When my boys were young and we could still get away during spring break, we spent some time in the Florida Grapefruit league.
Took cases of balls with us and they worked all week getting autographs. I knew that had to be a tiring chore for the players. Of course, sometimes the boys were disappointed.
I hope my son is not the only one, but I think he practiced signing his autograph, when he was very young, as much as he did hitting or fielding.
I still remember sitting at a table in a hotel lobby with my family and some young boys coming to him with something to sign.
I still remember seeing him sign for the first time before a college game.
I still remember seeing a BUNCH of young kids around him while he signed after a summer collegiate game.
I will always remember a table in the dressing room with all kinds of things to be signed by the players.
It does still seem strange to me why they ask MY SON to do that, but I still remember how much it meant to my sons.
And, I think he does, because I have never seen him refuse and I know he usually signs until he really has to go.
So, I'll send him the article to remind him, while my mind flashes back to the young boy asking "Pudge" to sign and Pudges' graciousness with a single signature "right in the sweet spot, dad" and then my thoughts turn to next spring when he returns the favor............
Former Observer, that's a neat story! What awesome memories to treasure!
Great find, Frank. I sent the link to the kid.
Autographs are for kids. There ought to be an age limit.
Autographs are for kids. There ought to be an age limit.
This is a great story. I am so glad that you posted it, Frank F.
Reading that story and the other posts reminds me of a time oh-so-long-ago and oh-so-very-far-away, when my boys were 2 and 4. We happened to out for a really early dinner at kind of an out of the way Italian restaurant near what was formerly known as the Chicago Stadium. It was a Saturday in November.
A group of men walked in and then the hush. And then the buzz. After a while, the waitress gave each of my small boys a page from her order pad and walked them over to the table filled with giant men. I didn't know who they were. They both came back with an autograph. Dan Marino #13. I looked over at the table and caught his eye and mouthed "Thank You". He smiled and waved at me.
Of course he knew that those small boys had no idea who he was, that they had no clue that he was in town to play the Bears the next day. He could not know that his autograph would be the only one that my boys would ever have. I remember thinking that he was very kind to not dismiss those boys or the waitress who were bothering him when he was out to dinner with some buddies.
When my oldest needed to choose a number for his uniform when he was 9, he chose number 13 to remember a man who was very kind to two little boys.
My #13 is reading this as I write it. Sixteen years later, he still remembers that late afternoon vividly, including details like the dark navy blue sweater that the real Number Thirteen was wearing, sitting at that round table. I will never forget the smile in his eyes.
It is amazing what a few letters joined together can signify.
Reading that story and the other posts reminds me of a time oh-so-long-ago and oh-so-very-far-away, when my boys were 2 and 4. We happened to out for a really early dinner at kind of an out of the way Italian restaurant near what was formerly known as the Chicago Stadium. It was a Saturday in November.
A group of men walked in and then the hush. And then the buzz. After a while, the waitress gave each of my small boys a page from her order pad and walked them over to the table filled with giant men. I didn't know who they were. They both came back with an autograph. Dan Marino #13. I looked over at the table and caught his eye and mouthed "Thank You". He smiled and waved at me.
Of course he knew that those small boys had no idea who he was, that they had no clue that he was in town to play the Bears the next day. He could not know that his autograph would be the only one that my boys would ever have. I remember thinking that he was very kind to not dismiss those boys or the waitress who were bothering him when he was out to dinner with some buddies.
When my oldest needed to choose a number for his uniform when he was 9, he chose number 13 to remember a man who was very kind to two little boys.
My #13 is reading this as I write it. Sixteen years later, he still remembers that late afternoon vividly, including details like the dark navy blue sweater that the real Number Thirteen was wearing, sitting at that round table. I will never forget the smile in his eyes.
It is amazing what a few letters joined together can signify.