Every signature tells a story: Stephen King kicking butt

All the presidential campaign activity reminded me of one of my favorite autograph stories.

Stephen King, I learned, is an awesome writer, but not much of political pundit.

This discovery came back in 1984 when I was the editor of the Nassau Community College newspaper and we got word that King – my favorite author at the time -- was appearing unannounced downstairs in the Student Union.

King, we were told, was speaking on behalf of Sen. Gary Hart, who was seeking the Democratic nomination for president.

Not that it mattered. King could have been reading the minutes of the last student government meeting out loud and we still would have scrambled down the stairs to catch a glimpse. And there, standing without a crowd, was the master of the macabre, the man who penned “Cujo,” “Carrie” and “Christine.”

Tall and bearded, King looked as imposing as one of the characters in his spooky books.

I bravely walked over and introduced myself, and went into reporter mode.

“Why,” I asked, “should someone support Gary Hart.?”

King looked down, furrowed his brow and said – growled, more accurately – “Because he’s gonna kick Reagan’s ass.”

The last three words were said slowly as if each were followed by a period. They sounded more menacing than they appear in print.

And then nothing more.

I was going to venture a follow-up question, maybe something about a particular aspect of Hart’s proposals that King might have particularly liked.

But frankly, the whole ass-kicking thing threw me off guard. And I was totally star-struck. I might have thrown out something like, “I really liked ‘The Dead Zone.’” before handing him my reporter’s notebook to autograph.

Looking back, of course, it was The Gipper who extended boot to buttocks, dropping a 49-state smackdown on Walter Mondale.

And King’s candidate, Gary Hart, will forever go down in history as the man who, through his misdeeds on the Monkey Business, opened the door to a whole new kind of political reporting, the horror story that is the poking and prodding into personal lives of the people who run for office.

The only thing scarrier might be the phrase, "Now warming up in the Mets' bullpen..."

Give me "The Shining" over Schoenweis any day!

Every signature tells a story: Jay Hook, the mumps and the first win

There’s a lot of fear out here in the Midwest about mumps, with more than 1,000 case diagnosed — more than 600 in Iowa alone.

But how many people know that the disease played a role in the Mets’ first-ever win?

Pitcher Jay Hook was a bonus baby signed by the Cincinnati Reds out of Northwestern University, making his big league debut in 1957.

He became a starter in 1960, showing some promise with an 11-18 record and 4.50 ERA, hurling a two-hitter against the Braves.

Then the next year, Hook came down with the mumps.

Mumps is caused by a virus that spreads like the flu. Symptoms include a sore throat, body aches, fever and a swelling of glands in the jaw. Most people recover in a week, but rare cases can result in deafness and meningitis, a dangerous swelling in the brain and covering of the spinal cord. Pretty nasty stuff, and it wasn’t until 1967 that a vaccine became available.

Hook apparently had a pretty bad case, because it complete threw him off his game, going just 1-3 with a nasty 7.76 ERA.

The Reds apparently thought Hook was done, because they exposed him in the 1961 expansion draft. The Mets picked him to join Roger Craig, Al Jackson and one of the Bob Millers — we had two — in the rotation.

The Mets had lost their first nine games when Hook took the hill at Forbes Field on April 23, pitching a five-hit, 9-1 victory over the Pirates to claim the milestone win.

Hook finished the year with an 8-19 record and 4.84 ERA, leading the team in complete games, starts, and hit batsmen.

He took a step back in 1963, going 4-14 with a 5.48 ERA and played in just two games the following year.

But Hook was no dummy. Remember he was signed out of Northwestern. He earned a master’s degree thermodynamics and retired at age 28 to take a job with Chrysler Corporation.

I ran into Hook at a Mets spring training game. I didn’t know who he was on sight. But I saw an gentleman standing behind the dugout during batting practice. I noticed that several coaches and team execs would come to the dugout, shake hands and chat with the guy.

I suspected he might be someone important, and slinked over with my Mets history book. I slipped a peek at the credential hanging around his neck, and saw this name.

"Are you Jay Hook, as in first-Mets-win Jay Hook?" I asked.

His face lit up, seemingly pleased that someone recognized him. He said he’d be happy to sign my book.

We found a spot, and I remembered that I met a bunch of the 1962 Mets at a card show in Manhattan in the late 1980s, and wondered if he was there.

Hook said he didn’t recall such a show, and together we turned to the page — I had everyone there sign the same page in the book — and he went down the list, reading the names and talking about his former teammates.

When he realized for sure that his name wasn’t on that page, he said, "Well, we’d better take care of that!" and signed that one, too.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Joe Carter, A Nice Guy

Does all this talk about surly ‘ole Barry Bonds have you down?

I offer the antidote: Joe Carter.

Carter quietly turned 46 on the day that revelations broke that Bonds was allegedly juicing more than a Tropicana factory.

Carter will always be remembered for his Oct. 23, 1993 three-run, ninth-inning blast off Mitch Williams to crown the Toronto Blue Jays as World Series champs. He and Bill Mazeroski have the only two Series-ending walk-off homers.

The sheer joy on Carter’s face as he jumped around the bases is tonic for even the foulest Bonds press conference.

But when I think about Joe I think back to a day in 1987, a baseball card show in Trumbull, Conn.

