Very baseball-themed blog lately...so who am I to break with tradition. Yes, I realize it's my own tradition.
Before the Sox game last night, we got a rock-star parking space just across from the Star Market on Boylston, thanks to my wife's bright idea of looking for street parking given the fact that we were there so early. As we're pulling out, I casually look to my left, and in the passenger side of the huge Ford pickup next to us is Red Sox centerfielder Johnny Damon. He must have been on his way to meet with his hairstylist because he showed up for today's game in cornrows...not his best look.
So that got me thinking about the brushes with other baseball players I've had over the years...
When I was 12 or 13 my father took me and my brother Matt to a fantasy baseball camp in Reno, Nevada. It was mostly for him, but they had a kids camp as part of it, run by a former outfielder by the name of Nate Oliver, a very cool guy. I think that was the first time I'd ever met any major-leaguers, current or former. The biggest names there were Bob Gibson, who pitched for the Cardinals in the 60's and 70's, and had one of the greatest ERAs ever (1.12 in 1968, which in part prompted Major League Baseball to lower the mounds the next year), Hall-of-Famers Orlando Cepeda and Maury Wills, former catcher John Roseboro, outfielders Dick Allen and Tommy Davis, infielder Ken McMullen and pitchers Dock Ellis and Luis Tiant (who now works for the Sox and is a truly hilarious gentleman). The thing I remember most about the whole week we were there was Dock Ellis poaching a few kernels of popcorn out of my brother's carton while we were sitting watching a game together (the camp was held at a California league park for the local team, the Reno Silver Sox). My brother got so fed up at this encroachment on his territory that he said "Oh, you want my popcorn, huh?" and proceeded to empty it onto the poor guy's lap. It was a fair exchange - Matt gets an autograph, Dock gets butter stains on his pants.
I went to another baseball camp around that time hosted by former Sox catcher Rich Gedman. Some of his teammates at the time showed up but didn't actually participate in the camp - they just lined up for autograph sessions at the end of the day. The big name that year was Roger Clemens (I still have the autograph stashed somewhere at my parents' house; if I knew where it was I probably would have burned it years ago but cooler (more clueless?) heads prevailed at the time). I also remember Sox pitcher Bruce Hurst, who would have been the MVP of the '86 World Series if...well...never mind.
I doubt anyone reading this doesn't know about my whole FANatic episode in '98 where I got to meet Blues Traveler (if you don't, well, I'm surprised my readership has reached that far) but until I actually got to meet the band, the highlight of our trip was staying in the same hotel in Cleveland as the Red Sox, who happened to be in town. We were tempted to sneak out and get tickets to one game of the doubleheader that afternoon but couldn't get away from the camera crew. We were literally across the street from Jacobs Field at a brand-new hotel that had just opened, and as we're standing around our limo out front, I see Tim Wakefield walk by a line of autograph seekers and into the lobby. Ditto Billy Ashley (who I think was with the team for all of six games that year). Then two players come OUT of the hotel, walk up to our limo, and I have the presence of mind to actually remember the name of one of them - Darren Bragg, a second-string outfielder for them at the time. He wheels around, shocked that anyone in Cleveland knows his name, and introduces the guy with him - outfielder Damon Buford. We chat for a bit, they jokingly ask if they can borrow our limo, and we get Damon's cell number and hooked up with tickets to a game in Boston in August. On our way up to our room, we catch a glimpse of Nomar Garciaparra, who has a throng of fans around him, and hop in the elevator with another player who is managing to get by unnoticed. His face doesn't click with me immediately, and I try to play it cool with the following line of genius: "Boy, it must be nice not to get mobbed like Nomar, eh?" Great. Insult the guy by implying nobody knows who he is...and then not know yourself. He kind of smiles politely and nods...and still nothing registers. Finally he gets off and we realize it was their backup catcher, Scott Hatteberg. Oops. Our last encounter with a Sox player in that hotel was running into their closer, Tom Gordon, roaming the halls in his boxers after the game. Thankfully he didn't live up to his nickname, "Flash".
And then there's the most recent run-in, while we were in Florida this past March. We're leaving a spring training game and filing out into the parking lot, and to get there you have to cross the street next to the park. Viv is walking along, stops at the crosswalk, and the driver in the SUV waves her across. She looks again and it's Nomar Garciaparra at the wheel. She spends the rest of the drive back - and the rest of the afternoon - gushing "Nomar stopped his car for me!"
Ok...off to help with some lasagna.
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