Greatest Thing Ever (Revealed)
Posted: October 5th, 2009 | Filed under: Baseball, Cleveland, Pop Culture | 82 Comments »
I have probably spent more time than most people thinking about this famous Mean Joe Greene Coca Cola commercial.
What I think about is a question: Why did the commercial touch so many people? It was a sensation in the 1970s when it came out. Why? It’s poorly acted — that’s a given* — and the plot was ridiculous. Here you have an injured Mean Joe coming out of a game (it seems clear from the background that the game is still going on), and you have a kid in the tunnel (known only as “Kid” — is he the son of somebody who works for the team? How did he get in there?), and he’s got a full bottle of Coca Cola, which he offers to Mean Joe. The kid more than offers it — he INSISTS that Joe take it — and Joe finally and grumpily does. Then it becomes clear that Joe was really thirsty because he downs the entire bottle in about four seconds. And finally, big finish, while the kid walks sadly away, Joe stops him with a “Hey kid!,” smiles and throws his jersey to the kid — cue the singers: “Coca Cola Adds Life! Have a Coke and a smile!”
*Are children actors better now than they were in the 1970s? Is this something that has improved, like athlete conditioning?
So what is it about this absurd commercial that made people happy? What is it about this commercial that made ME happy the million times I saw it as a child? I don’t know for sure … but it seems to me that it has something to do with pop culture heroes. There’s this real hunger for our sports heroes, our literary heroes, our Hollywood heroes to be great people. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense if you think about it. What difference does it make if Robert DeNiro is a good guy? How does that change Raging Bull? If Mickey Mantle treats you like a pest, does that in any way shorten the length of his home runs? If Meg Ryan is really not an especially nice person, does that make her any less quirky and lovable in “When Harry Met Sally?” If Bruce Springsteen ignores you, does that dampen the brilliance of “Badlands?”
I suppose my answer is: “Yeah, I guess it does a little bit.” I mean, we are human beings. We don’t really want our heroes to treat us like jerks. We just don’t. I’ve been lucky enough to meet several of my heroes, and some have been better than I hoped (Dave Barry, for one) and some have been, er, rather less so. Maybe I caught them on a bad day. Maybe I approached them the wrong way.
Then again: Maybe I was simply expecting too much. A story: I remember the very first pro football story I ever tried to cover as a sportswriter. Well, I didn’t edactly cover it. It was a preseason game between the Atlanta Falcons and Cleveland Browns, and I was going down anyway to watch as a fan. But I was also going to write a story for The Charlotte Observer (sort of) on the Browns rookie linebacker Mike Junkin. I include the parenthetical (sort of) because as I recall I had asked an Observer editor if I could go do a story on Junkin (he had attended Duke) and the response was something like, “Well, if you’re going to be down there anyway … I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know, I’m busy kid. Go bother someone else.” I was 20 years old then and completely out of my depth. I got some sort of credential for the game, but I remember buying a ticket and sitting in the stands with a friend. Up to that point, I literally had never covered anything bigger than an American Legion baseball game. I didn’t even know about press boxes.
When the game ended, I tried to figure out where I was supposed to go to do interviews and, of course, I was wildly unsuccessful in doing so. Even now, I’m hopeless when it comes to such basics. By the time I figured out where the locker room was, I was told that it was empty and that my best bet might to chase down the players outside by the bus.
Now, Mike Junkin was not my hero. I knew very little about him — I only knew that Marty Schottenheimer had called him “a mad dog in a meat market” and that the Browns had taken him with the fifth overall pick, meaning he was certain to be a star. But the point in those days for me was … he was a member of the Cleveland Browns. And ALL Cleveland Browns were my heroes. I can honestly tell you that I was much more nervous about approaching Mike Junkin than I was Mickey Mantle or Michael Jordan or Jack Nicklaus or any of the other huge stars I would eventually interview. As it turned out, Junkin was talking to his girlfriend. I walked over to him.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“It’s OK,” his girlfriend said. “He will sign an autograph for you.”*
*You know it’s funny … it wasn’t until this very moment that I fully understood how haunting this moment was for me. I was wearing jeans and a polo shirt of some kind as I walked over — not exactly well dressed, but not unprofessionally dressed either. But I clearly looked like a fan. And that moment — when the girlfriend (who was probably about my age) said that he would sign the autograph for me — has haunted me enough that I never, ever wear jeans or shorts on assignment. Not ever. Not even at spring training or the Olympics or training camp or any place else where jeans or shorts would be perfectly appropriate. I try to wear jacket and tie most of the time, and never drop below polo and khakis (and a jacket, if I can wear one). It isn’t because it helps my look — I could wear a tuxedo and look ready to paint a house. No, it’s something else. I’ve always thought I did this at least in part because of my upbringing — because my parents and grandparents always believed that successful people dress up. But, looking back, it’s probably just as much because of that one time in Atlanta when I was wearing jeans and a girlfriend of Mike Junkin made that “He will sign an autograph for you,” remark.
“Uh, actually, no,” I mumbled, and I can only imagine what shade of red was burning my face. “I’m kind of a reporter for The Charlotte Observer. I was hoping for a quick interview.” Or anyway something close to those words. I don’t remember my specific words, but I remember his response precisely: “No way man, I’m not doing an interview out here. Why weren’t you inside?”
I’m pretty sure that here I explained that I had gotten lost, that I often get lost, that I was more or less helpless, that this was my first big assignment … or at least an assignment I thought was big. He really wasn’t interested. He shook his head and walked off with his girlfriend.
