Sharpie Scribbles – chapter IX, the King and the Ring

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

This chapter doesn’t fit the usual formula of baseball players who I bugged for Sharpie Scribbles as a kid, then bugged for interviews as an adult journalist. These are just two more good stories from my summer internship with the Watertown Indians minor league baseball that I wanted to share.

As mentioned in the previous chapter of this series, we had three memorable promotions during that summer. Sparky Lyle Day went fine overall, but I constantly felt like an idiot because it was so disorganized.

This post is about the other two big events: when legendary fast-pitch softball star Eddie Feigner's barnstorming team came to town, and when unknown pro wrestling wanne-be imposters came to town.

Let's start with The King.

The first time I saw Eddie Feigner was an episode of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. He was incredible. The Washington Post once described him as “the greatest softball pitcher who ever lived.” Feigner was the pitcher on a four-player softball team, dubbed “The King and his Court,” that took on all comers around the world. They didn’t have outfielders. They didn’t need outfielders he was so dominant.

The King could pitch behind his back, through his legs, from second base, blind-folded, and you still couldn't hit him.

By 1996, Feigner was 71 years old and still unhittable, but a younger guy did most of the pitching to save his arm. The King pitched an inning or two against the best team of ringers we could assemble from the area. The game wasn't close. Nobody could touch the King. Everybody on "The Court" mashed at the plate. 

The King and his Court were a relic from an era long before I was born, the ultimate barnstormers. Combine that with a ballpark that was located at the Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds, it felt like we were in the 1950s.

I was on the on-field PA announcer. I introduced the players and described the action. Most importantly, I handed the wireless microphone to “The King” and let him entertain the crowd by giving the history of himself, the team, and tell stories.

The most important part of this running commentary was asking the standard question of a four-person team playing a 10-person team. It always got laughs:

Me: “Why do you only have four players on the team?”

The King: “We can’t play with three. If the bases are loaded, nobody is available to bat.”

This event was a huge hit. It was a great thrill to meet the King, watch him pitch, watch his teammates bash home runs well over the fences, and watch a team play with a pitcher, catcher, first baseman, shortstop and no outfielders. Best of all, it was great listening to “The King” tell stories.

Afterward, I caved and asked for his autograph. The King was about to sign it for me, then paused to size me up, and wrote the following: "You should take up radio." 

The King died in 2007. This obituary will give his life and talents much better treatment than I'm doing. I'm just honored that I got to meet him, watch in pitch in person, introduce him, and get such a nice unexpected compliment from him, when I was getting his autograph. 

RIP, Eddie Feigner.

*** 

Now let's get to the frauds.

It was an independent wrestling group that I’d never heard of – and keep in mind, in addition to being an autograph nerd and baseball nerd, I was a pro wrestling nerd too.

I read those wrestling magazines that spouted out all the propaganda from every regional wrestling organization in the country. I'd never heard of the company, or any of the wrestlers. All the wrestlers would clearly pass steroid tests. What fun was that?

The ring was assembled on the infield. The middle of the ring was directly above the pitcher’s mound. All the equipment literally came in a van. The wrestlers setup the ring themselves. Us interns setup folding metal chairs around the ring, and added a few other finishing touches.

The promoter loved to say the phrase, “Madison Square Garden, baby.” What he meant was this show would be just like a WWF show at Madison Square Garden. I thought he was joking, until I heard him say it a dozen times.

A couple hours before showtime, the promoter told our general manager the normal in-ring announcer couldn’t make it. Was there somebody who could do it, instead?

The GM looked at me and said, “you’re up.”

Seriously?

I was 22 years old, a few months out of college. My broadcasting career consisted of about 30 games on San Diego State’s college radio station, about a half-dozen live minor league games so far that summer on radio, and one year as the public address announcer for my high school’s basketball team.

Now I was the in-ring announcer for a fly-by-night pro wrestling event.

Madison Square Garden, baby. 

The referee took me into the dressing room (it was the visitors clubhouse) for the important instructions. Very important: I needed some type of watch or clock to keep time. Every five minutes, I would give the referees a hand signal. Why? The conversation went something like this:

Referee: “Each of the matches is timed.” 

Me: "What do you mean they are timed?" 

Referee: "Some are five minutes. Some are 10 minutes. Some are 15 minutes. Some are 20 minutes."

Me: “I thought the matches lasted until somebody pinned an opponent’s shoulder onto the mat for a count of three.”

Referee (not amused by my humor): “Just give me the hand signals, kid.”

Behind me, the wrestlers psyched themselves up for their performance, and practiced their moves … with their opponent.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

During the first match, I saw how the hand signals worked. The referee looked at me more than he watched the action. I gave him a “1” after five minutes. Next time the wrestlers were tied up, the referee told them the time. I gave him a “2” after 10 minutes.

The next time the wrestlers were tied up in the corner, the referee broke them up ... and gave the time.

Magically, the match ended about 30 second later.

The storylines and characters were the most basic Wrestling 101 you can imagine.

There was a good-looking, tan, blonde hair guy with muscles and pretty teeth who wore red, white and blue tights. He came out to Bruce Springsteen’s, “Born in the USA.” He was a “good guy.” He was victorious in his match, even though the bad guy tried to cheat.