Julie and I were engaged, and back then she would tag along to some of these things – as long as I would then go with her to a fabric store.

Our main goal was to meet Duke Snider and have him sign my Mets book and Hall of Fame ball. Duke’s a friendly guy. We admired his huge Hall of Fame ring, and he nicely commented on Julie’s engagement ring.

But sitting at a table all by himself was Joe Carter. It was odd that he was there in the first place, since he then played for Cleveland and had no New York or Boston ties whatsoever.

I was familiar with Carter because I had just drafted him for my rotisserie league team. He led the American League in rbi the year before.

I felt bad for him, sitting there with no customers. So Julie and I walked over and started chatting. He welcomed us with a big smile and strong handshake and we had a nice conversation about how his season was going and how he liked playing for the Indians.

From that point on, anytime Carter’s name was mentioned in the household, it was followed by “what a nice guy.”

Carter went on to have a solid career that falls just short of Cooperstown. He hit .259 with 396 homers, 1,445 rbi and 2,184 hits over 16 years.

His last game came at the end of the 1998 season, when his Giants and Cubs had a one-game playoff to determine the wild card.

Cub fans, never ones to be particularly warming to visiting players, showed Carter great respect by giving him a standing ovation when he came to bat in the ninth inning, knowing that it would be the last of his career.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Buck O'Neil, Hall of Famer?

I usually try to sneak a baseball adventure into work-related road trips, and this week I was visiting Kansas City. I might have bumped into the next addition to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Since the Royals are in Florida and I’ve already toured Kauffman Stadium when it was empty, we checked out the Negro League Baseball Museum, which is part of a rejuvenated historic district and shares space with a jazz museum.

The museum is pretty neat — long on information but short in artifacts. The marketing director said it’s still growing, having once been relegated to a small office.

The best part is a field with 12 life-sized, bronze statues of legendary players. Dave, the photographer accompanying me, noticed a television crew was setting up on the field, and it’s a reflex for print people to find out what such people are doing.

The marketing director said that Buck O’Neil would be down during the day for an interview, tied to the Monday vote on adding Negro League players to Cooperstown.

O’Neil, of course, is the guy who practically stole Ken Burn’s epic Baseball documentary in 1994 with his charm and wonderful stories.

Buck O'Neil didn't mind posing for photos.

I was standing in the lobby chatting on my cell with a school board member when an older gentleman wearing a Kansas City Monarchs jacket came into view. That call ended abruptly, and I walked into the gift shop and got the attention of the clerk.

"The gentleman walking this way, that’s Buck O’Neil, right?"

"Sure is!" the clerk said. "He loves signing autographs. Grab a ball off the shelf and get ready. You can pay for it later."

A very cool clerk.

O’Neil waked in with a great smile and started chatting with man and some fans from New York. He’s 94, but doesn’t look it. And the guy has the biggest hands I’ve ever seen.

He happily signed my ball and posed for a photo, and talked a little about the Hall of Fame. People in Kansas City are convinced he’ll be selected.

The former Negro League All-Star first-baseman and manager — and the first black coach in the majors — is among the 39 candidates being considered.

There are 18 Negro League players and executives in Cooperstown already, not counting legends like Hank Aaron and Jackie Robinson who spent most of their careers in the majors.

But none have been selected since 2000, when the Hall decided it needed more research on the leagues and sent 50 historians digging for information.

I think O’Neil has a shot. Of the 39 people on the ballot, only he and Minnie Minoso are alive. And it’s more fun to have a party if the guest of honor is still alive and can make a speech on induction day. I think Minoso has been long over looked, but he belongs based on his career with the White Sox instead of anything done previously.

He’s certainly been a great ambassador for baseball. Everybody seemed to have a Buck O’Neil story.

The staff at the Kansas City visitors information office told he of how one day on O’Neil came out of the museum to find his car blocked by a tour bus. Rather than get angry, he boarded the bus and walked up and down the aisle shaking hands, signing autographs and telling stories.

I met him once before. Burns was hosting a press conference at the 1994 All-Star Game FanFest to talk about the documentary, which was coming out later that summer.

There were players assigned to sit with reporters at each table. I sat with former Dodgers pitcher Joe Black, who was impressed that I knew the proper way to pronounce the name of his Negro League team, the Elite Giants. You’re supposed to say e-LIGHT instead of e-LETE, should you ever be in such a situation.

"You’re the first white guy ever to say that right!" Black said. I took it as a compliment.

As we were sitting there, Burns walked in with O’Neil, who no one had heard of at the time. O’Neil went from table to table, shaking hands and introducing himself to every single person there.

Watching the documentary later, I said "Hey, that’s the guy!"

Every Signature Tells a Story: Mickey Lolich, the Reluctant Met

I used to get way too attached to players when I was a kid.

And I had trouble grasping the whole concept of trading players. It seemed like the ultimate act of disloyalty. How could a guy be a Met — a hero — once day, and the enemy the next?

Naturally I got a little older and wiser as to how the game works. But I must say there was one Mets trade that horrified and befuddled me at the time. And 30 years and one month later, I can’t say I understand it much better.

That would be the Dec. 12, 1975 deal that sent hero Rusty Staub and minor leaguer Bill Laxton to the Detroit Tigers for Mickey Lolich and outfielder Billy Baldwin.