Now … I won’t lie. I really held that against Mike Junkin all through his short and rather cursed career. I held it against him because … well, because I thought he could SEE my agony and he simply did not care. I thought he could clearly see that I was just a panic-stricken kid trying desperately to write what for me felt like a huge story. All I wanted was to write about the greatness of Mike Junkin, all I wanted was to take one step forward in this crazy new sportswriting world that I was absolutely certain was too big for me. And he would not give me three minutes of his time. And it felt like getting turned down for the prom multiplied by getting turned down for a credit card.
Of course, looking back, this is all certainly unfair. What Mike Junkin — a rookie himself then — probably saw was a fan-boy kid who had somehow managed a press pass and had been either too lazy, too drunk or too stupid to make it to the locker room after the game. He was spending a few quiet minutes with his girlfriend before getting back on the bus and heading back to training camp hell. He didn’t want to answer the inane questions that I undoubtedly would have asked (“So what’s it like playing in the NFL??”) In retrospect, I can see his point of view. In retrospect, though, I think he could have been a little nicer.
Anyway, this is not a sad story. Quite the opposite. Because the way I remember it — and it was a blur — I suddenly found myself talking with Ozzie Newsome, who WAS my hero. My true hero. The Wizard of Oz. I don’t even remember how it happened. In my mind, I have come to believe that Ozzie saw me get rejected by Mike Junkin. And he walked over and talked to me. It might not have gone quite that way, but I know that I got to ask him a few questions, and he gave me a few answers. I don’t remember anything he said. I don’t remember what I wrote (I don’t think I ended up writing anything). But I powerfully remember the kindness of Ozzie Newsome. I will always cherish him, always. When your hero is ALSO nice to you … wow, it’s a powerful combination.
And that’s why the Mean Joe Greene commercial — with all its obvious flaws — captures. You can sense (perhaps not through the performance but you can still sense) that this kid idolizes Mean Joe. And Mean Joe — heck, he was called MEAN JOE — doesn’t have any time for the kid. Mean Joe is in pain, and he’s feeling sorry for himself, and he really needs to get back to the locker room to get X-rays (and why are there no trainers around him anyway?). The kid gives him a Coca Cola, and suddenly it hits Mean Joe (through the power of carbonation) that this kid REALLY likes him, this kid looks up to him, this kid has his poster on the bedroom wall and pretends to be Joe Greene on the school playground and is willing to trade 20 Roger Staubach football cards to get one Mean Joe Greene.
And he tosses the jersey across the tunnel. Here you go, kid. This will mean as much to you as it does to me.
What does all this have to do with the greatest thing ever? Well, you knew I would make you work to get here. If you’ve read this site much you know who my all-time hero is — bigger even than Ozzie Newsome. When I was a kid, I only wanted to be like Duane Kuiper. I was a second baseman, like Duane Kuiper. I would dive for ground balls because Duane Kuiper did. I always wanted to wear No. 18 because that was Duane Kuiper’s number (as far as I know I never did get to wear No. 18 — I’m pretty sure our little league uniforms did not go that high). When I was 9 years old, I idolized my father, and deeply loved my mother but I wanted to be Duane Kuiper.
At first it was an obvious childhood fad … hey, when you were a second baseman in Cleveland, Duane Kuiper was pretty much your only local choice. Then, as time went on, as I started to look at sports differently, as I started to write about sports, I really started to appreciate how special it was to have Duane Kuiper as a hero. Best I could tell, Duane Kuiper perfectly represented what I love about sports. Numerous people have pointed me to the Bill James quote: “It’s absolutely incredible that a player this bad could be given 3,000 at-bats in the major leagues.” But I don’t see this as a bad thing. Duane Kuiper wasn’t an especially good player, to put it kindly. But he played as hard as he could. He made a lot of diving plays. He found a way to hit a light .270 (slugging .316) — mostly because he never struck out. And he was such a good guy that people kept giving him jobs. He had no power and little speed, but he played in more than 1,000 major league games. Long enough to hit his one home run.
He was the kind of hero that spoke to me and still speaks to me. He made it. He coaxed everything out of the limited baseball talents God gave him and he made it. Isn’t that the most amazing thing? People always laugh at the old Bob Uecker line, “Anybody with ability can play in the big leagues. But to be able to trick people year in and year out, that’s a much greater feat.” But there’s a lot of truth in that, I think. Barry Bonds was a joy to watch, but there wasn’t anything especially inspiring about his route to greatness. Duane Kuiper wanted to play in the big leagues. And he did, for a long time. He willed himself there.
So … would it make any difference at all if I found out that Duane Kuiper was not a great guy? I won’t lie to you: Of course it would make a difference. Everything that has built up in my mind about Duane Kuiper has built up around him being a great guy. Fortunately through the years, I’ve heard from numerous people — teammates, opponents, managers — how he is an even better guy than I thought. This has made me so much happier than I should admit.
The last couple of years, Duane Kuiper has heard about me being a big fan — I guess that was inevitable. The Duane Kuiper fan club probably isn’t as big as, say, the Al Kaline fan club. We exchanged a couple of emails. We were supposed to meet at a game, but it didn’t happen for one reason or another. Still, the fact that he was so nice — and so self-depricating about it all — made me even happier.
And finally we get to the point: Monday I came home and there was this box in front of my house. A long thin box, it looked like there might be a poster inside. My wife told me to not look at the label, and so I didn’t. I opened it up instead.
