And maybe I’ll love you.
(A poor take on the Beatles’ song, “Drive My Car.”)
I’ve noticed on a few Facebook group posts questions about autographs. A lot are asked about the first athlete or movie star’s signature they collected. I must admit, that’s never been something that interested me.
Back in the day, kids would hang out at the parking lot after games to ask ballplayers to sign their program or a baseball, a card, or whatever scrap of paper they could scrounge up. This was before the era when “collectibles” became a big business, from both sides of the pen. For decades, players have been attending cards shows or other events, charging for what had previously been free. Can’t blame them; many did not make the big bucks that free agency brought and this was a good way to supplement their post-career incomes.
I was in Cooperstown for one of the Hall of Fame’s Baseball Symposiums. I was walking down Main Street when I chanced upon Clete Boyer, the third basemen mostly for the Yankee and Braves. My boss at the time was a big Yankees fan so I thought I would bring back a souvenir for him. But when I asked Boyer if he would oblige, he declined, stating that he was signing for one of the many memorabilia shops in town. After a couple of minutes, however, he relented. I attended Yankee fantasy camp in 2009 and one of their former stars — a Hall of Famer — groused about having to sign “too much stuff.” I wonder of the degree of fame is inversely proportionate to cooperation.
My curiosity revolves around the response of the person to whom the request is being made. Is it flattering or a source of irritation? Some are more than happy to do so, others do so grudgingly, while others refuse, either politely or im-. After all, there’s a yin and yang: with the fans, would the players be famous at all? If a celebrity falls in the forrest with no one around…?
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