Staub was 31 and a star of the 1973 near-miracle. He was a fan favorite and seemed a perfect fit for the Big Apple.

Lolich, meanwhile, was 35 and coming off a year where he lost 18 games. The Mets still had Seaver, Koosman and Matlack — plus a young Craig Swan — in the rotation, so pitching wasn’t an issue.

It’s not that Lolich was a bum. The MVP of the 1968 World Series, Lolich was the all-time leader in strikeouts by a left-hander when he came over, though soon surpassed by Steve Carlton.

He got stiffed on two Cy Young Awards. He had 25 wins and 308 strikeouts in 1971, but lost to Vida Blue. And the next year he had 22 wins and a 2.50 ERA but lost to Gaylord Perry.

It probably didn’t help his career that Billy Martin decided a bullpen was unnecessary and dragged 376 innings out of his arm in 1971.

Lolich didn’t fare that well, posting a decent 3.22 ERA but a nasty 8-13 record. He retired after the season, sitting out all of 1977 before playing two years for the Padres.

Staub, meanwhile, went nuts in the bandbox in Detroit. He was the starting right-fielder in the 1976 All- Star Game and in 1978 drove in 121 runs and hit 24 bombs. For a guy who was supposedly injury prone, Staub seemed durable in Detroit, playing in 161, 158 and 162 games in his three full years there.

I was always curious about the trade, both why the Mets would make it in the first place and why Lolich hung ‘em up after that one season.

He’s still very popular here in Michigan and for years ran a doughnut shop in Lake Orion on the fringes of the Flint Journal’s circulation area. He used to be a regular signer on the card show circuit. I saw he was signing at a show at Madonna College near Detroit in the early 1990s and wanted to get him to sign my Mets book.

I placed it in front of him, and he smiled. He isn’t asked to sign too many Mets items.

I asked if he liked pitching in New York.

"Absolutely hated it," he said. "I’m just a big ole country boy. I never felt comfortable there.

Apparently there were some other issues, too. He’s interviewed on the Baseball Hall of Fame’s Website and spoke of disagreements with the Mets coaches.


"But I did have some troubles with the way the Mets wanted me to pitch. A good pitcher controls or calls his own game, and I didn't know the N.L. hitters. It didn't bother me too much because I figured they'd have to hit my fastball or curveball, and they were both pretty good. But the Mets wanted to sort of control the way I pitched, and I was used to calling my own game. It was difficult for me to adjust. Also, my wife and family were back in Detroit, and I didn't know anybody in New York, so it was a tough season. So after the season, I decided it was time to get out, and I retired."

Lolich’s struggles didn’t hurt the team too much. The 1976 Mets finished third with 86 wins. Of course, it was the year before all the wheels came off, the midnight massacre occurred and the team went into its second period of despair.

In Other Words...

My cousin Mike is one of New York's Finest and just started a cool blog, "Large Coffee, Cream, Four Equals." Check it out here

Every Signature Tells a Story: Face-to-Face With Bud Selig

Miller Park, scene of the confrontation.

If any of this is to make sense, you must remember one thing: I'm not a fan of Bud Selig.

I don't like what he shut down the game in 1994, I don't like that the Tampa Bay Devil Rays exist, I'm still bitter about the 2002 All-Star Game ending in a tie.

In fact, Will's Website, Baseballtruth.com, was created to dispel what we thought were an onslaught on half-truths, un-truths and outright lies spewing from the commissioner's office in the days leading to the labor brawl some five years ago.

And when we weren't seething at Bud, we were mocking him. Hey, it was easy. The hair, the fractured syntax, the ever-present can of Diet Coke -- to the chagrin of Pepsi, one of baseball's main sponsors.

But despite my travels in and around baseball, I had never come face-to-face with the man we held responsible for much our grand game's problems. Then again, it's not like I was actively seeking him out, either.

Before I begin this sordid tale, you must know that it was first told on Baseball Truth, and you can find its original version at Best of the Responsorial archives along with some other fine reading.

Anyway, tracking down Bud wasn't on the agenda when Andrew, my then-11-year-old son, and I made our way to Milwaukee for Father's Day weekend in 2004.

Our plans called for checking out a game at Miller Park, then hitting the awesome Milwaukee Zoo the next day. The city is only about five hours from Grand Rapids, and I've enjoyed my short stays there before.

The ballpark is spectacular, with the famous tailgating, the amazing brats and their secret sauce and the Little League field that is on the site of the Brewers' former home, County Stadium, where Hank Aaron once roamed.

It was also cool because it was an inter-league game against the Minnesota Twins, and Twins fans were out in force.

We snagged tickets in the last row of the reserved seats on the lower level. Behind us was an aisle, then a row of luxury boxes that included a couple rows of seats.

We were having a great time. Then it happened.

Looking around the yard, a guy sitting in the first row of one of the boxes caught my eye. The hair, the glasses...it was Allan H. Selig himself, otherwise known as "Bud" to friend and foe alike. And we are firmly in the "foe" camp.

This shouldn't have been a surprise. Afterall, we all know that Bud was owner of the team, even while serving as commissioner. But you just don't expect to run into such people.

And there he was. The object of scorn and derision.

