Carl Schinasi and Noah Schinasi
Getting Big Mac's Autograph
In the spring of 1998 I fulfilled a lifelong dream. I attended spring
training. It was a dream I had since childhood back in the fifties when I
began and ended my days by rooting for the Giants. Each spring brought
with it what each spring does -- new life, a renewed sense of hope, and
for me the dream that my beloved Willie Mays and the Giants would make it
to the World Series. Spring training held a special fascination. To my
impressionable young mind there was something idyllic and mythic about
a group of baseball teams playing in close proximity. Arizona and
Florida, too, so far away from New York seemed exotic. "The smell of the
grass," as Ray Liotta's Shoeless Joe Jackson calls it in Field of
Dreams, hung heavily in the air for me each spring. A trip south though
was out of the question. My family lived in New York, my father worked
constantly (as did most fathers of my generation), so a trip south in
the spring during my childhood was to remain always what it was, a dream. Years later, my deep interest in baseball long past, my parents
retired to south Florida. And bam, quicker than Willie Mays could fire
one in from center field, the thought occurred to me: I could visit my
parents and attend spring training. What was even better was that now I
could take my son with me.
Spring 1998 arrived and my son, Noah, and I headed south. We stayed
with my parents in Boynton Beach. Each morning we rose early, loaded the
car with our gloves and knapsack full of clean balls to be signed, and
drove south to Ft. Lauderdale to see the Orioles or north to Port St.
Lucie to see the Mets, to Jupiter to catch the Cardinals, or even farther
north to Vero Beach to watch the Dodgers. Noah loved baseball as much as
I did. By eleven, he was a fearless player who had more determination
than skill. He played with such ferocity and willingness to win that
each year he made his league's all-star team. When we arrived at the
ballparks each day, it was Noah's grit and determination that won him
an outlandish number of ballplayers' autographs. But he wanted one
signature more than any other -- Mark McGwire's.
McGwire had a monumental season in ‘97, even though he had been
traded from Oakland to St. Louis. He hit 58 home runs, drove in 123 runs and
had a slugging percentage of .646. A career year, as they say. Who
could guess that the following year he would surpass these numbers, by
hitting a then unthinkable 70 home runs? In the spring of '98 such
heights were unimaginable. Noah was mightily aware of McGwire and his
heroics. One brilliant spring morning, as we drove to Tradition Stadium in
Port St. Lucie to watch the Mets play the Cardinals, Noah had only one
thing on his mind. Get Big Mac's autograph.
We arrived early at Tradition Stadium, as we did to all the games, to
wait for the players. We figured the best time to assure an autograph
was when the players arrived at the ballpark. Sometimes they will sign
as they arrive; other times you must wait until they are on the field
or, at other times, they will sign balls after a game. On one
memorable occasion in the spring of ‘99 Noah sought Ricky Henderson's
autograph. Henderson had stayed late after a Mets game in Port St. Lucie
to take extra batting practice. Noah approached the batting cage and
an attendant stopped him. He informed Noah that Henderson (by then, the
last player in the park) would sign after he left the cage. Henderson
batted and batted and batted, a testimony to his work ethic and to his
longevity in the major leagues. He outlasted us. After sticking
around for well over an hour and watching Henderson swing at hundreds of
balls, wait weary, we finally gave up. Noah never did get Henderson's
autograph.
Tradition Stadium lies on a flat, treeless plain. There is
little protection from the sun, and on this day by mid-morning already a
heavy, humidity soaked heat oppressed us. We waited in front of the
players' entrance where the Cardinals' visiting team bus would arrive.