And there … was a Louisville Slugger bat. A used Louisville slugger bat. a DUANE KUIPER USED LOUISVILLE SLUGGER BAT. It had a NO. 18 on the bottom. I looked at the box, and saw that it was sent by Duane Kuiper.
And between the Louisville Slugger logo (and the word “Powerized”) and the Duane Kuiper autograph, in blue ink, it said this.
“To Joe
1974-1981
My favorite years.
Duane Kuiper.”
My favorite years too, Kuip. My favorites too. You know the smile that kid had on his face when he caught Mean Joe Greene’s jersey. Yeah. My smile right now.
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I hope you’re going to post a picture.
Circle me not-so-mean Joe
Awwww. That is really sweet, Joe. I’m glad your hero didn’t disappoint.
Oops, not first. But yeah Joe, we need a pic for sure. And I’m about half through the machine, I might actually finish it tonight. Can’t put it down.
That is awesome….
As a fellow Cleveland expat, I completely understand your feeling and am envious that you got a Kuiper bat. He was my favorite player as well. He batted lefty, I batted lefty. I still have the 1978 Topps set and I can remember the trill of getting Kuip’s card. No other card, and there were a lot of better players that year made me as happy as that one. Cheers,
Beautiful.
Cool
Joe, your point about not wanting our heroes to let us down by being bad people is a point well taken. It’s very easy to like what you write, for example, because you put so much of yourself in it.
Just a quick note on 2 Royals I liked more after meeting in person.
The first is Frank White. Probably no surprise here, but I’ve had the chance a few times to meet him and he is as genuine and kind as has been reported.
The second is Herk Robinson. I used to wait in the parking lot of Royals Stadium for autographs and tried to get an entire Royals team to sign one baseball in a given year. When I was 12 for some reason I knew who Herk Robinson was, what he looked like, and I wanted his autograph. From his reaction I knew he was not accustomed to young fans following him to his car for a signature, but he took the time to talk to me for a few minutes and graciously gave me an autograph. He was very kind and I never forgot it.
Promising the “greatest thing ever” is setting yourself up to disappoint. Thanks for not disappointing, Joe.
In 2006 the Twins went on a crazy great run where they won the division 40 minutes after their season was over. As per MLB marketing, all of the playoff teams had a rally in their hometowns, and the Twins had theirs on a Monday. This is relevant because at the rally I literally ran into Jack Morris, who I apologized to. He said, no problem, signed my Homer Hanky, and shook my hand. Kent Hrbek spoke at the rally and I happened to be standing between him on stage and the VIP buffet, where he was headed directly after speaking. As he walked past, knowing he was on a beeline to the buffet and not wanting to interrupt for an autograph, I stuck my hand out and said, hey Mr. Hrbek. His response? F off kid.
The funny thing here is that both guys reacted exactly the way I thought they would, and I still loved both of em. There really is something to be said about heroes living up to expectations isn’t there?
Well are you going to bawl all over it???
Be proud. Its come full circle. You. Have. Made. It. As fans of YOUR writing, we are celebrating with you. Might be weird to sleep with it, though…
Joe, once again you have distilled what it is to be a sport fan.
I’m happy for you.
Those are the types of stories that go beyond the playing fields and keep us connected to our humanness. So much of athletics is not who wins or loses, which is forgotten by many. As a fellow journalist who worked 17 years (mostly in the editing side) of sports, I only wish there was more room for these kinds of bits in our lives and in our newspapers. Thanks, Joe, for sharing.
I’ve caught Pete Rose on a bad day, Albert Pujols on a good day, Omar Vizquel on a great day, Jim Edmonds on a bad day, Johnny Bench on a good day, Albert Belle on a bad day, and Jim Thome on a good day.
I have to admit that it’s permanently influenced my views on all of them.
Awesome!
Thanks for the story, Joe. Good things DO come to those who wait. And believe…
Photos: Snuggie book reading and greatest thing ever bat TOMORROW at Margo Blog.
As I sit here after a few of St Louis’ finest exports and watch Favre beat the Packers, I am emotional enough. I always believed that my heroes would ride off in to the sunset and never been seen again. I wanted MY hero (GB5) to so the same but the pitiful Royals won’t let him. I wanted Favre to go away, but instead ESPN won’t let him.
My point is this – heroes are what make us wake up in the morning and be good parents, employees, sons, husbands, etc. We hold our heroes in a light and to a level that nobody should ask for. But we expect nothing less.
Joe, thank you for making me cry again. Thank you for making me realize that even as an older man and father, our heroes can still make us the happiest people on the planet.
I hope that our children will think of us as their heroes and if nothing else, I hope that their heroes live up to their commitment.
Sean
Really sweet, Joe. Thanks for sharing. I’ve got tears in my eyes.
Great post, Joe. Wonderful thoughts on why that Mean Joe Greene ad touched so many of us, and what it also means to us when our heroes take the time to be nice to us (and when they don’t). I’ve had similar experiences, mostly good, some less so, with musicians. As for ballplayers, Stan Musial, true to his reputation, took the time to be extra nice to me when I was a 10 year old. But maybe my favorite was Mike Shannon. I had nephritis when I was 9 (I think) and was bedridden with that for many weeks. When Mike had to retire suddenly because of that disease, I of course identified. And hearing him on the radio, where to be quite frank, he was really not very good when he started, also endeared him to me. In the strike year in the early 80s, I was living in Wichita and went to a lot of Aeros games. The Cardinals sent their announcers to some of their AAA team’s minor league games during the strike, and I noticed Mike Shannon just sitting in the stands before one of them. I approached him…and felt quite scared to even speak. But he was as gracious as one could be. Maybe more so. I had similar experiences with Whitey Herzog (before he managed the Royals), with hockey great Red Berenson, and even with notably irascible MU coach Norm Stewart. I’ll send you a private email about that encounter, as it raised my opinion of Norm by a huge amount.