The only thing I could think to do was call Will and get instructions on how to take matters into my own hands. This was risky, as Will was in California attending important family business, and I didn't think his sister would appreciate if her walk down the aisle was interupted by Will's cell phone going off and me ranting and raving.

Luckily, it was an opportune time. Will answered, told me to calm down and asked if I was wearing my BaseballTruth.com Executive Game IV T-shirt.

We openly dream that Bud will one day Google himself, see a link to our site, read our rantings, recognize the (many) errors of his ways and see the light -- then give us free tickets to games, since we helped him out so much. This has not happened yet, best that we can tell.

Alas, I was wearing my game-worn, 1994 Brewers Duffy Dyer jersey. Yes, the former Mets catcher was once a Brewers coach. Even while wearing a Brewers jersey I cannot hide my inner-Met.

So I summoned all of my courage, marched up to his box and gestured that I wanted to shake his hand. He leaned over the rail, extended his hand and I was ready ready to unload.

What I meant to say: "Hey Bud. Shouldn't you be busy figuring out why half the players are pumped up bigger than balloons in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade instead of lounging around here in somebody's luxury box? Or are you going to sit back and wait until some more of the game's hallowed records are rendered meaningless while promoting 'roided sluggers to the masses."

What actually came out: " Ah, ah, Mr. Commissioner. Nice to meet you.

Bud: "Hi. Hi Nice to meet you, too."

What I meant to say: "Looks like half of your -- err, your's daughter's -- ballpark is filled with Twins fans. Of course, that wouldn't be the case had you been able to carry out that devious plot you and Polhad cooked up in 2001, something about contracting the team and ruining baseball in yet another fine city."

What actually came out: "Thanks for inter-league play."

Bud: "You're welcome. Thanks for coming."

What I meant to say: "Nice cash cow playground the taxpayers of Wisconsin built for you. You can practically see the darn thing from the Mars Cheese Castle. I'm sure you -- err, your daughter -- is plowing all that new dough back into the team. Hey, are those a bunch of stud free-agents I see out there? Oh, nope. I guess you guys are just pocketing that cash. Hey, didn't I see a tie game here once?"

What I actually said: "This ballpark is AWESOME!"

Bud: "Isn't it beautiful?"

I was in the Bud vortex, even asking him to sign my program. Walking back to my seat, I started thinking...maybe the players are paid too much ...Spider-man ads would have made those drab bases look better...There's nothing wrong with a tie All-Star game when you run out of pitchers...why can't the Mets and Yankees and Cubs and White Sox play a series every month?

Luckily the sausage race started and snapped me back into reality. Who knew that Bud could neutralize me with his charm? The opportunity was lost. He deflected my gripes. The game would continue down it's troubled path.

Will, of course, was both blunt and accurate: I choked like the Braves in the moment of truth!

Every Signature Tells a Story: Gregg Jefferies, A Little Too Uptight

I was as wrapped up in Gregg Jefferies hype as anyone after his explosive call-up at the end of 1988, confident that he’d have a future of stardom and a plaque waiting in Cooperstown lacking only an inscription of his glories to be.

But maybe the scene at a baseball card show appearance that winter should have tipped us off that things wouldn’t quite work out that well.

Jefferies was the Mets first-round pick in 1985 and was a three-time minor-league MVP. The hype was already building — his Fleer and Donruss baseball cards were selling for more than $5 right out of the pack, obscene for the time — when he arrived for the 1988 pennant stretch.

He looked as good as advertised, hitting .321 with six homers in 109 at-bats. I remember the Mets were even talking about limiting his at-bats in the last couple weeks to keep him eligible for the 1989 Rookie of the Year Award.

So I was pretty excited when Jefferies made the rounds of the autograph shows during the off-season. I went to see him at a show in West Haven, Conn. and was standing on line to buy tickets when there was a bustle at the door.

Jefferies and his entourage arrived, and apparently thought they were walking in a back door only to find themselves in the main lobby.

What was strange was the Gregg was surrounded by four goons — and I mean that literally. They were huge. Two stood in front of him, two behind. They were on him like Velcro. In fact, the two in behind were holding him by the shoulder pads of his coat, pushing him.

They were all so close it looked like they were one 10-legged creature, all with wide-eyed looks of dread when they saw all the fans in the lobby.

It was so strange that there was a brief awkward silence, as people stood there in disbelief. It seemed like the security people expected some kind of Beatlemania scene of crazed fans rushing the young star.

But no one stepped off the line. I think there was some applause and maybe some "Hey, Gregg!" type of calls.

I remember thinking, "What’s with the goons? Do they think we’re going to hurt the guy we expect to be our biggest star?"

Jefferies overestimated his need for security. Then again, it soon became apparent he overestimated a lot of things.

The Mets moved 1986 hero Wally Backman to install Jefferies as the team’s starting second baseman. But he seemed to become derailed by a horrible slump and finished with a modest .258 with 12 homes and 56 RBI. He finished a distant third in the Rookie of the Year balloting, losing to Jerome Walton, who I don’t think has been heard from since.

He also seemed to go into tantrums after making an out and couldn’t get along with his teammates or the media. He never looked like he was having fun playing baseball, like every groundout added to the weight of crushing expectations.