There was big fat masked man from parts unknown. He was a different “bad guy.” He was actually a super nice guy in the dressing room. In fact, he did most of the work assembling the ring earlier that day, and would take it apart when we were done. After I'd introduced him in the ring to the crowd, he calmly walked over to me, and said quietly, “tell the crowd to shut up, and I'm going home if they call me fat.”

In my best Howard Finkle, I informed the crowd, in the most dramatic way possible, that the masked man said the crowd needs to do the following two things:

1. Shut up!

2. Stop calling him fat! He doesn't like being called fat! If you call him fat, he's going to leave! 

Shockingly enough, the Watertown crowd took the bait. They called him fat. The fat masked man who worked so hard to assemble the ring threatened to leave. The fat masked man’s opponent took advantage by working him over. The fat masked man made a comeback, and got the upper edge.

Then the fat masked man was distracted by the crowd calling him fat. The fat masked man’s opponent took advantage of the fat masked man being distracted to work him over again. This continued, back and forth, for five minutes.

When I gave the “1 finger” to the referee, the fat masked man was about to win. Then he got distracted by a redneck in the front row who called him fat again. The fat masked man stopped in the middle of what he was doing, challenged the redneck to jump into the ring, and the fat masked man’s opponent pinned him with an “inside cradle” move.

The masked fat man was not happy.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

After four matches, it was time for intermission. I told the crowd, “we’ll take a break for a short intermission. The snack bar is open. Cold beer is available. And some of the wrestlers will be available for autographs.”

What this really meant: “we’ll have a very long break, so you can buy lots of food and beer. All of the wrestlers will be available, and for $10, you can get a Polaroid photo with you and the wrestler, which the wrestler will be happy to autograph.”

During the intermission, we looked at the radar and saw that rain was headed toward the ballpark. (When you work in minor league baseball, you look at the radar more than you do anything else, because you always have to be ready to put the tarp on the infield.)

Remember, we were outdoors. No roof for the ring, the wrestlers, or the fans. We let the promoter knew that we were expecting rain.

“We’ll shorten all the matches,” he said. I went into the locker room and told the referee that all the matches will be cut in half because of expected rain. The referee told the wrestlers. They didn’t seem to care.

The intermission lasted at least 30 minutes. The second half consisted of three matches. The first two were done in five minutes each. The headlining match, consisting of two wrestlers that nobody knew, lasted 10 minutes.

After the final match, I thanked the audience and climbed out of the ring. Most of the wrestlers were out of the locker room signing more autographs. Then, the strangest thing happened.

Somebody asked for my autograph.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Drunk fan: “Hell no. You gotta sign this for me.”

Me: “Why on earth would you want my autograph?”

Drunk fan: “You were part of this. You’re the announcer.”

After a childhood chasing professional baseball players for their autograph, I couldn’t fathom somebody wanting my autograph. I also couldn’t say no. During a lot of the dead time waiting for autographs, my friends and I practiced our signatures hundreds, if not thousands of times. Now it was going to pay off.

We’d placed these old-time promotional billboards around town to advertise the wrestling show. I really now wished that I’d have saved one. With the leftovers, we handed them out at the show. That was the primary item used for autographs.

So that’s what I signed. After delivering my own Sharpie Scribble, I wrote (The PA guy) afterward, so that the drunk fan would know that I wasn’t a wrestler. Don’t ask me why I thought that was important to distinguish. It’s not like anybody knew who these guys were.

I handed the promotional billboard back to the drunk fan, and then something even crazier happened.

A kid asked me for my autograph. And so did his friend. And another friend. Next thing I knew, I had a line of people asking for my autograph. It was ridiculous, hilarious, and made me wonder if professional baseball players thought the same thing the first time they were asked for their autograph by kids like me.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VIII, Sparky Lyle

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

My autograph collection is well over a thousand. It’s not worth counting the exact number. But let’s call it an even 1,200 as a nice round number. Out of those autographs, 1,197 were obtained between 1987-91, during my teen-age years when it was clear I had no girlfriend.

Only four of these autographs are displayed in the office of my apartment. They are Willie Mays, Roger Maris, Stephen Strasburg and Sparky Lyle.

Mays and Maris are there for obvious reasons. They’re on the sweet spot of a baseball, and they’re pretty sweet. The Strasburg signature came from a donation to the Aztec Athletic Foundation, and fits with my collection of San Diego State schwag.

Lyle’s signature makes me smile more than any other. It was obtained in the summer of 1996, when I was an intern for a minor league baseball team. My days of collecting Sharpie Scribbles were long over, but I made a special exception for Lyle because I’d spent the previous 24 hours shuttling him around a random city in upstate New York.

The signature states: “To Josh, thanks for putting up with all the shit!”

***

Coming out of college, I knew that I wanted to work in minor league baseball as a play-by-play announcer. What I didn’t know was how to actually do it.

My strategy was to call the play-by-play announcer for the Padres affiliate at Rancho Cucamonga and ask how he got his job. His name was Mike Curto. Great guy. Very helpful.

His advice: buy the Baseball America directory, and call every team to ask if they have an opening for an announcer.

Sounded pretty simple to me. That day, I ordered the directory. It arrived in the mail a few days later. I woke up one morning early – well, early by college student standards -- and started calling every short-season minor league team in baseball whose season started after school ended.