I’ve caught … Albert Belle on a bad day
I’m pretty sure Albert Belle made a career out of bad days…
~
Every time I watch that Mean Joe commercial, I always kinda secretly hoped he’d throw the bottle instead…
Congratulations, you’ve made it
Seriously, what an awesome story. Amazing that he still had one of his bats to send you! So very cool.
As a longtime Giants fan, I must say that Duane Kuiper is the man.
Thanks for another great story, Joe. I’ve got to say that being a baseball fan and getting to meet several of the Royals players has always been fun for my Sons and for myself.
Getting to visit with you at Barnes and Noble and have you talk to my little boy “Man to Man” was a highlight as well.
I may have even told you about the time that we met Albert Pujols while shopping in Independence, Mo and when I asked if he’d sign an autograph for my boys, he shoved his hand in my face in true “talk to the hand” mode and shouted “No Way Man!”
So, you win a few…you lose a few. We liked you beforehand and we like you still.
We loved Albert beforehand…now, not so much…
This blog bolsters my faith in humanity.
Thanks for sharing, Joe.
We definitely need a picture, but what a great story! It always great when your childhood heroes are classy.
That’s a pretty great thing indeed.
I don’t have a source for this (though I imagine the internet knows), but I once read that Mean Joe, a novice actor, felt it was cheating to not actually chug the bottle of Coke. He didn’t realize that the shoot would require multiple takes, so he ended up chugging something like a dozen Cokes in short order over the course of the filming.
Somehow this makes it even better.
Dream job at SI and now this? From here on out the rest is gravy.
Does this mean that one day I’ll come home to find a Joe Posnanski-signed typewriter or notebook at my door?
Brilliant, Joe!
[...] since I don’t like to end on a down note, here’s another home run of an essay by my favorite sportswriter Joe Posnanski, who perfectly sums up what it means to be a kid, and [...]
This happens to be the night when my worst possible nightmare (in the sports world) became reality…Brett Favre, who was once my favorite football player, torched my favorite football team. I became pretty calloused about athletes and the business side of things long ago, but this has probably been something resembling a breaking point for me on that front. I root for the uniform and not the player and that couldn’t be any more clear than it is tonight. Still, it is nice to read this story and think back to the players I so admired when I didn’t have to make such distinctions.
And I thought it was just me who idolized second-rate second basemen.
For me, it was Edgardo Alfonzo. I always wore #13. I started out at third base, then moved to second just like Fonzie did when the Mets got Robin Ventura. Hell, I copied his batting stance, and kept at it even though it wouldn’t really work for me.
I always felt unworthy of being a fan of Mike Piazza’s: someone so great could surely do better than me. But it was the Fonz, the unspoken hero who was the Marty Jannetty to Piazza’s Shawn Michaels who I connected with.
In 2002, Fonzie was circling the drain, at least with the Mets. Back injuries were starting to catch up with him, and it was all but assured that he would leave the team at the end of the year. My hero, gone. But Fonzie had a bounce back year, fighting through injuries, and though the season was a disappointment for the Mets, I made it to Fan Appreciation Day, the last game of the season. And for the first time in my life, I caught a foul ball. Hit by Edgardo Alfonzo.
After a few years, after he’d bounced around the minor leagues, but just couldn’t give up the game he loved, Fonzie found himself playing for the Long Island Ducks, an independent team that played 20 minutes from where I loved, and had been the host to such luminaries as Jose Offerman, Pete Rose Jr, and Carlos Baerga. The players were always gracious to the fans, as they were either kids who’d never gotten their shot with a MLB farm team or those trying to work their way back in. If you bought a 5 dollar ticket, you could sneak your way right in to the front row, and sit beside the dugout. One day, my friends and I did that, sitting right next to the Ducks dugout, and there he was: standing there, stretching before his at bat.
“Fonzie!” I yelled, and he looked over, a little bemused. His face had grown weary, its boyish charm replaced with the fatigue of accepting that he was on the downside of a once-promising career. That even though he was only 30 minutes from Shea Stadium, he was about as far from the majors as he could be. But he still looked up, and gave a little wave. He would get a double that at bat, and later score, and before his next at bat, he went right back to that corner of the dugout, to grab his bat.
“Fonzie!” I yelled again, “You were my favorite Met ever.”
That got a nod, and a hand-wave, as he went on to strike out.
The next two at bats drew similar invocations, “Your jersey was the first I ever owned, Fonzie,” “I wore #13 to be like you.” I don’t remember what he did in those next two at bats, but it wasn’t nearly as important as what he did after the game.
We stuck around after the game, as we always did, to hound for autographs, but Fonzie saw me. Not only did he sign two balls, but he gave me a bat, which he signed, the official lineup card, and, perhaps most importantly, a firm handshake.
Edgardo Alfonzo, we miss you.
Wait, it’s your wife’s birthday and, if I’m reading between the lines correctly, SHE arranges an incredibly meaningful gift for YOU? Wow. Not bad. So Joe, what did you get her?
“I’ve been lucky enough to meet several of my heroes, and some have been better than I hoped (Dave Barry, for one) – ”
*head explodes*
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/inside_game/magazine/life_of_reilly/news/2001/08/15/life_of_reilly/
Circle me, Tom Veryzer (my personal Duane Kuiper).