The next two years were better, but not too much, hitting .283 with 15 homers and 68 RBI in 1990, a long way from the mega-star we all expected.

It didn’t take too long for the Mets to tire of his act, and shipped Jefferies and Kevin McReynolds, another disappointment, off to the Kansas City Royals for Bret Saberhagen in December 1991. I was stunned that the Mets gave up on this guy so quickly, but it’s not like he did much to prove them wrong either.
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Jefferies finally found some success in St. Louis, hitting .342 in 1993 and .325 in 1994, making the All-Star team. But instead of staying in St. Louis, where fans loved him and he thrived under Joe Torre, he chased the dollars and signed with the Phillies as a free agent, irked that the Cards wouldn’t throw a no-trade clause in his deal.

He wasn’t as good in his four seasons with the Phils, bounced to the Angels in 1998 and then again to the lowly Tigers in 1999.

When I saw him in Detroit that year he looked pudgy, slow and older than he should have looked — nothing like the kid I remembered.

Jefferies retired at 33, completely unimaginable to those of us standing on line in New Haven that day. Then again, it was obvious that day that something wasn't quite right.

Flippin' Sweet Griffins Update:

I was still worked up after my rant about the Napoleon Dymanite fiasco at the Grand Rapids Griffins hockey game, so I fired off an e-mail to the team.

I've only written a letter like that twice before. I didn't expect to hear back from the team, figuring the staff there didn't give a darn.

Well, that's not the case. The team's vice president for marketing responded within an hour, asking me to call him, which I did the next day.

He explained that the evening had quite gone as planned from the team's perspective either. he said he actor who played Kip arrived just as the gates opened, was not feeling well and had not eaten. He said the team couldn't control people cutting in line, and tried to make good by asking the actors to sign later in the game.

The gentleman said he's not sure what happened with the shirts, and perhaps workers started distributing them early to people who were standing in the lobby before the gates opened.

He offered to have us come to another game as guests of the team, which is very nice. And the next day a "Vote for Pedro" shirt appeared on my desk at work.

I still think there were some things that could have been handled better that night, but I was impressed that the team responded so quickly and wanted to make things right.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Sparky Anderson and the Missing Name

I expected to go home empty handed from Sparky Anderson's charity auction in 1990.

We had justed moved from Connecticut to Michigan, and definitely did not have money to spend on sports memorabilia.

But I read at story about an event to benefit the Tigers manager's charity, CATCH -- Caring Athletes Team for Children's and Henry Ford Hospitals. The name alone shows that Sparky can butcher acronyms like he can a post-game interview.

There were to be big-ticket items auctioned off, as well as some things offered for sale. And Sparky would be on hand, too, to greet fans.

And sure enough, there were bargains I couldn't pass up. Game-used Tigers caps sat piled on a table for $10. I picked up one from coach Vada Pinson, a darn good hitter in his day.

Then there was a whole table of signed baseballs. It seemed like Sparky asked people to sign as they passed through Tiger Stadium during the season, since there were only American League players. Alas, no former Mets were there.

I never buy autographs that aren't signed in front of me because there is just too much forgery out there in the hobby. But I figured Sparky is a little different than some guy with a table and a Sharpie at a card show. And the prices were very reasonable, most of them cheaper than what it would cost to buy an official ball at a sporting good store.

The players ranged from Ken Griffey Jr. to some minor stars and everyday players. I was on a tight budget, but found a couple of my favorite players: Fellow Missouri grad Phil Bradley, Blue Jays third-baseman Kelly Gruber and Mariners closer Mike Schooler.

There were piles of other items, too, mostly things left over from stadium giveaways.

I could tell I was out of my league pretty much as soon as the auction started. People tend to overbid when they know the money is going to charity, and there were people with deep pockets writing big checks for a steady stream of signed jerseys and bats as well as things like a week at Tigers fantasy camp.

Detroit Free Press columnist Bob Talbert was the auctioneer. Talbert was a large man with a ponytail, which he grew after vowing not to cut his hair until the Tigers won another World Series. Bob died some years after, still with long hair.

Something funny happened when he tried to take a break. A professional auctioneer came to the podium and tried using that style that sounds like a different language. I couldn't figure out a single thing the guy was saying. Apparently no one else could, either, because the bidding stopped. Dead. It became very awkward because it was apparent that no one was going to bid on a single item until this guy left the stage. So Talbert had a shorter break than he expected.

I had long-sinced fallen into spectator mode when it came time for the door prizes. Talbert pulled out a bat autographed by the entire 1989 Tigers team. Not one of the franchise's best groupings, to be sure. But a bat signed by any full major-league team is a wonderful thing.

Talbert pulled out the winning entry: "All the way from Grand Blanc....David Murray."

I literally jumped out of my chair and shouted "YES!" scaring the Dickens out of the people sitting around me. Talbert said he had never seen anyone so excited about winning a door prize. But this was good stuff.

These Tigers weren't a complete collection of stiffs. Guys on the bat include Alan Trammell, Lou Whitaker, Jack Morris, Chet Lemon, Guillermo Hernandez, Frank Tanana. Some of these guys are just shy of Cooperstown, and might make it eventually.

They had signed a Mike Heath bat, and it was obviously used. And it even came in an official major league sanitary sock to keep it neat. It's easily one of the coolest things in my collection.

