Florida 1987
The Porsche pulls quietly up to the fence and the elusive
Pete Rose
tentatively steps from his car. The coast is almost clear. Twenty people stand
poised by the clubhouse door, baseballs and "Sharpies" in hand, hoping against
hope for an autograph. My son Steve, there since 7 a.m., is alert for the signals. He
spots Rose first and begins edging toward the Porsche. In his hand
- a framed "The
Hit" Cincinnati Post
front page. It's nice as it is, but an autograph on it would be a
priceless treasure to keep forever. "Mr. Rose," he beseeches as he intercepts
Rose midway between the Porsche and the clubhouse door. "Would you pu-leeeeze
sign this?" Rose hesitates, looks at the photo, accepts the offered Sharpie, and
in one second the deed is done. Mission accomplished! A Pete Rose autograph! A
lady behind Steve is also successful - a ball signed. By this time Rose is past
the crowd and successfully in the clubhouse door. We hear later that over one
hundred people waited two hours after the game for a chance at an autograph. He
signed no more that day. But who can blame the man. It is obvious that he could
spend every waking hour signing his name. Still, we feel triumphant - we were
lucky.
It didn't just happen, though. It was planned with precision. The night before
was the drive from Bradenton to Tampa.
Bradenton is
the spring training home of he Pittsburgh Pirates. Nearby, the Chicago White Sox
train in Sarasota. The prizes there - a complete Pirates plaque signed by the
whole team - beautiful! Two
Carlton Fisk
balls, and a Baines. Some 200 cards signed.
Today Steve wants certain things - Rose. Also
Eric Davis on a ball and 8 x 10 photo. And, because the Reds are playing the
Boston Red Sox - Boggs. Boggs - as much as possible.
What does it take to accomplish all this? Planning, money and stamina. This will be the first night we are able to get a room where
most of the team is staying. It's $99 a night, but what of it? This is a quest!
We arrive at 9 p.m. to find that the Reds are out of town at a night game. No
point in staking out the lobby at midnight. They'll all be tired when they come
in, to say nothing of how tired we are. So we go for a drive to find the
ballpark, and more specifically, the clubhouse where the players come in in the
morning. We are planning a "stake-out." Steve will have me stationed in the
hotel lobby at 7:30 in the morning after dropping him off at the park.
Therefore, we have to know the night before how to get to the park. I tends to
get lost - a very frustrating wrinkle in this precision planning. Then we grab a
quick dinner and go back to the hotel to go to bed. Before retiring, we put in
for a 6 a.m. wake-up. The $99 room is gorgeous - one of those on the Executive
floor with complimentary cocktails, chocolates on the pillow, and a fancy terry
robe to use (and purchase for $45 if you care to - the temptation to just slip
it into my suitcase is strong, but resisted.) We can't really appreciate all
this luxury, though. It is just a means to an end.
The 6 a.m. wake-up call is rude and jarring. We feel grubby and like we've been
pummeled by a steam roller from our days on the road. But rise we indeed do.
This is the important day. We must be organized and fully functioning. Breakfast
can wait. I deposit Steve at the Reds ballpark at 7 a.m. He tells me later that
Mario Soto came in at 7:15. Steve was the only fan there asking him to sign.
Soto says it's too early for autographs. Tell me about it!
Meanwhile, I am back in the hotel lobby with coffee, newspaper, and a stack of
baseball cards and two balls. the goals - a ball signed by Eric Davis, Dave
Parker, and /or
Tony Perez
- and as many cards as possible. A nice young fellow is the first one into the
lobby, obviously a baseball player. They are easily recognizable - clean-cut
looking, nicely but casually dressed in shorts or pants and a short-sleeved
shirt with collar. This young man, when asked, shyly says he is not yet in the
majors, but he is kind enough to sort through my stack of cards and eliminate
the players not staying at the hotel. This is an enormous relief to me because I
had had a nightmare the night before that I dropped my stack of cards all over
the floor just as
Dave Parker
walked leisurely through the lobby. He would have taken time to sign, but of
course he can't wait for me to find his card in the mess on the floor. Whew -
the pressure I feel.
My stack of cards is smaller now - manageable. A few players come through the
lobby - all sign my cars courteously. I am generally very, very impressed with
the courtesy and kindness the ball players show toward their fans' requests for
autographs. It must be difficult to play good baseball and handle this other
side of their job. Steve has a different perspective, though. He says, "Look
what they get paid - for playing a kid's game." Still, I think most of them are
wonderful to their fans.