Including independent league teams, it was over 100 calls. When the phone bill arrived, my roommates laughed. I almost had a heart attack.

Five teams had an opening. I sent a tape – yes, a cassette tape – to all five. I got a phone call from one team. It came from a guy named Josh Getzler, the new owner of a team in Watertown, N.Y. Anybody with the name Josh is good people to me.

Josh offered me an internship with the Waterown Indians that would include a whole lot of job titles, not much money ($25 a day), but free rent, free ballpark food, and the chance to broadcast about 20 games live on the radio.

I said yes.

Then I found a map to see where the hell Watertown was located.

The day after walking across the graduation stage at San Diego State, I drove across the country in my car. I left on a Monday. I arrived on a Friday afternoon.

In between, I stopped in Vegas for an all-you-can-eat buffet and somehow managed to avoid the blackjack tables, got a speeding ticket in Utah, drove through snow in the Rocky Mountains, visited my family’s old house in Littleton, Colo. and talked to an old neighbor, met a friend in Kansas City and went to a Royals game, stopped in St. Louis and went to the top of the arch, stopped at an ESPN Zone in Indianapolis to watch the NBA playoffs, and stopped caring about landmarks somewhere around Cleveland.

It was one of those jobs that I would never do again, but I’m so glad that I did it.

The only player left from that team still playing baseball is John McDonald. Just so happens, he was my favorite dude on the team.

A few others who made the majors were Paul Rigdon (who had some good years), Willie Martinez (who made one appearance in the majors), and Sean DePaula (who was in Watertown about two minutes). The best future major leaguer in the New York-Penn League that year was Aramis Ramirez.

Like all minor league teams, we did a lot of promotions. Most of them were goofy and pointless. We had three great ones: Sparky Lyle day, the King and his Court, and an independent wrestling show in the middle of the infield.

***

All the fun started when I was chosen to pickup Sparky Lyle from the airport. It was an hour drive from Watertown to Syracuse (the nearest airport). This meant that for two hours, I didn’t have to distribute free tickets around town, re-paint the outfield fence signs, sweep the concourse, organize the merchandise table, answer phones, or any of the other jobs that I hated.

Plus, it meant that I could talk with a former major leaguer for an hour. He was stuck in the same car with me and couldn’t go anywhere. We must have hit it off right away because Lyle told awesome stories of Billy Martin and George Steinbrenner. He told even more awesome stories about groupies.

This is how these former ballplayer appearances work in the minors: you pay them whatever their fee is, pay their flight and hotel and food; in exchange, they do whatever ridiculous ideas you concoct.

We didn’t have anything ridiculous. We barely had anything planned. They told me to take Sparky Lyle to a mall to sign autographs and get people to come out to the game that night. There was no advance promotion or preparation. We just showed up. I grabbed a table, made a hand-made sign, and we sat there.

Most people probably thought it was a joke, or an imposter. Sparky Lyle is just hanging out at a mall in Watertown? I think 10 people stopped at the table over the hour we were there.

I know we made another stop somewhere, but can’t for the life of me remember what or where it was. I’m sure it was the same thing. No promotion. Hardly anybody there. Me feeling like an idiot for taking Sparky Lyle someplace where nobody was expecting him. Sparky Lyle feeling like an idiot for being stuck with some idiot kid just out of college who had no clue.

The Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds, our humble ballpark.

Once we were at the ballpark, it was a little better. At least people were expecting him there. Lots of people were wearing Yankees shirts and hats and taking photos. Never mind that we were an Indians affiliate.

The new owners were a family from Manhattan. It was no secret they would move the team as soon as their lease expired. Indeed, they moved the team to Staten Island three years later and became a Yankees affiliate. Baseball has never returned to the Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds in Watertown.

The big event, somewhat planned, was that Sparky Lyle would throw batting practice against the local celebrities in town.

We had one local celebrity.

He was the sports anchor for the one local TV station in town. The weekend sports anchor just shot video of the whole thing. I guess he wasn’t a celebrity yet.

Sparky Lyle needed to be warmed up, so I played catch with him. I grabbed the first glove I saw in the dugout. Didn’t realize it was bad luck to put your meat claws into somebody else’s glove.

The glove belonged to an outfielder named Mel Motley. He told me that I better not drop anything with his glove. I dropped a couple throws. Motley never made the majors. Sorry dude. Guess it was my fault.

We must have grabbed a couple other people from the stands, or maybe the weekend sports anchor took a few cuts, just so Sparky Lyle could strike out more than just the same guy over and over. We were all set for batting practice. I was somewhat proud of myself.

Then Sparky Lyle looked at me and said, “Josh, we’re going to take BP with one ball?”

Oh crap! I ran into the dugout and fished out as many balls as I could find. I think I grabbed six. We probably could have done it with one ball. Nobody made contact until Sparky Lyle started lobbing them in there.

I was impressed with Sparky Lyle’s fastball and slider. I asked him if he ever considered a comeback. Keep in mind, he retired in 1982 at age 37. Now it was 1996 and he’s 51 years old. But after seeing him strike out our local TV anchor, I thought Sparky Lyle was ready for a comeback.

“I won’t be able to lift my arm tomorrow,” Lyle told me.

So much for the comeback.