I would have been pleased walking away with my Kelly Gruber ball and Vada Pinson cap. This was beyond my wildest expectations.

Sparky arrived as the auction winding down, and people formed a line for him to autograph things.

I was studying all the names on the bat while waiting, but couldn't find the skipper -- the guy I knew was the sure-fire Hall of Famer. The coaches were all there, so it seemed strange that Sparky wasn't on the bat. Finally my turn arrived.

"Sparky, I can't seem to find you on the bat," I said.

"Well, it's got to be there," he said, taking the bat and turning it over and over. It wasn't there.

"Well, we'll take care of that right now," he said, signing right near the Louisville Slugger logo.

I asked him to personalize it, too. I realize that hurts any resale value, but there's no way I'm ever selling this bat!

I was clearly out of my league financially with all the folks at the auction, but I couldn't have been happier with the way things turned out. It just goes to show, you never know when a baseball adventure will take place.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Losing the 1969 Mets

It's one thing when members of the original 1962 Mets depart to their heavenly reward, players I know only from reading Mets history books.

But when we start to lose members of the World Champion Miracle Mets, it means something entirely different. It means I’m getting old.

The 1969 team was still slightly before my time. I was in kindergarten when the Mets took the series from the Orioles in five games. My first game at Shea was Banner Day in 1971, I got my first baseball cards in 1972 and it wasn’t until the 1973 season that I leaped headfirst into that all-consuming fanaticism.

But a big chunk of that 1973 "Ya Gotta Believe!" team was holdovers from the first pennant-winners — guys like Tom Seaver, Jerry Grote, Jerry Koosman, Bud Harrelson, Kranepool — so I felt bonded to that version of the team, too.

We’ve already lost a number of people associated with the 1969 champs. An Oldtimers’ Day celebration would have some pretty big holes.

Manager Gil Hodges, of course, died in spring training in 1972. I’ll always wonder if the Mets in the mid-70s would have fared better under Gil's firm command.

Reliever Danny Frisella was appeared in just a handful of games in 1969, but was a contributor in the years before and after. He died in a crash in 1977.

Pitching coach Rube Walker died in 1992, just months after Tom Seaver praised him during his Cooperstown induction speech.

Tommie Agee, who made those amazing catches in centerfield, died in 2001.

And we lost charismatic Tug McGraw to cancer last year, as well as announcer Bob Murphy, whose voice was part of the soundtrack of my youth.


Donn Clendenon, who died from leukemia at 70 on Saturday, has been called the final piece of the Mets puzzle. His numbers overall weren’t that impressive — a .252 average with 12 homers and 37 RBI in 72 games after arriving in mid-season. But he was a veteran presence on a team of kids and anchored the lineup with a big bat.

But on a team with two future Hall of Famers — and Koosman, who falls just short — it was Clendenon who was the World Series most valuable player, hitting three homers in the five games.

I forget that these players get on in years after their playing days. To me, they are forever young on baseball cards and in yearbook photos. And when another slips away, as Clendenon did this week, it’s a reminder of how much time has really passed — 36 years — and that I’m getting older too.

I was fortunate to meet Clendenon at a late 1980s gathering of Miracle Mets at a baseball card show in Manhattan, the same one where I ran into Johnny Ramone. Agee was there, too, and he frequently appeared at shows around the New York area. He was always a friendly guy with a big smile.

It was a strange show because as the players were trying to talk to fans — how often does a guy like J.C. Martin get asked to one of those things? — the show promoter was screeching at them to sign these posters she wanted to sell. I remember a lot of eye-rolling among the players, and it kind of "stole the fun" -- my daughter's phrase -- from the fans who paid for a fleeting moment with their heroes.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Clem Labine and Flint Journal Softball

Clem Labine pitched for two champions -- and the lowly 1962 Mets.

I was showing off my glorious flannel Mitchell & Ness reproduction of Tom Seaver’s 1969 jersey at a card show where members of the 1962 team were signing autographs.

Clem Labine looked up after signing my Mets history book and smiled.

“Hey, you’re wearing my jersey,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know if the old guy had kind of lost it, but I didn’t want to be rude.

“I think this is Tom Seaver’s jersey, Mr. Labine,” I carefully responded.

“Nope. I was No. 41 first. Look it up.”

It finally sunk in. For some reason it never occurred to me that other Mets had worn No. 41. I assumed it was the exclusive property of “The Franchise” – and me.

I’ve been wearing No. 41 as a tribute to Tom for as long as I’ve been wearing anything with a number.

One of the responsibilities of being the coach of the Flint Journal’s coed softball team all those years was ordering our jerseys. Being a certifiable uniform junkie, I put great effort into designing our gameware each year. I’d spend the winter planning. We didn't always play well, but we looked awesome!

Our colors were black, red and white because we were a newspaper team. You know the joke from the era before USA Today: “What’s black and white and red (read) all over?

And of course, I got first choice on the numbers. It was a given that No. 41 was locked up.

Looking through the history books, it might have been better if the Mets had locked 41 in the closet until Seaver arrived.

Labine had a nice career, finishing with a 77-56 record in 13 years winning World Championships with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1955 and Pittsburgh Pirates in 1960 -- beating vile Yankees both times!

