son and KNEW I had to talk to him…I HAD to take a moment to approach him. So, I went to him and said something like “Mr. Aaron, I just wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done and all you’ve meant to me.” As we were already shaking hands, he took his left arm and warmly put it on my left sholder and said something like, “Thank you young man, that means a lot to hear that.” I then brought my son over and introduced him and let him shake Mr. Aaron’s hand. Then, kinda not thinking in the momemt, I grabbed my son’s Braves cap off his head and asked Mr. Aaron if he would mind signing it. He said, “I can’t do that.”

My immediate thought was that it had something to do with some licensing agreement he had with some autograph company or something and was taken a little aback (at this point I must reiterate that NOONE it seems in the busiest airport in the world–literally (outside of O’Hare, depending on the year)–noticed him standing outside a well-marked bathroom on Concourse B, or at least noticed him to the point of wanting or needing (as I did) to stop and talk to him). Quickly, however, his real motivation for that answer dawned on me: if he fulfilled my one autograph request for my son, then the whole damn Concourse B of Hartsfield would turn into an autograph session for him. I sensed it had happened before and he refused my simple request not because he he didn’t want to, but because he’d been there before. Great, great gentleman.

2. In the summer of 1989, I was a rising senior in high school and serving as a U.S. congressional page in D.C. (insert homosexual/pedophile joke here). On one of those oppressively hot early August D.C days, in my waning tenure of page-duties, I realized that I needed to return to the Capitol to pick up something-or-other I left (or something…I don’t even remember why I had to return after I was off work, without my Kenneth-the-page-uni). On my way there, I ran into then MLB-Commissioner Bart Giamatti, kinda standing around by himself, like he was waiting for a car to come pick him up or something…to this day, I have no idea. I aproached him with a Congressional page-appropriate greeting of something like “Mr. Giamatti, is there anything I can assist you with?” (I must acknowledge that I was 17, in shorts and a t-shirt, looking in NO way page-worthy to assist in anything, but dorky enough that MAYBE I was some wayward eagle scout looking to score the ever-elusive “Assist the Commish” merit badge).

ANYWAY…I don’t remember how he responded, something pleasant and inviting. I almost immediately asked him what was going to happen with Pete Rose, as his “issues” were huge news…and picking up steam…(as an aside, word on the street is that there a book coming out soon about the ‘75 Reds, including one Mr. Charlie Hustle…keep an eye out for it, Joe)… at the time and Mr. Giamatti said something like “If I had any idea, I’d tell you.” We proceeded to strike up a conversation, and sat down on a nearby bench and talked baseball and such for 15-20 minutes, about baseball and whatnot. At some point–I thought he might just stay there and talk to me all night if I kept talking–I decided to take my leave, but, before I did, I asked for his autograph, but all I had was a $5-bill…Mr. Giamatti wouldn’t sign it (something about defacing federal property…especially egregious as we were next to to U.S. Capitol, I imagine…maybe he thought it was all a Dept. of Treasury set-up). I eventualy found a torn business card from an auto-repair shop in my wallet and he signed it. I left to go about whatever task I needed to perform that led me back to the Capitol after work hours, and he just stayed there on the bench…like he has nowhere to go and nothing better to do than sit there with me. It was an INCREDIBLE experience for a baseball fan, as he couldn’t be a more passionate, gracious, kind, knowledgable ambassador for baseball. It was awesome.

Almost before I could return home after my page term was over and share my awesome experience with the Commissioner of MLB, Mr. Giamatti died…literally within a couple of weeks of that little evening he spent talking to a 17-year old baseball fan on a bench by the U.S. Capitol.

He was an all-too-brief baseball commissioner, but he helped ensure one young fan (and I imagine many others) was a fan for life…one that would pass his love for the game down to his kinds….etc., etc.

I truly wonder if some 17 year-old somewhere has had a similar experience with Bud Selig.

Oh, I thought the Jim Eisenreich story was pretty poignant. I’m sad anybody would be so jaded that they wouldn’t feel the same way.

Sometime during my maiden-summer plunge into the world of baseball, I discovered The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn. And that’s how I “met” Joe Black.

