Originally published April 13, 1989, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
Inside the old Hotel Kenmore, to the right of the front desk, there was a coffee shop where, if you hung around during those faded baseball summers of the 50s, you could collect autographs of ballplayers in both leagues. Practically all American League teams and most National League clubs stayed there. For some reason, the Yankees were at the Statler in Park Square while a couple others used the Somerset.
Kids sat in the hotel lobby like House Dicks stalking a suspect. Nobody tossed you out because waiting for Al Rosen, Ralph Kiner, Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Pee Wee Reese, Don Mossi, Matt Batts, Tito Francona or any guy who wore a major league uniform was an accepted ritual.
You had to use your smarts. You didn’t want to be in the middle of a mob of autograph hounds because then the ballplayer wouldn’t take the time to talk with you.
So you learned tricks of the trade. For instance, you could ride the elevator. That way you’d be right there when Mickey Vernon or Bob Porterfield got on.
Instead of loitering by the press gate at Braves Field, you’d cross Commonwealth Avenue to Warren Spahn’s diner, get a coke for five cents and sit at the counter until Don Mueller or Whitey Lockman came in for meatloaf. At the Statler, Jumbo McCarthy’s older brother had a job washing dishes. He’d get the room numbers when the Yankees came to town.
That was always a huge event. You’d unclip a pile of Records and go door to door with newspapers for the ballplayers. You’d give them a free paper for an autograph. Simple enough.
Back then, there was no player’s union, no special deals for athletes. Most doubledup in a room; even stars like Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, so each room was a twofer.
Once, Gene Woodling, victim of selfinflicted wounds from the night before, threw up on the hallway carpet just as he was handed his morning paper. Another time, Billy Martin’s roommate had a very highpitched voice, really long hair and resembled a woman so much so that I was shocked until my father informed me that some guys took their sisters on road trips.
The reason I mention this today is a snapshot of activity that occurred at Fenway Park on Opening Day. The gates were pushed back at 11 a.m. and the big crowd giddily spilled into the little ballpark in the Back Bay.
There were a lot of kids and almost every one of them rushed to the rail that rims the field. They yelled and screamed at the players and begged for autographs.
Marty Barrett signed for awhile. And Jody Reed, too. Sam Horn, Ritchie Gedman, Mike Greenwell and Wade Boggs indulged them but the loudest cheers were reserved for Roger Clemens.
But Clemens didn’t hear them. At least, he pretended not to because he emerged from the dugout and kept on going. He had no time and never even turned to wave.
Now, there’s nothing in the American League rule book or the Major League Player’s Agreement that stipulates a player has to sign autographs. And the club can’t force a guy to do something he doesn’t want to do.
And, face it, sometimes the demand is unreasonable or even worse; like when a guy sends a little kid to collect signatures and then tries to sell the autographs later at one of these foolish card shows.
But and I don’t mean to single out Clemens here or give you the impression that it’s only baseball players who are at fault something is truly screwed up when a ballplayer will only sign autographs when he is getting 8 bucks a pop at some shopping mall or collector’s convention. After all, the big stars in any sport are not exactly starving for dough.
Athletes get huge contracts for two reasons: 1. They are terrific at what they do. 2. Lots of people are willing to pay exorbitant prices to see them do it.
So the only compelling reason for them not to sign scorecards or autograph books being waved by their young fans has to be ignorance. And the only compelling reason for them to take a fee for a signature at a show is greed.
It is inevitable that some day the fastball will fade, the arm will tire, the legs will get a bit heavier, the bat a bit slower. Then, his gift eroding, the ballplayer, once honored for what he did rather than who he was, will be cut or retired.
Maybe if they took the time to think about how they want to be remembered by kids who will grow up to have kids of their own, we’d have more players who were actually remembered as human beings, instead of fatheads with skills that set them apart from the pack. But that’s probably asking a lot because the athlete who ignores a child is merely a spoiled kid himself who happens to wear his IQ number on his uniform. He could perform, but he could not think.
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