That's me, right by Sparky Lyle's side.

We moved over to an autograph table early in the game. That was about the only thing that went smoothly. We had a table. I made sure we had blue Sharpies for the baseball cards, and blue ball-point pen for baseballs. If there was something I learned after my amateur start to autograph collecting, it was the right pens to use.

Fans waited in line. Yes, there was actually a line. It was the only time that day I didn’t feel like a complete idiot.

I helped the fans get the item ready to be autographed, so they could have some 1-on-1 time with the Sparky Lyle. He was great. Sparky Lyle signed the items, answered questions, chatted them up, posed for photos, and made a bunch of people’s day.

As a kid, I rarely got autographs at baseball card shows. It was pointless paying for something I thought I could get for free at the ballpark.

I made a few exceptions. I got Willie Mays because he’s Willie Mays. I got Jose Canseco because he only scribbled his full name at card shows. I got Robin Ventura because I was obsessed with getting BCF’s for members of the 1988 Olympic team.

At these cards show, I used to mock the guy sitting next to the athlete. What kind of loser has a job where you get an item ready to be autographed by some athlete? Well, now I knew. That was me. I was that loser for the day.

We fed Sparky Lyle the finest ballpark food we had to offer: pizza. The best part of the pizza was the gorgeous girl – the only one in town – who worked that stand.

Once all the autographs were done, I took Sparky Lyle back to his hotel. We put him up at the best hotel in Watertown. 

It was a Ramada Inn.

***

The next morning, I picked up Sparky Lyle at the Ramada Inn, made sure he didn’t have to pay the bill, and drove him back to the Syracuse airport. Another hour drive where he was stuck in the car with me.

I don’t remember what we discussed on this drive. I’d like to think it was more stories about Martin and Steinbrenner and groupies. It was probably about the weather.

I do remember thinking to myself if Sparky Lyle loved or hated these appearances. It was probably both.

It’s easy money. You show up, smile, shake hands, take photos, strike out local TV sports anchors, scribble your name a lot, and just have to put up with some intern like me.

It also probably gets old and annoying. Random cities with random people telling you random stories about your career that probably aren’t even true.

Constantly looking into the past for those totally overrated good-ol' days, when there’s better-new days that are possible, is something that I loathe -- even though I admit that’s totally hypocritical considering the point of this “Sharpie Scribble” feature.

 

I guess it goes back to the table at the mall. It must be pretty humbling for a guy who pitched in World Series games at Yankee Stadium to sit at a mall, with me, and hardly anybody coming over to say hello.

I’m terrified at what Sparky Lyle was really thinking at that moment. Maybe he liked it that way, not having to tell Yankees stories because that’s what everybody expects and wants.

Toward the end of the drive to the airport, I handed Sparky Lyle a baseball and asked if he’d sign one more – for me. I told him to write something funny and true about our day together, something I would always remember.

That’s when he wrote, “thanks for putting up with all the shit.”

I didn't see it until I was on my way back to Watertown.

Gawd, I love Sparky Lyle.

Podcast: expanding Interleague -- good for ball? Or bad for ball?

We're in the middle of baseball interleague play right now. Next year, as the Astros move to the AL West, interleague will take place every day. On our latest Podcast, we debate what this means. Matt Hurst hates it. Josh Suchon likes it. They discuss if this is the next step in making the designated hitter in both leagues, and the ultimate day-night doubleheader for two-market teams.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VII, Dad

-- by Josh Suchon

On this Father’s Day, I wanted to tell the story of the ultimate father-son baseball vacation, and the impact it had on my future occupation.

By the end of summer in 1990, my obsession with getting Sharpie Scribbles was fading. I was busy working 4-5 days a week as a busboy at Chili’s. It was the summer before my last year of high school. It was harder to get autographs because new restrictions and barricades were in place.

College was getting closer. I knew that I’d major in journalism or broadcasting. My focus was shifting toward my own writing, rather than getting the scribbles of my future subjects.

Whether my obsession was playing sports, taking photos at sporting events, getting autographs and batting practice home runs, using every penny to buy baseball cards and other memorabilia, or reading every piece of sports journalism out there, my dad was there to support me.  

I’m sure my Dad thought it was a little ridiculous, or a lot ridiculous, that I spent so much time and money and energy collecting baseball cards and other items to get autographed. He showed remarkable patience. He provided so many rides to card shops and card shows, and on wild goose chases to find convenience stores that sold the specific type of baseball card packages that I was seeking.

My dad was a huge sports fan. It’s where I developed my love for sports. He didn’t care about autographs or memorabilia. He just wanted to watch a game, be entertained, and cheer on his teams.

As a result, I’m sure the trip we took in 1990 was just as thrilling for him as it was for me. We'd talked about it, then decided to go for it. He told me to look at all the schedules in baseball to find the ideal week. That was the easy part. Dad made it happen financially.

The trip: two games at Wrigley Field, two games at the old Comiskey Park (in the final season), one game at Tiger Stadium, a day at the baseball Hall of Fame, two nights at Yankee Stadium, and a day game at Fenway Park, before a red-eye flight home.

A lot of the photos and memorabilia from that trip were either ruined due to a leak in the closet of my bedroom a few years ago, or because I stupidly threw them away. 