As I read about Black’s high-school days in Plainfield, NJ, memories came flooding back of my own childhood. I was one of a handful of minority kids in a conservative, predominantly blue-collar, historically anti-Jap neighborhood. I actually got a bit nauseous reading about the time Black first felt the shock of cold, hard reality being shoved right into his face.
- – - – -
“How come you sign up all these guys and don’t sign me?”
The scout blinked. “Colored guys don’t play baseball.”
“What? You crazy? You’ve seen me playing for three years.”
“I mean Organized Baseball.”
“This is organized. We got a coach and uniforms.”
“I mean there’s no colored in the Big Leagues.”
That night he took his scrapbook from a drawer and studied it. Every face, Gehrig, Ott, Waner, Derringer, the others, all were white. Without tears, Joe began to shred the book in his big hands. But before his did, he carefully clipped a picture of Hank Greenberg, crashing out a home run. He could not bear both, to have the dream dead and to have nothing, nothing at all to show from the scrapbook of his boyhood.
(“Black is What You Make It,” The Boys of Summer, Roger Kahn, 1971)
- – - – -
Black was a fascinating man. And it was what he did after baseball that made him unforgettable for yours truly. Thoughtful and easygoing, he spoke about race relations with the same measured confidence he had as elite athlete. He was an usher at the funeral of Martin Luther King, Jr. He was Vice President of Special Markets (a.k.a. ethnic and cultural minorities) for the Greyhound Corporation at a time when African-Americans were still struggling to find their voices in society as a whole, much less acceptance in the ruling class of white, corporate executives. Jackie Robinson’s teammate handled executive life like he handled Game #1 of the 1952 World Series, with incredible grace under the pressure of being the “lone raisin in a pan of milk.”

A few years after reading the book many, many times over, I took a chance. I looked up the corporate address of Greyhound. I knew Joe had long since retired; perhaps if the gods were smiling upon me, someone might know where he went. The proverbial note in a bottle sent, I promptly chalked up the experience to having at least tried.

Several months later, a letter showed up in my mailbox with a return address I didn’t recognize. I opened it up and read the following handwritten note:

Dear **************:
As you know you purchased a mailing address from a collector. Greyhound Towers was demolished in 1989. A bundle of mail was forwarded to me recently and yours was included. My uniform number for the Baltimore Elite Giants was #. Thanks for the interest.

It was unsigned. A sad reminder of how a signature will be valued more than an act of kindness. I quickly penned an enthusiastic “thank you” note and sent it to the address on the envelope. Just a couple years later, I learned of Joe Black’s death from cancer.

Thanks Joe. Because of you, I’ll keeping trying to make the best of it. Bye for now!

A couple of years ago, my mom found the official program and our two season ticket stubs from Koufax’s perfect game, filed in one of the many boxes that have taken years and years to clean out after my dad’s death. She asked me what I should do with them. They are probably worth a nice dinner or two sold on e-bay. But I started thinking, maybe Koufax would want them, maybe I should just mail them to him, even if he doesn’t want them himself he’s sure to know folks who would appreciate them. He gave us so much pleasure and pride, really helped the city’s healing process following the Watts riots, and he certainly wasn’t in the seats that night. And then I thought, maybe his house is already full of all the mementos from a lifetime around baseball and having a couple of more things would be an inconvenience. And who am I to disturb him? I still haven’t decided, and probably won’t. We also saw Vin Scully (my other big sports hero) and his family a couple of times in Woodland Hills, and I felt the same way: I’d love to chat, I’d love to have a reminder, but he’s just having dinner, and I knew he doesn’t get that much family time because of all the travel of his profession.

I’m sorry for everybody who ever got snubbed in an autograph search. I’ve responded positively and appropriately to everybody who ever contacted me about my tiny bits of fame (designing computer games, mostly), and every kid who’s ever contacted me about a school assignment about a job they wanted got every question answered. But that’s me. my choice for myself, something that comes up maybe once a year. If I had dozens or hundreds of people needing that gratification every day, and the time I spent with them was time that I couldn’t spend with my own wife and kid, or doing the things I wanted to do or was paid to do, I’d probably stop signing altogether except at scheduled events.

i’ve been fortunate enough to meet many sports legends and get alot of autographs. i look at the autographs as something i can give to my grandkids someday and tell them some great stories; much like my grandpa did for me.

if autographs aren’t your thing, that’s great, but don’t knock others who love doing it. trust me, there’s far worse things people could be doing with their time than asking willie mays for an autograph

“If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still #2?”
- George Carlin

I never understand what motivates all the guys I see at work, who come to games 2 hours early every day to get autographs from all the AAA players, nor do I understand the people who buy those ‘graphs and create such a market for it. That’s got to be annoying to players – knowing someone’s going to make a quick buck from your own name and reputation.

But I L-O-V-E watching certain players sign for little kids. There are a few guys who always have a smile or a bit of conversation to share (along with their autograph), and I can see the kids beaming afterward as they return to their parents.

There was a little Q&A with Terry Francona in Sports Illustrated last winter, and he mentioned that a lot of his favorite players as a kid were not the most talented ones, but the ones that were nicest to him and other kids. I definitely get that, and I see that sentiment reflected every day when I ask various kids in the crowd at O-Royals games who their favorite players are. Most of the time when I ask why they like a particular player, the kid will show me a signed ball or hat, and keep rooting with a great fervor no matter how that player performs, because of the time the player took JUST FOR THEM.