Oops - I almost missed him. Eric Davis steps out of the elevator and around he
corner to a side door. I run, ball in hand, to catch up to him. I have to ask
him if he is, indeed, Eric Davis. Embarrassing. Steve would have known. But he
is and he signs. There! My morning task is finished. It is 10 a.m.
Curious, I drive to the ballpark to see how Steve has done. Grinning, he shows
me the Rose picture. He is pleased with my Davis items. We are "jamming," he
says.
Once the players are all on the field, there is a period of time when they won't
sign autographs (can't really - they have to warm up, of course, play the game.)
Oh, the game. Might as well catch some of it. Some of the players leave early,
though, so it's best to be at the clubhouse door after the fourth or fifth
inning. There are always a few other fans there. We trade anecdotes, compare
collections. I go to the Boston door - I have a few cards and 8 x 10 of
Dwight Evans.
Steve is trying to get more Reds. Before the game, at the fence by the field,
Wade Boggs
was signing. Steve dove into the fray - the 8 x 10 is signed.
Between the Boston clubhouse door and their bus it is a zoo. I stand there.
Evans signs my 8 x 10, as well as everyone else's items.
Henderson is
signing. Rice is signing!
And I don't have a ball or a card of him because Steve said he never signs. Then
Wade Boggs appears. There is pandemonium. Two hundred people with cards, balls,
and pens in hand surround him like moths to a flame. And he is gorgeous in a
white shirt. "Please watch your pens," is all he says. I overhear another player
say to him, "You almost made it." Wade Boggs, while his family waits, graciously
and with great composure, signs everything that is thrust before him as he makes
his way inch by inch to his car. He can't possibly put up with this all season.
But I come away with a card signed
for Steve. Boggs is his favorite.
We can go now. To
Lakeland - home of the Detroit Tigers and a night game against Boston. We
arrive in Lakeland at 5 p.m. to find the town booked solid. Prepared to sleep in
the car tonight, I drop Steve at Marchant Stadium and head back into town. I am
so tired, but I don't hold out too much hope of finding a room. I'm
told everywhere that there are a few rooms in Tampa. But I just came from
there - I'd rather sleep in the car than drive anymore. I head back to the
stadium. On the way, I spot an obscure motel behind a flower shop. Might as well
check. They have a room! It looks a little seedy and they want $80, but it beats
the car.
At Marchant Stadium there is a festive air. It is St. Patrick's Day and the
Tigers are in green uniforms. We hear that
Al Kaline,
Bowie Kuhn,
and Tom
Monaghan are here. It would be fun to get Monaghan's signature on a ball!
And we have two great pictures of
Kirk Gibson
to get signed. We want
Alan
Trammell, etc., etc., etc. Better stay alert. The Tigers, we hear, are great
about signing. And it's orderly. If you stay behind the fence they will walk
along on their way out and sign everything.
I
am by myself for awhile. A young man comes out and steps into a car. I think
maybe it is a player leaving. But no, he merely turns the car around and
positions it (for a quick getaway?) Must be Monaghan's car, I say to myself.
Keep an eye on it!
More fans gather. A van pulls up and a boy gets out
and asks the guard. "Is this the clubhouse? Somebody ordered 18 pizzas."
Domino's!
I wonder who ordered them?
The game is almost over. A flurry of activity to my right. Men rushing to "the
car." The man in the green suit with glasses. Unmistakable. I run with a ball in
hand. "Mr. Monaghan," I say to him breathlessly as he climbs into the back seat.
"We're from Ann Arbor. Would you please sign this ball for me?"
Smiling, he complies. He is having fun. So am I.
The fans are crowding the fence. Gibson and Trammell are out and are signing.
Steve and I wait our turn. They sign everything. We take our treasures to the
car. It is 11 p.m.
There's a game tomorrow in Orlando - the Minnesota Twins against the Los Angeles
Dodgers. We want to get a Sports
Illustrated cover of
Fernando Valenzuela
signed. And a ball by the whole Twins team. Better be there by 7 a.m. We put in
a wake-up call for 5:30 a.m.
...it's an hour drive to Orlando.
Do you have some signing stories from the 80s? Love to hear from you. Letty Johnson