What follows are my memories:

Wrigley Field, Sept. 1 and 2, 1990

We left extremely early on a Saturday morning, probably a 6 a.m. flight out San Francisco, and after landing at O’Hare and getting a rental car, we arrived at Wrigley Field very close to game time. We might have even missed first pitch.

We had standing-room only tickets for the first game, and just assumed we’d easily find two empty seats. Nope. We truly stood the entire game. I didn’t remember any of the details from the game, and even viewing the boxscore, an 8-1 Reds win, doesn’t bring back any memories.   The same goes for the second game.  What I remember most was thinking if the Reds reach the World Series, my A’s would have their hands full.

The atmosphere around Wrigley was more memorable than the games. I bought one of those “Top 10 Lies Told at Wrigley Field ” t-shirts. 

One of the lies: “Harry’s not drunk.” 

Another: “Dunston just needs a few years to develop.” 

I held onto that shirt for years and years, before finally throwing it away.

I’d always liked Shawon Dunston. A few years earlier in spring training, Dunston came onto the field singing, “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali, I’m going back to Cali … ” and I yelled out “I don’t think so” from the stands. Dunston giggled that giggle that I’d grow to love.

Dunston remains my all-time favorite athlete I ever covered as a newspaper reporter. Whenever I see him now at the ballpark, I call him “my favorite celebrity coach” because I always see him in uniform, but I’m still not sure what his job is, other than being himself.

One of my favorite stories that I wrote at The Trib was an off-day feature about Dunston and his son. It was a look back on the day in 1998 when Dunston hit a home run at Candlestick, and his son leaped into his arms at home plate. The photo was on the front page of every Bay Area newspaper.

That father-son photo seemed to resonate with everybody. It was four years later, but many of my friends still had that photo on their refrigerators. I thought it would make a good story, and Dunston lit-up when discussing it. 

Old Comiskey, with new Comiskey in back.

Old Comiskey Park, Sept. 3 and 4, 1990

The White Sox were the surprising top challenger for the A’s that year. They were 6 ½ games back when I wore my A’s clothing to the old Comiskey Park, which was in its final season.

What I remember most about those two games is that Bobby Thigpen broke the single-season record for saves when we were there. A check of the boxscores showed it happened the first night, and then Thigpen got another save the second night.

Since they were night games, we had more time to explore Chicago. Dad and I ate lunch at some random places on the South Side. We noticed how quickly the neighborhoods seemed to change, street to street, in their ethnicity and style.

Getting autographs was a challenge. I didn’t know the tricks or the ideal location in other cities. My heart wasn’t totally into it. This trip was more about viewing ballparks, taking photos, enjoying the games, and bonding with my dad.

One of the autographs I did get was Steve Lyons. Two decades later, he’s the ex-athlete I’ve worked with professionally more than any other. We’ve done pre-game shows before playoff series, post-game call-in shows, and called a few Dodgers spring training games together on radio and TV.

In my four years co-hosting Dodger Talk and traveling with the team, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lyons say no to an autograph request. Lyons signs at the ballparks, at the hotel, before getting on the team bus, and he often uses the flights to catch up on his autograph requests in the mail.

The White Sox won both games my Dad and I saw. That wasn’t good for the A’s, but they still held on and won the division easily. I was excited that Ivan Calderon hit a home run because we got to see the famed exploding scoreboard. 

It was the last year of the old Comiskey, and it was very cool that Dad and I got to see it.

Tiger Stadium, Sept. 5, 1990

After four days in Chicago, Dad and I flew to Detroit and caught a game at Tiger Stadium. I vividly recall Cecil Fielder hit a ball over the roof. The boxscore shows it was his 44^th that season, en route to 51, back when 50 was a huge deal.

We got there when the gates opened and walked around everywhere. We stood in the front row of the right-field upper deck (which actually hung over the playing field), and marveled at the flag pole that was in the playing field.

Another memory from Detroit is that was the first time we saw hustling ushers. They’d ask for your ticket, walk you to the seat, spray and wipe it down, then just stand there. I had no idea why they stood there. Dad realized they were waiting for a tip and forked over a few dollars. That’s common back east. It was a foreign concept to us Californians.

Another thing I remember from that week was buying newspapers in every city, reading the different styles, and imagining what it would be like to fly from city to city for a living and write about baseball. 

The National, an all-sports daily newspaper that was the greatest thing ever, was in its peak. We bought it wherever we saw it, and exchanged reading all the newspapers we could find, on the flights from city to city.

I was about to start my senior year in high school, and was the editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper. 

That week on the road was like a sports journalism education, watching games each day, keeping score, discussing strategy with dad, reading the stories filed for the next day’s papers, getting on a plane to another city, and doing it all over again the next day.

Baseball Hall of Fame, Sept. 6, 1990

The trip to Detroit was our shortest. We were there less than 24 hours. We flew out the next morning for Albany, N.Y., got another rental car and drove to Cooperstown to see the baseball Hall of Fame.

It was mid-week, so it wasn’t too packed. It was a little over a month since the induction ceremonies, so there was still quite a bit of pageantry around town. We spent hours and hours walking around, reading the exhibits, and studying those Hall of Fame plaques.