We were parked there with a crowd of other hopefuls, all kinds of
folks: other fathers with young sons, older folks, probably retired, milling
around just out for the joy of the day, and clearly some autograph
dealers, often soggy-looking men with knapsacks overloaded and sagging with
official MLB baseballs. As we waited, some folks chatted, some played
catch with their kids, and others lounged around lazily. Noah and I
had been waiting over an hour when the bus arrived. It slowed as it
approached the players' entrance gate, and all of us gathered around. We
peered into the tinted windows trying to catch a glimpse of the
players. On this day the bus didn't stop. To our disappointment, the bus glided slowly through the parted gates. We'd have to wait until we
got on to the field or until the game was over to score any autographs.
The crowd dispersed slowly. Folks wandered to farther regions of the
park, back to their cars to rest, or into the ballpark. I stood there
waiting for Noah, who had emboldened himself and had been fraternizing
with a small group of autograph collectors. When he returned I said we
should go in and settle into our seats. Noah had other ideas. He said,
"No, dad, McGwire's coming on another bus. Soon." I asked him
how he knew that. He said that's what one of the men he was chatting
it up with had said. He pointed to some poor fellow leaning awkwardly
in a wheelchair. "There, that guy over there," he said, pointing
the fellow out to me. We'd woken early and the heat was unkind. I
wanted to get inside the park, nestle in my seat, sip a tall cool drink,
and ready myself to be wrapped in the game's ceremonies of innocence.
Noah was having none of it. "No, dad. Let's wait. McGwire's coming. I
know." I told him that even if Mac arrived on another bus, it too would
probably pass directly through the gates. Noah was adamant. He stood
his ground. He was sure the guy in the wheelchair knew what was up. I
relented. It is truly amazing the things we will do for our kids. I
took a seat on the grass under what was passing for a tree and Noah walked
back to a small group of fans that awaited McGwire's arrival.
Only a few folks remained in the group. There was Noah and the guy in
the wheelchair, maybe a few teenagers, and what looked like an older
woman; perhaps there were a few others. As I waited, I watched from a
distance as my son, animated with excitement and unfazed by the heat,
chatted it up. I marveled at his tenacity and the ease with which he could
introduce himself into a crowd, even at such a tender age. Part of the
joy of parenthood is watching such small miracles. Finally, after
waiting three-quarters of an hour, here it came. Sure enough.
Approaching, as it seemed, directly out of the long expanse of blue sky behind it,
here came a bus headed right for the entrance gate. The fellow in the
wheelchair had been right, at least about the bus. Now we'd see if
Mac was on it. The bus slowed and came to a complete halt before it
entered the gates. Those hearty faithful who had remained seemed to freeze
in expectation. Even from a distance, their anticipation was palpable. I sat up and stared intently,
waiting for the bus doors to open.
But nothing happened. At least not immediately. After the bus stopped,
its doors stayed closed, no one exited. It just parked there, the
little crowd congregated around the doors. The thought crossed my mind,
"If there were ever worshippers at the gate..." After another ten or
fifteen minutes there was some movement. The doors opened and sure
enough, a player appeared. But it clearly wasn't McGwire. Mark McGwire
in 1998 was instantly recognizable. He was a mountain of a man. There
was no mistaking him, not from a distance, not from anywhere. He was
6'5" tall and 250 pounds. He had broad shoulders that tapered to
flat waist. Big Mac did not come by his name serendipitously. He was a
man who spent time in a gym. Bad knees and all, he still appeared a
chiseled mass of muscle. His size certainly contributed to what in 1997
was his near mythic status.
From where I sat I couldn't see exactly what was happening. But
suddenly there was movement around the doors. The few fans there were
jockeying for position. Then they backed away from the door. As I was
watching this activity, I noticed the first ball player to exit the bus
walking my way. Curious, I looked at him as he approached and when he
was close enough, I was startled to be facing Tony La Russa, the
Cardinals' manager. "Hi," I said, less out of courtesy than surprise.