But his magic was gone by the time the expansion Mets were grabbing former Dodgers and Giants. Labine appeared in 3 games, pitching 4 innings and posting an ugly 11.25 ERA before being released.

No. 41 didn’t fare much better the next year, when Grover Powell wore it in 20 games, wrapping up with a 1-1 record and 2.72 ERA.

Jim Bethke wore the number in 1965, with a 2-0 record and 4.28 ERA. But he gave way to Gordon Richardson later that year, who went 2-4 in 50 games over the remainder that season and 1966.

Of course, Seaver debuted in 1967, and today it hangs on the wall at Shea Stadium with Casey, Gil and Jackie.

At the press conference when Seaver announced his retirement in 1987, a reporter asked him how he game upon the number that would be as identifiable to him as No. 3 is with the Babe, No. 44 with the Hammer and No. 9 with the Splinter.

“It’s a very romantic story,” Seaver said with a smile. “I arrived at my locker on my first day and it was hanging there.”

That equipment manager in 1967 had no idea about the important role he’d play in Journal coed softball uniforms somewhere down the line.

In Other Words...

Thanks to the folks at Mets by the Numbers, an amazingly detailed site about every number worn by every Mets player and more. It's one of those site that you start reading, then suddenly realize an hour has gone by.

Every Signature Tells a Story: "Double Duty," "Peanut" and a Lesson Learned

Tigers pitcher Mike Henneman in his Detroit Stars uniform.

Sometimes I think I know a lot about baseball history.

Sometimes I’m embarrassed by what I don’t know.

I was excited when I heard the Detroit Tigers would be honoring Negro League players by wearing Detroit Stars uniforms for a July 8, 1995 game. They were playing the Kansas City Royals, who would be wearing the Kansas City Monarchs road grays, modeled below by Wally Joyner. The team is playing a similar tribute game this weekend.

And I was even more excited that some of the Negro League stars would be on hand to sign autographs. Historic uniforms and free autographs – that’s all good. I have a lot of respect for these players. I never will be able to imagine how frustrating and hurtful it must have been to be prevented from playing in the Major Leagues because of their race.

Will and I arrived early and hopped on the line where Ted “Double Duty” Radcliffe, Lester Lockett and Dennis Biddle were signing; all were in good spirits and sharing stories about their playing days.

There was a woman sitting behind the table, too. Some people were asking for her autograph, which I thought was strange. I didn’t know if she was a player’s wife or an assistant. We made polite small talk while waiting my turn to pass a ball to the next player.

Signatures secured, we slipped down to the field to watch batting practice and snap some photos of the players in their Negro League uniforms. One of things I enjoyed most about old Tiger Stadium was that you could get right down near the field.

Before long, “Double Duty” was brought on to the field for some television interviews. He was 93 then, and celebrated his 103rd birthday in July and passed away Aug. 11.
Ted "Double Duty" Radcliffe interviewed before the game. He passed away Aug. 11.

Before the game, the Tigers brought each of the Negro Leaguers out on the field, and I noticed the woman walked out with the rest.

The Tigers announcer introduced her as Mamie “Peanut” Johnson, one of three women to play in the Negro Leagues in the 1950s.

Will looked over and said “Oops!”

I was deeply embarrassed, exposed as both ignorant and sexist in one swoop.

Later I did the research. Johnson -- a right-handed pitcher -- and teammates Toni Stone and Connie Morgan played for the Indianapolis Clowns. Johnson posted a 33-8 record and credits Satchell Paige with helping her with her curve ball.


She was called "Peanut" after Monarchs third baseman Hank Bayliss came to bat against her and called out “You're nothing but a peanut!” Johnson struck him out and the name stuck.

Remember that scene in “A League of Their Own” when the black woman picks up and overthrown ball and whips it back on to the field? That’s homage to Johnson, who was turned away from a tryout when All American Girls Professional Baseball League would not allow black women to play in the all-white league.

Johnson taught me a lesson that day, and she’s still teaching, speaking about Negro League history around the country.

The other players I met that day also have interesting stories. Radcliffe got his nickname in the 1932 Negro League World Series, when he caught Satchel Paige in the first game of a doubleheader, then pitched a shutout in the second game.

Biddle, who pitched for the Chicago American Giants, tied Bob Feller’s record of winning five games as a 17-year-old in 1953, turned 18 and won 10 more. He injured his arm and was out of the game by 19. Today he is an executive with the Helmar Brewing Company.

Lockett played during the 1930s and 1940s with the Birmingham Black Barons, Philadelphia Stars, Cincinnati Clowns, Chicago American Giants and the Baltimore Elite Giants, hitting more than .400 twice.

I humbly apologize to Mrs. Johnson, and if I ever have the opportunity I’d be honored to have her sign my Negro leagues ball.

In Other Words...

Greg at the always interesting Faith and Fear in Flushing site has a great article about how he is finally thinking about Tom Glavine as a Met and not some former Brave parading in a Mets uniform, almost forgiving him for his Atlanta misdeeds. You can read it here.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Johnny Ramone, Card Collector

I was using a pay phone to let my wife know all was well at the card show I was attending in one of those huge piers on the Hudson when a familiar figure in a leather jacket walked past.

I almost dropped the phone and I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped open.

"Yeah, it's him," assured a guy walking not far behind Johnny Ramone, guitarist in the seminal punk rock band.