The first autograph that I ever obtained was from Johnny Bench. I don't remember it. I don't know what I got signed, or what I did with it. My memory is based on what other people told me, that my Dad was practically holding me over the railing trying to get Bench's attention. It worked. Bench signed. We don't have the autograph, but we have the photo of the autograph.

Bench became one of my first heroes, a combination of that story and because he was the host of The Baseball Bunch. One of my first gloves was a Johnny Bench catcher’s glove. It was too big for me and I never played catcher. But my dad used that sucker all the time, as he crouched into a squat and caught my pitching sessions. 

On our trip to Cooperstown, I studied the Bench plaque longer than any other, and took a photo of it.

We ate dinner in Cooperstown, walked into the numerous stores that sell autographs and memorabilia. Even the restaurants were filled with photos and signatures.

Afterward, we drove to our hotel in Tarrytown. This is a bizarre memory, but I recall we watched the U.S. Open tennis tournament from the hotel, and did much-needed rounds of laundry.

Yankee Stadium, Sept. 7 and 8, 1990

This was a year the Yankees finished in last place, the A’s won the division, and the A’s went 12-0 against them head-to-head.  The major reason we picked the week we did was to watch the A’s at Yankee Stadium.

The A’s didn’t disappoint.  Jose Canseco (who I thought was always showing off for me) and Mark McGwire went deep in the Friday night game. Rickey Henderson hit two home runs, and newly acquired Harold Baines went 4-for-4 in the Saturday night game. In a week full of unbelievable memories, this had to be the best part of the trip.

One of the afternoons, we did that tour where you take a bus around Manhattan, and can get off as many times as you like. We went to the Statue of Liberty, the top of the Empire State Building, and plenty of other famed tourist stops.

We rode a taxi. It was my first time ever in a taxi. I’d heard the reputation of crazy New York taxi drivers. Ours didn’t drive on sidewalks, but lived up to the hype. Dad said afterward the most important part of a taxi cab is the horn because they honked at everything. The ride was terrifying and exhilarating.

Before one of the games, I remember we went from store to store, looking for souvenirs and soaking up the energy of the crowd. That was the year Jimmy Connors made a surprising run to the semifinals of the U.S. Open in nearby Queens. It seemed every store had tennis on a small TV, and everybody was talking about Connors.

I wore my A’s “Just Do It” t-shirt to Yankee Stadium. It was part of Nike’s campaign around Bo Jackson. Not sure the wisdom of wearing A’s colors to the Bronx, but teen-age kids usually get a break from the rowdies. I received a few comments here and there. Overall, no problems at all.

The stadium was only half full, but I remember the energy and the craziness. When the Beach Boys song, “Surfin’ Safari” came on, some guy stood up on a couple seats and pretended he was surfing. I remember we listened to “Post Game Yankee Talk,” or whatever they called it, and all these crazy guys in accents talked about how, “we gotta get Higuera next year.”

Teddy Higuera wasn’t a bad pitcher and a free agent in the winter. But he was injury-prone, and I remember thinking that’s not the answer to the Yankees problems. I also remember thinking, “who in their right mind would ever want to host a call-in show immediately after a baseball game and deal with callers like this?”

Fenway Park, Sept. 9, 1990

We woke up early on a Sunday for our last day. We made the four-hour drive from New York to Boston, and drove straight to Fenway Park. I remember that driving and parking in that city was ridiculous. I was so glad my dad was driving.

My memory said Ken Griffey, Jr and his dad started that game, and they both got back-to-back hits in the game. My memory failed me, after viewing the box score. Senior had a pinch-hit single, and Junior went 0-for-4 in the game.

The view from our seats at Fenway.

Honestly, we weren’t that impressed with Fenway.

Maybe it was because we were tired after a long trip. Maybe it was because the fan energy on the rooftop seats wasn’t that intense. Maybe it was because there was some annoying obnoxious kid near us. Maybe it was because the game was fairly dull. Maybe it was because we didn’t have much pre-game time to soak it up, and hustled to the airport immediately after the game.

This was before Fenway Park became such a cultural event. I returned a few years later, during a weekend when I was interning at ESPN, sat just above the dugout and fell in love with the place. But my first trip was dull.

When we got to the airport, Dad got a message on his beeper (yep, his beeper) from the office. He needed to fly directly to some other place for work. I flew home from Boston solo. For a couple moments, I looked around the Boston airport nervously about this proposition. Then I realized it was no big deal. We’d been doing this all week.

My friend James Elliott and his father picked me up at the San Francisco airport around midnight. The next day was my first day as a senior in high school. I knew what the future held. I knew this would be my line of work. This trip sealed it.

For that, I have my Dad to thank.

Podcast: The State of the NBA

In the latest Out of Ink podcast, Josh and Matt take a look at where the NBA stands during the Finals; how LeBron is viewed; how individuals run the league vs. teams; and how the torch is being passed. All that and more in "The State of the NBA."

Podcast: A divided Bay over San Jose

In the latest Out of Ink podcast, Josh and Matt discuss the fight over territorial rights in San Jose. The Oakland Athletics want to move to San Jose. The San Francisco Giants own the territorial rights and are blocking them. Commissioner Bud Selig has waited over three years, yet still hasn't made a ruling. Josh wrote about this topic before, and now the duo discusses it.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VI, Benito Santiago

--by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

When spring training 1989 arrived, I was ready to dominate the autograph scene. It was my third year collecting Sharpie Scribbles, my second year going to Arizona. I knew where to go, when to be there, what to say, what pens to use, and how to be ready.