Great story. I’ve have the pleasure of meeting a few guys I looked up to, and all of them have been great. Frank White, Buck O’Neil, Art Still (in an emergency room of all places), and, yes, even the supposedly surly and apparently hard to impress Jim Rice was both gracious and funny.
I only got big-timed on one occasion and it was by Greg Pryor of all people. Yeah, THAT Greg Pryor, the erstwhile utility infielder for the Royals in the mid-80s, he of the 70 career OPS+.
I was a teenager working at an ice cream store in a local mall, and it was past closing time. I had the mop out and the gates closed, but up walked a group of four people anyway, looking for ice cream. We were located right next to the movie theater, which was open later, so this happened pretty frequently. If we hadn’t already started breaking things down and cleaning up, we usually obliged these folks, but this time it was past the point of no return and I was about 60 seconds away from locking up and going home. This was obvious, but they tried to walk through the gates anyway.
I recognized that Pryor was one of the guys, and I was a Royals fan, so I was probably a little more polite than I normally would be to someone who decided to walk across my freshly mopped floor.
“I’m really sorry, but we’re closed.”
“Really? We just want a couple of cones. We’ll be quick.”
“Sorry, but you’re a few minutes too late. Everything’s been broken down and cleaned already.”
Pryor leans in and says, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, you’re Greg Pryor.”
He just stood there for a few more seconds, apparently expecting me to act on this knowledge, but I just stood there holding my mop and he eventually figured out that being Greg Pryor apparently didn’t carry as much extra weight as he thought it did.
Great story, Joe. And I bet I was right about the one post yesterday being your better half. It’s hard to keep a secret that big! Good for her too–it’s always fun to share in something like that.
Great story, Joe. I’m an A’s fan, which colors my view of Mr. Kuiper (I think more of his brother, who announces A’s games, for that reason), but I think it’s wonderful to have a hero like that for so long, and a wife wonderful enough to know it and do something that wonderful for you.
(Also – I was on vacation last week, and read The Machine. I had Yet another reason why I love your writing, and devour every word of yours I can find. If you ever want to write a book about grass growing, I guarantee you I will buy it. I’ll even spring for the sequel about paint drying.)
It’s funny how a good experience can make someone your hero too.
The first baseball game I ever went to was an Expos game in ‘87 and I loved the Expos but at that game we sat right on the foul line in left field and it was the Mets’ left fielder Kevin McReynolds that made the best impression. Between innings he would come and chat with the fans even though he was the visitor. I couple of guys behind us heckled a bit the first couple of innings but it didn’t back him off, instead he seemed even more interested in picking up where he left off the inning before. By the end of the game even the guys that had been heckling were joining in and he was tossing balls into the stands and joking with them. I didn’t get a ball that day but I followed him until he retired.
Also as a Canadian baseball fan I have seen Fergie Jenkins at the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame several times and he never disappoints. Even when he says that he’s not there to sign autographs or take any of the limelight away from the inductees, he makes time for all his fans. He’s a class act that seems to genuinely respect and appreciate the fans.
P.S. I’d also like to thank you for your contributions in getting rid of Ricciardi. He did it to himself but your posts on his senseless antics gave me hope that someday the Jays would realize he was bad news. That day has come.
This one time when I was trick-or-treating, we went to Chico Lind’s house and I got a FULL SIZED Butterfinger bar.
That’s about the closest experience I have to this. Before I moved to KC, I lived in Chicago. Myabe someday Mark Grace will hook me up with one of his “slump-busters.” A boy can dream…
Great, great story.
yes, our heroes not being great people necessarily has influenced how I’ve tried to talk to my son about sports and athletes. I want him to like/love the games, but I want him to realize that these guys are just guys, some good people, some not. I don’t know if this is the right thing or not….
Fantastic story. Quite a roll you’re on. I’m getting tired of congratulating you all the time.
You know, I don’t think that Mean Joe commercial is all that badly acted. You actually see Joe soften during the “story”. He conveys three different emotions, which is two more than you get from most athletes on TV.
There’s something kind of artistic about the way it’s just the two of them in the tunnel, even though you know that in reality there would be dozens of other people there. The director has stripped it down to the two essential figures. There’s either nobody else there or, more interestingly, we’re seeing it as the boy perceives it. Who knows if that’s intentional or they just got lucky, but the spot would be far less effective if there were other people cluttering up the scene.
Has to be one of the five best ads ever produced. Still chokes me up.
So *that’s* what this was all about??? A measly autographed bat from your boyhood hero??? Sheesh, I thought it was important!!!
Seriously, Joe, that’s very cool.
http://www.blinkx.com/video/family-guy-spoof-of-coke-commercial/fgsu3cD_Nu0o0rOUTkUcHw
Paul White:
That’s kinda funny, ’cause Pryor was always aces with me. Of course, that’s because I knew him from working carryout at the Pay-Less at College and Antioch, and he tipped really well…
Met a lot of the ‘85/’86 teams (and/or their wives) while I worked there, and without exception they were all friendly and chatty. Of course, the culture of that particular store was a little different, which anyone who remembers it back when it first opened will probably remember. The place was carpeted everywhere except produce, people. I mean, that sort of speaks volumes itself… Most of the customers were regular enough that they knew us by name despite us not even having name tags, so there was a familiarity there you wouldn’t find nowadays at, say, your local Wal*Mart Supercenter.