As he nodded in passing, I gathered my wits quickly enough to ask him to
sign a baseball. I handed him my pen and he was generous enough to
stop for a few minutes and chat. I asked him what he thought the
Cardinals' chances were for winning the pennant, and wished him well for the
season. As he turned to leave I added this odd remark, "I bet this gig
is better than being a lawyer?" I was referring to La Russa's
education. He had studied to be a lawyer. Momentarily taken aback by such
a statement he looked at me intently, as if this were some trick question to get
him to say something he might later regret. A small smile broke across
his face and he quipped, "Yep, no doubt." As La Russa walked away,
I glanced back to the bus surrounded by its coterie of hopefuls. The
bus was pulling into the gates, the group had melted away, and here came
Noah alternately skipping and running toward me. I was excited. I was
so engrossed spending my few minutes with La Russa, I hadn't noticed
what was happening around the bus.
Noah had a big grin on his face, and he was holding the ball at arm's
length. "Hey, hey, what happened?" I shouted. He skipped to a halt
in front of me and thrust the ball in my face. "I got it dad. I
did," he said handing me the ball. I took it and looked at it. And looked
at it, examining the black scratches I saw scrawled across the ball.
"That's Mac's autograph?" I asked. I was looking at what
appeared to be crisscrossing infinity signs. "That's it?" I asked
again in wonderment. Noah's head bobbed up and down in assent. The
squiggly lines hardly mattered; I was thrilled all the same that Noah had
gotten to meet McGwire. Clearly Noah was too. I asked him what happened.
Here's Noah's version of that auspicious morning nine years ago:
"When I saw McGwire, I remember there were a couple of kids, a man in
a wheelchair, maybe some few others, and myself hanging around the bus.
It was either two teens or two younger kids. Maybe there was an older
man, too. I know for sure that a man in a wheelchair was there. He was
the one who told me Mac would be on another bus. We all ran up to Mac
about a minute or two after he got off the bus and held our baseballs in
front of him. As he grabbed the first baseball he would sign, he said,
'Don't crowd me goddamnit! Geez!' Then he signed our balls
quickly. After he left we talked about the way the signature looked. 'Man,
you can barely tell this is his name,' I said. 'Yeah, he always
signs like that,' said the man in the wheelchair. 'I've seen a
bunch of signed baseballs by him before. They're all like this.' Then I
came running back to you."
When Noah told me what happened, I cracked up; the image of it still
cracks me up. After all here was this giant, a real leviathan of a man,
surround by a ragtag crew of lilliputians, some kids, maybe a few
geezers and a cripple, and he greets them with, "Don't crowd me." How
crowded could he have been, especially compared to the crowds that must
already have surrounded him the previous year when he was pursuing
Maris' mark? What did he say to those pressing crowds? To be fair,
ballplayers are put upon plenty. If you have ever seen the crowds that
engulf a player for his autograph, you can understand why sometimes
players might be a little grouchy, especially after a hard fought game on a
hot summer's day. Still there was an air of self-importance in
McGwire's remark that really tickled me and that remains humorous to me to
this day. More so, I think, because in the year ahead, as he pursued
Maris' home run record, McGwire would become America's consummate
hero. He
was lauded as much for his gargantuan feats on the field as for his
gracious efforts off it. That he would be so touchy and curse in front
of a few stray autograph seekers speaks perhaps more to the fallibility
of the man than to the legend.
Today, of course, with the revelations
about McGwire's (and all the other offending players) possible use of
steroids, this lesson may have become too common. Any lesson this
moment provides is not what matters here. What matters is the memory; the
wonderment of a kid meeting a star, no matter the star's deportment,
and the delight of a father made proud by his son's tenacity and
accomplishment, and even more delighted by his son's joy. Noah waiting
it out and finally getting Mac's autograph, that, as the advertisement
puts it, "is priceless." And for me, that muggy March spring
training morning at Tradition Stadium in Port St. Lucie, Florida was a dream come
true, made far better because I shared it with my son. For that
moment, for that memory, I'll always be grateful -- to Big Mac and to baseball.
©2007 by Carl Schinasi and Noah Schinasi