Without question, that was the best week of autograph collecting in my life. Can’t remember the exact number, but 223 is what sticks in my head. Not a bad haul for a nine days.

I did have some help from family and friends.

My dad took the week off work, and we went to Arizona together. Our routine was simple. He’d drop me off at the ballpark between 8-9 am. I’d get Sharpie Scribbles all morning, while he went back to the hotel to sleep or check in at the office. He’d arrive around game time. We’d watch the game together, stick around a little later for a few more autographs, then go find a place to eat and watch the NCAA Tournament games.

My friend Chris Poulson was a batboy for the A’s at that time. He happened to be in Arizona that same week. Before one game, Chris found me in the stands and said the A’s needed a batboy for the day. The next day, he said the visiting Padres needed a batboy.

Both were great thrills. The more memorable was the day with the Padres. I had a chair next to the on-deck circle. I wouldn’t say anything to the players, unless they initiated the conversation. I remember some fans in the first row were chatting up Benito Santiago, and he was in a good mood.

In his first at-bat, Santiago hit a home run. In his second at-bat, he hit another home run. Both times, I was waiting at home plate with his bat in my left hand, and my right hand extended into the air. When he crossed the plate, Santiago gave me a high-five. Oh man, that was so cool.

I wasn’t a Padres fan, but I’d always liked Santiago. He was the Rookie of the Year in 1987, had that long hitting streak, threw out base runners from his knees, and I thought Benito was a cool unique name. Now, I was a huge fan of his.

 

In the last inning or two, a minor league catcher who was on a lot of those “future stars” baseball cards also homered. And just like with Santiago, I gave Sandy Alomar, Jr. a high five at home plate after his home run. Now, I was a huge fan of Sandy, his brother Roberto, and their dad.

Millions of other kids were stuck in classrooms around the country. I was in the Arizona sun, getting autographs, chasing home run balls, and high fiving Padres catchers after they hit home runs.  

After the game, I was in the Padres tiny clubhouse – and unlike a year earlier at the Coliseum, when my friend raided Jose Canseco’s locker illegally, I was allowed in there. I could ask any player for his autograph, and had no competition. It’s an unwritten rule that players always sign autographs for the spring training batboy that was pulled from the stands. It’s like your paycheck.

For some reason, I didn’t stick around too long. Don’t ask me why I didn’t go from player to player. It was probably because I’d already gotten everybody’s autograph that I wanted earlier in the day. By the end of the game, most of the players were gone. There were only two players that I wanted to get: Tony Gwynn and Benito Santiago.

Gwynn signed my 8x10 photo, and it’s one of the most beautiful autographs in my collection. I could tell he was taking his time, making sure all the letters were neatly written. This wasn’t a scribble. This was a signature. When I got home, I bought a frame and proudly put it on my bedroom wall. This was the first of hundreds of interactions with Gwynn -- as a kid, and later as a reporter -- and all of them were positive.

T-Gwynn took his time, and this one's beautiful.

I didn’t have an 8x10 photo for Santiago to sign that day. But he did sign a baseball card for me and I remember we chatted about something. I’m sure it was something about his home runs. A couple more times over the years, I got Santiago’s autograph again, including on an 8x10 photo.

When I came back to school after my week in Arizona, I had lots of stories to share. All the girls wanted to know how I was so tan. All the boys wanted to know how I was a batboy.

***

The last week of spring training in 2001, my second as the Giants beat writer for The Oakland Tribune, the Giants signed Benito Santiago as a free agent.

This news was a godsend to the reporters covering the team. By the last week, you’re out of feature ideas, you’re sick of watching exhibition games, you just want to go home, and the only news items are the battles for the final reserve spots on the roster. The arrival of Santiago gave us all new storylines to pursue the final week.

I’d talked to Santiago and asked questions in the group interviews, but didn’t mention the batboy story. A few days later, when nobody else was around, I went over to Santiago’s locker and told him the story about the two home runs and the high fives.

“So you’re my good-luck charm, huh?” said Santiago.

***

It didn’t start right away. But at some point, I think it was actually the next year, Santiago started referring to me as “my favorite reporter.”

Truth be told, Santiago was my second favorite person in the Giants clubhouse during the four years I covered the team from 2000-2003. Shawon Dunston was my all-time favorite. Santiago was second. Rich Aurilia was third.

Santiago ran hot-and-cold as an interview subject. Most of the time, he was great to all reporters. Sometimes, he got in these bad moods, blew off crowds of reporters, and could be difficult.

But he was always good to me. A few times, he went out of his way to say, “I’m only talking to my favorite reporter.” I found it hilarious, embarrassing, and empowering all at the same time.

On the night of Sept. 11, 2002, my sports editor called me with bad news. I was supposed to leave the next morning to cover the Giants two-game series in San Diego. But another round of budget cuts was bleeding into the Trib’s sports travel budget, and the bean counters decided they wanted to save two hotel nights, two days of per diem, and a rental car.

The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: “The plane ticket isn’t refundable. We’re going to eat it.”