Ramones collect baseball cards too?

"Honey, I gotta go."

My buddy Rich introduced me to many important things during my three years in Connecticut, from the glories of Fenway Park to how to survive in a mosh pit. And of course, the Ramones.

We're talking a true friend here.

I was familair with a handful of the band's songs -- it was impossible to go to college in the 1980s and not hear some of them -- and had even seen them in concert once, a horrible mismatch of a bill when they opened for the B-52s in the Hofstra University field house.

All wrong, as Rich pointed out. Forget the records, you have to hear the Ramones live. And it's got to be in a small, sweaty club -- like Toads, in New Haven, where we saw them several times.

We admired the Ramones' musical philospohy: Get up on stage, say what you gotta say and get the heck out of there. If you can get a song out of the way in under three minutes, good. Under two minutes? Even better. Loud and fast, and don't look too closely for meaning in the lyrics. Guitar solos are for posers and stage banter other than onetwothreefour! is unnecessary.

It especially made sense when we saw AC/DC at the Hartford Civic Center and Angus Young spent about 20 minutes preening on the edge of the stage for was was supposed to be a solo. I remember thinking that the Ramones would have ripped through 10 songs during that same amount of time.

So there, walking among the dealer tables was Johnny Ramone, dressed exactly as he appeared on stage with ripped jeans and leather jacket.

He was just another collector with a card list flipping through commons bins.

I casually examined the stuff on the dealer's table until I got the nerve to say something.

"Are you Mr. Ramone?" I asked, immediately realizing how stupid it sounded. So much for being cool. His real name was John Cummings. Everyone in the band adopted "Ramones" as a last name.

He smiled and said he in fact was. I stammered something about how I had recently seen the band at Toads and that I liked their stuff.

He seemed genuinely friendly, humoring me a little and then said, "Would you like an autograph?"

Whoa! This was an opportunity. I couldn't give him a spot in my Mets history book, so I offered the only other thing I had, my reporter's notebook where I recorded my want list.

He asked my name, and even added "best wishes."

I thanked him and ran off. An encounter with a Ramone shouldn't last longer than "Blitzkrieg Bop."

I was at the show to get autographs from a good chunk of the 1969 Mets team, and they were neat. But I might have had more fun meeting Johnny.

Johnny died Sept. 15 of cancer, just after being inducted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I'm still a fan -- a lot of Ramones songs take up very little space on my iPod.

In Other Words...

Derek Jeter overrated? Hey, don't take my word for it. Michael Hoban is professor emeritus of mathematics at City University of New York and a serious baseball analyst. Check out his latest article at BaseballTruth.com located here.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas and Coed Softball

I sure can’t blame the other outfielders on The Grand Rapids Press coed softball team if they want to wear football pads when they play along side me.

We’ve had a couple issues with collisions this season.

One of the complexities of the seemingly simple slowpitch coed ball is that you don’t want to appear to be a ball hog, which inherently implies that you don’t think the women teammates can make the plays.

So the other extreme tends to happen, where you hang back and don’t go after balls that you probably should catch. You get points for being a gentleman -- but those are not reflected on the scoreboard.

That happened once this season, and a ball that both a teammate and I each of us could have handled dropped in for a hit. In the next game, I assumed a ball was mine and April — trying not to repeat the prior incident — ran right into me. Luckily, she wasn't hurt, though we got a lecture about calling for the ball.

But two games later there was a gapper that both Gayle and I went charging for. This time I called it, but I don’t think she heard me. Wham-o! We collided at full speed, Gayle’s knee into my thigh.

I gimped off the field -- I think more embarrassed than hurt. Gayle toughed it out and stayed in the game. But later her knee started swelling up, and after a trip to the doctor learned she ruptured something, leaving her with a dark purple brusie that stretches from her calf to lower thigh.

Naturally, I feel horrible. She's wearing some kind of brace and I cringe when I see her limp across the newsroom.

But the crash reminds me of my favorite story about the 1962 Mets. It’s told wonderfully by author Roger Angell in Ken Burns’ epic Baseball documentary.

Centerfielder Richie Ashburn, a future Hall-of-Famer, was forever crashing into shortstop Elio Chacon, who didn’t speak English and didn’t understand when Ashburn was calling for the ball.

So teammate Joe Christopher pulled Ashburn aside and taught him some Spanish. “Yo lo tengo!” which roughly means “I got it!”

So the next time there was a fly ball between them, Ashburn put his new skills to the test, shouting “Yo lo tengo, yo lo tengo.” It worked perfectly, as Chacon backed off.

Except that Ashburn was then knocked flat by leftfielder Frank Thomas, who spoke no Spanish.

I was lucky to meet both Ashburn and Thomas at a card show in the late 1980s that featured a good chunk of the 1962 team, the original Mets.

Photo Updates

A little knowledge, of course, is a very dangerous thing. Now that I've learned how to add photos, I've gone back into some of the earliest posts and updated them. Here are links (which I've fixed, sorry about that) if you are interested:

Pop Shortell, Dave Winfield and Richard Nixon

Terry Nichols and the Rockies (Part One): Coors or the Keynote?

Terry Nichols and the Rockies, (Part Two): Wrangling for a Seat.

Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life