My favorite was one morning Danny Jackson came in after a somewhat rough outing the night before, and kept me tied up in the parking lot just talking about it for a good 5 minutes after I finished loading his car.
On the other hand, there was Don Fortune. Who was very unfriendly. And very short. The two were probably connected…
“The kid gives him a Coca Cola, and suddenly it hits Mean Joe (through the power of carbonation) that this kid REALLY likes him…”
The power of carbonation … heh.
My first baseball memories were from when we lived in New York (state) in the late 60’s. I played second.
BA OBP SLG OPS OPS+
.271 .325 .316 .641 82
.256 .308 .313 .621 83
The first set of numbers Joe will recognize as Duane Kuiper’s career stats. The second set? They belong to my role model, Horace Clarke.
It’s funny what one moment can do. I still hold a grudge against Armen Keteyian (I admit I had not previously thought much one way or the other about Armen), because he couldn’t take the time to respond to a hello on the field at Foxboro Stadium (I was picked to partake in a halftime event – the Patriots’ equivalent of throwing a ball through a tire). The man was sitting on the Pats’ bench doing nothing but staring into space. In response to my “Hello Mr. Keteyian”, he proceeded to break eye contact by staring at his crotch.
Circle me warm and fuzzy.
That story is super cool.
But – hypothetically – if the Royals went out and acquired Duane Kuiper today . . . . . oh wait!!! They did!!! They got Yuniesky Betancourt.
I hate to mess up one of your formative experiences, but Mike Junkin was simply being his normal self. That is, a jerk. This is a fun story, and it has a hero.
Junkin and I lived in the same complex (Hunter’s Chase, in Westlake, in case anyone wants to re-enact this), and apartments didn’t include parking. It cost $20 a month for a carport and $50 for half of a two-person garage.
Otherwise you parked in the communal spots, and hoped you wouldn’t get blocked in if the nitwits who plowed the lot decided to push the drifts in front of your car.
I couldn’t really afford the $50, but since I had a 1978 Civic that needed regular care, I needed a place to store tools– with a door I could lock.
And, because my garage was right in front of the door to his unit, Mike Junk used to park his Hummer wanna-be in my spot. Often.
I called the building office. We want our tenants to try to work this out. I called the Westlake police. Private property, can’t help, sorry.
So I camped out and waited for him. Tried to be nice, figuring maybe his agent rented it and he didn’t realize what he was doing.
No, he know. “Sorry, buddy, but it’s a new truck and I don’t want to get it messed up” I pointed out that I was was paying for the space, and he wasn’t. “Yeah, well, it won’t hurt your car.”
The next time it happened, I called Berea, and told the receptionist I was that I was a local resident– that my family had season tickets since 1973– and I was having a problem with one of the players, and I wanted to talk to Head Coach Marty Schottenheimer.
She asked me which player and put me on hold. I figured I’d be lucky to get Kevin Byrne, thieir Ziegleresque P.R. guy or Dino Lucarelli, the fan relations guy.
“This is Bill Cowher, Mr. Junkin’s position coach. What can I do for you?”
Technically, he was the special teams coach… but Junkpile wasn’t starting. Plus, Cowher was already a local legend– he’d run up along the sidelines during kicks shouting advice and encouragement at his players during kicks, knocking down anyone who didn’t get out of his way. Way, way better than talking to Dave Adolph.
I told him the the story (I could hear steam coming out of his ears). Out of pure spite, I said that someone who poached other people’s garage spaces seemed to be showing both a lack of discipline and a lack of respect for his fellow residents, and that it was probably showing up in his play.
“I couldn’t have said it better,” growled the voice in my ear. “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. I want to apologize personally to you on behalf of the entire organization. Thank you very much for calling, sir.”
He hung up before I could even say thank you. I didn’t have the guts to go out and stand by the garage, but I did watch through the window. And, within five minutes, the Mad Dog in a Meat Market– looking very much like a sick puppy– trotted out to move his vehicle
He never parked there again I got a letter and a media guide a few days later, and Bill Cowher became my hero, for helping the universe function as it ought to.
A real-life Joe Greene would be Gerald Irons. About ten years earlier, I agreed to shepherd my little brother and his friends over to the players dressing room to get autographs.
The kids froze and it had been a bad loss, so everyone pretty much walked by them . But Irons came out, saw me shoving them over and gave them a smile and some friendly words.
Then he asked how we were getting home. I said my Dad had gone to the lot and was bringing the station wagon over to Gate A,
“Well let’s go find him,” Irons said. And damned if he didn’t escort us there– and then go over and introduce himself to my father and thank him for his support.
For nearly 20 years, my dad told that story any time someone mentioned spoiled athletes. Yeah, Joe, this stuff matters
Great post… I wish all big leagers would read it…. character is what counts. I am a Tiger fan…. the tribulations taking place off the field right now for Motown are the opposite of what your piece exemplifies.
Am I imagining this or did someone make a TV movie based on that Mean Joe commercial? I remember being a kid and reeaaaaaaaaalllllly wanting to watch it, but it was on Sunday evening and we went to church. I even remember the pastor saying something about having competition from the TV that night and in my mind, the Mean Joe movie is what he was talking about. For all I know, the Academy Awards were the same night and that’s what he meant. Off to Wikipedia.
Fantastic story!
Charicture does count so much, and sadly many players may not completely realize it. You never know when you will make a life-long fan from just a few minutes of your time; or a lifelong enemy just the same as we saw with Woody. For me personally, I am now a life-long fan of two past players just because of who they were as people when I happened to get to meet them.
The first is Duke Snider. I was too young to realize how amazing he was on the field. All I knew was that my father had a Duke Snider model bat growing up – and it was a real Duke Snider style bat, where it would tip a 10 year old over if he tried to rest it on his shoulder. My entire life I have never seen a thicker or heavier bat in my life.
So I went to an autograph session for him with the hopes of being able to get my dads bat signed by one of his childhood idols for him. Unfortunately though, I was on the outside of the line when his allotted time was complete. Two hours in line holding this seemingly 30 pound bat only to be turned away a couple feet from my destination.
Apparently I looked rather upset standing there, motionless, trying to come to grips with my failure as everyone around me dispersed. Well to make an already long story a bit shorter, I didnt end up walking away empty handed that day – instead I walked away with a new idol of my own. I would never see Snider play a game live, I have yet to even be in the same vicinity of him again; but my all-time favorite list always as him near the top.
Another player who made a lifelong fan was Fergie Jenkins. He didnt do anything overly fantastic, he just took the time out of his busy day to chit-chat with me for a second. Something so simple can go such a long way to bringing you closer to the game, as if it validates your fandom of the sport. We all know we are one of countless millions to watch players play the game. A player actually taking time out of his life to treat you as if you are as important as he is can go a long way to changing the way you feel connected to the game. That meeting with Mr. Jenkins not only made me a lifelong fan of his, but it made me a much bigger fan of the game as a whole.
Oh, and yes, I also have a sports enemy because of a chance meeting. That would be Kobe Bryant. Was never a big basketball fan to begin with; but after an encounter with the Lakers star, I root against him.
That’s a great story! Thanks for sharing it.
That’s a great story, and I think it’s lost on people today. I don’t know why, exactly, I’m reticent to blame ESPN, but it just seems like there’s no kids out there who end up with arbitrary idols. I was at Progressive Field for the weekend of the 4th and it seemed like every kid in the house was loyal to Sizemore and no one else. No Cliff Lee fans, not even Victor fans, the kid next to me in the stands told me his grandparents brought him every Sunday and then asked who Asdrubal Cabrera was. I think without a major market for baseball cards, the opportunity to be a die hard Benny Distefano or Billy Jo Robidoux fan may just end up being a thing of the past.
I wasn’t even a Pirates fan, but my last year in little league, I played for the Pirates and got assigned number 28. Albert Martin became the best thing on the earth, I pulled for him through years of mediocrity and hoped the Indians (or at least the Reds) would go out and land him to complete the team that was almost certainly better without him. Thankfully, by the time the bigamy and domestic violence rolled around, I was in college and had overcome my interest in his success.
And in the category of fawning praise, I loved The Machine, it was the first book I’ve read in one day in several years.
ok, i just cried after reading a blog. curse you posnanski!
I watch/listen to a lot of Giants games, and Duane Kuiper is Zen. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, he drops pearls.
Woody, that was hilarious, thanks for sharing.
JoePo, for whatever reason kids choose their heroes, mine was similar to yours: the unspectacular Al Cowens of the Royals. I can’t tell you why I thought he was the greatest. Never met the man, so I’ll leave it to the bloggers to let me know if he is a good guy. He’ll forever be THE Royals right fielder in my eyes!
Mike Junkin went to Duke, what else needs to be said.
I was never too into autographs, partly because I was a timid kid. I once saw John Madden out and about in the Bay Area and turned into stone at the idea about going up to him. But at a Giants game one day at the age of 10 or so, I finally got up the nerve to ask a player to sign a ball. That player, fucking Tom O’Malley, the Mike Junkin of MLB, instead of being honored that a little kid would want his insignificant lifetime .256 batting average chicken-scratch, completely blew me off and returned to chatting up some young lady.
I never tried to get another autograph, and cursed Tom O’Malley (his career soon fell off the cliff, just saying). Ten seconds and he could have been my hero forever.
Lots of great comments, but my favorite is 39. It just needs one correction: you don’t mean “I only got big-timed on one occasion and it was by Greg Pryor of all people.”
You mean “Greg Pryor got big-timed by a teenager mopping the floor of an ice-cream parlor.” Which is much funnier…
And there … was a Louisville Slugger bat. A used Louisville slugger bat. a DUANE KUIPER USED LOUISVILLE SLUGGER BAT. It had a NO. 18 on the bottom. I looked at the box, and saw that it was sent by Duane Kuiper.
You can tell it’s used, because there’s not a mark on it!
Pryor wasn’t trying to big time him; he was just stunned to know that someone knew who he was.
I went to a Yankees game and there was a catcher named Ron Tingley on the Angels at the time. He came over and signed autographs for way longer than he needed to…no one else on his team came over, and my dad refused to go over to the Yankees side, which was swamped. I wasn’t close enough to get Ron’s autograph, but I remember how nice he seemed and kind of followed his career after that point.
I sent a letter to him, and enclosed his baseball card. The guy not only sent back the signed baseball card, he also included a few signed baseballs and a short letter.
In 1994, I went to a Mets game, my first one ever, against the Marlins. I was a Mets fan (and still am), and guess who started at catcher? Even though it was against my team, I still cheered when he hit a homer in a game the Mets lost by one run. I remember feeling sorry for him having to catch Charlie Hough, and those are my only two distinct memories of the game.
Ever since then, I’ve been a fan of backup catchers.
I remember Rey Palacios driving out of the bullpen tunnel on his Chopper. He stopped and signed my (whatever it was). I thought that I might one day become a bullpen catcher, too. Alas, my dreams were stymied by lack of (whatever it was).
YOU LIVE A CHARMED LIFE, MY FRIEND
@59 I had a random favorite player growing up despite being in the ESPN era (though to be fair mid-90s is at the beginning of the over-saturation). One day at Fenway my brother brought a home-made Green Monster drawing (when the green monster was still illustrated by a child’s imagination instead of a silly green Muppet thing. It looked more like the blob than a wall, but c’est la vie). We showed up early and tried to get it signed. Nobody paid attention to us except bullpen catcher Mike McFarlane. I believe was splitting time with Bill Haselmen and Scott Hatteberg at the time. But he talked to us for a good 20 minutes before the game and signed the drawing, which is still framed and hanging at my parents house. Followed him for the rest of his career with the Royals and A’s.
I had the opportunity to meet my hero – and pretty much any Royals’ fan’s hero – George Brett. I was extremely nervous about meeting him, as I heard that he was very hit or miss in terms of his friendliness.
However, he was very polite, and gracious (and a tad hungover, from the smell of his breath) – and was even nice enough to crack a few jokes when the camera my friend was using wouldn’t work right away.
Great article, Joe – thanks for all your amazing work.
Brought tears to my eyes. What a great man. I’m 38 and lived in KC all my life so, of course, it was and is #5 for me.
Joe, has anyone ever mentiong how freaking hard it is to put up a post on this website. I’m able to do it on occasion, but often, the following thing happens: I just posted a long, close-to-my-heart story about meeting Vin Scully and Don Drysdale up in the booth when I got to announce an inning, and how wonderful they were to me…and now, nothing.
No record of it. No post. Vanished into thin air, like a number of my posts.
Yes I hit “Submit Comment.” Yes, it was entirely G-Rated.
Unless you despise the Dodgers, Scully, or me personally, I’d like an explanation for this.
As someone who played second base as a kid in Kansas City and worshipped Dick Green, you have brought tears to my eyes. Thanks for sharing.
Good grief, Joe. You’ve got me crying here. What a fantastic story.
And no, child acting is not any better nowadays. You can just see the bad acting in crystal-clear high def.
What a fabulous post, Joe, and a great story by Woody (#54).
I can’t top those, but here’s my 2 cents worth:
1) I’m a former sportswriter (worked at the Savannah the same time you were in Augusta, Joe). One of the reasons I became a sportswriter is that I grew up reading Peter Gammons’ column in The Sporting News. I idolized him.
I covered the 1991 World Series in Atlanta, and I was on the field before one of the games. I see Gammons standing by one of the dugouts. I so wanted to walk over, introduce myself and interview him for a notes column I had to file — and let it slip that he was a big reason why I was a sportswriter. But I didn’t. I chickened out. Why? Because I was scared to death he would disappoint me. And I just didn’t want to go through the rest of life being let down by one of my heroes.
2) I lived from 1980-83 in Rochester, NY (high school years). In those early days, the Rochester Red Wings, AAA farm club of the Orioles, had a SS prospect named Bob Bonner. He was the heir apparent to Mark Belanger and Kiko Garcia — until a REALLY good SS prospect named Cal Ripken Jr. passed him. Anyway, one night I got Bob Bonner’s autograph on a baseball.
Flash forward 20 years. I used to cover Savannah’s Single A baseball team, which gave me a chance to sit in dugouts and talk to former players from my youth, such as Richie Hebner and Ted Simmons (who I inadvertently pissed off, but that’s another story).
One night I notice that one of the coaches for the visiting team was Bob Bonner. So after the game I go to the visiting clubhouse and approach Bonner. I ask him, “Are you the Bob Bonner who used to play for the Rochester Red Wings and Baltimore Orioles?”
He looks at me warily and says, “Yeah …”
I respond, “I got your autograph one time 20 years ago. I still have the baseball.”
Bonner breaks out in a huge smile and says loudly so everyone in the clubhouse can hear: “Hey, somebody knows who I am! I gotta tell my wife!”
Still one of the highlights of my sportswriting career (after five years I switched to editorial writing).
I’ve just finished watching The Quiet Man, a movie I first saw 50-odd years ago. Back then, even as a 12-year-old or whatever, I knew it was a wonderful movie, a point of view arrived at more easily, no doubt, by virtue of having an Irish mother.
I have to say, though, that Mean Joe Green, whom I’d never heard of until this posting by Joe, is ten times the actor John Wayne ever was.
And to Garrett Hawk @73 . . .
Before submitting a comment, select it and save. Then, when it disappears into the ethernet, come back, paste it, re-enter your name and address and try again.
What a beautiful story, Joe. Thanks for all your writings. You brought tears to my eyes with this one.
ok, now that really *IS* The Coolest Thing Ever – and THAT’S how heroes SHOULD be
I am the real hero.
I work 40 hours a week in civil service, solving and addressing problems of people just like me all day, every day. Every age, race and ideology, doesn’t matter.
I raise my children with unconditional love. I obey laws, have never been arrested and give to charity.
I am not on broadcast media, I do not make a lot of money and outside of my small town, no one knows my name.
I was never very good at sports, I am not very good looking. Of course you don’t know who I am.
But I am the real hero.
Joe, you’re MY hero!
I’m going to talk to my wife and see if I can get a bat or one of your shirts. After all, her birthday is coming up.
I went to junior high with Mike Junkin in North Little Rock, Ar. A little snot grew up to be a big snot. Seriously, I remember him as a tall, skinny kid with a bit of an attitude. I couldn’t believe it when, years later, I heard he played in the NFL.