Sports Editor: “If you still want to go, you can use the plane ticket. We just can’t pay anything else.”

Me: “If I’m paying my own way, I’m not writing for the paper. These are days off. I just happen to be taking them in San Diego.”

Sports Editor: “That’s fine with me.”

***

The next morning, I used the flight to San Diego. Instead of working, I spent all day at the beach with my college friends. Sometime around noon, I missed a call from Josh Rawitch, who was then covering the Giants for mlb.com, and listened to his message about grabbing lunch or something.

I realized that he didn’t know, and none of the other reporters knew, that I wasn’t covering that series due to budget cuts. With perhaps a couple adult cocktails already in me, I realized the stage was set to pull the ultimate practical joke on my colleagues.

Around 2 or 2:30 pm, I called Rawitch back. I told him I was hanging with my friends at the beach, would be heading to the ballpark soon, and would see him there.

Of course, I never showed up at the ballpark.

As the day went on, the concern grew, especially as I missed the clubhouse getting opened, then the daily pre-game session with manager Dusty Baker, then all of batting practice, and then even the first pitch.

Matt Hodson was the Giants public relations official on the trip. It was his second road trip. On the first, Barry Bonds and Jeff Kent got into a dugout fight. On his second, one of the team’s traveling beat writers was now missing under his watch.

My phone rang with calls. It buzzed with text messages. I ignored them all. I laughed, perhaps downed another adult cocktail or two, and let their imaginations run wild.

***

Around the second inning, after perhaps another adult beverage or two, I enlisted the help of my college friend Ferris. He used my cell phone to call Josh Rawitch. The conversation went something like this:

Ferris: “let Soooosh know that he left his cell phone at the bar. But don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Rawitch: “Soooosh isn’t here. Where the hell is he?”

Ferris: “What do you mean he’s not there? Where is he?”

Rawitch: “We’ve been trying to figure that out. We’re calling the police to see if something happened to him.”

Ferris: “The last time I saw him, he was talking to these two girls at the bar.”

***

Around the fifth inning, after perhaps another adult beverage or two, I called Rawitch. The conversation went something like this:

Rawitch: “Where the hell are you?”

Me: “Dude, you won’t believe my day.”

Rawitch: “What’s going on? Are you OK?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m OK. Meet me at [some bar I can’t remember] bar after the game. I’ll explain everything. Oh crap, the police are back. I have to talk with them again. Meet me at the bar.”

***

By the time the game ended and Rawitch finished filing his stories, I might have enjoyed another adult beverage or two. It was close to midnight. Rawitch and Hodson arrived at the bar, glad to see that I was OK, and curious just what the hell happened to me.

There’s no way that I can do justice to the story that I told them. I do know that it involved the story Ferris told about last seeing me with two girls at a bar. I was making this up on the fly, when suddenly Ferris blurted out, “tell them the part about Benito Santiago!”

Rawitch and Hodson to me: “What?!?”

Me glaring at Ferris: “I told you not to bring up Benito’s name. He stays out of this.”

I stormed off to the other side of the bar, in mock anger. In reality, I was trying to figure out a way to weave Benito Santiago into this ridiculous story that I was telling. A minute or so later, I came back to the group.

Again, there’s no way that I can do justice to the story I told them. I do know that it involved how Benito always referred to me as “my favorite reporter” and how he would set me up with some of his leftover groupies on the road, especially in a city like San Diego, where he used to play.

I’ll never forget the way Hodson stood there: his mouth wide open, not saying a word, not drinking, stunned, speechless.

Toward the end of this ridiculous story, I said something along these lines: “you know guys, tonight has really made me think about the decisions I make and my priorities. This is really a wake-up call. But I must say, that when it’s all said and done, the one thing that I can count on … is that you two idiots will believe anything I say.”

At the point, Rawitch and Hodson began punching me, and calling me every name you can imagine. I deserved every punch and every insult. I finally told them the truth. I wasn’t working because my newspaper is incredibly cheap. I used a free flight down here though. I was having fun with my college friends.

They hated me even more.

***

About a week later, I was back on the company’s dime and covering road games. Well, somewhat. I was told that I should cover the four games in Los Angeles, but miss the three games in Milwaukee.

At that time, Benito Santiago had been suspended two games after getting ejected from a recent game and umping umpire Mark Hirschbeck. Santiago was appealing the suspension. All the reporters were trying to figure out when Santiago would drop the appeal.

This ejection led to Benito giving me a scoop.

Toward the end of batting practice, I walked back through the visitor’s clubhouse on my way to the Dodger Stadium press box. Santiago was at his locker. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Benny, are you dropping the suspension tomorrow in Milwaukee?”

Santiago looked around, and saw that nobody else could hear. “Yes, but I’m only telling my favorite reporter.”

This was the pre-Twitter days. If it was 2012, I’d have probably put the news on Twitter. The ‘scoop’ would have lasted all of five minutes. All the reporters would have included it in the newspaper the next day, or their online stories that night.

But in 2002, it was saved for the next day’s newspaper as the lead item in my notebook. None of the other reporters had the story.

I was back in the Bay Area the next day, when Henry Schulman of the San Francisco Chronicle called me from Milwaukee.

“How the hell did you scoop us when you’re not even here?”

I just laughed and told him I got lucky.

It was a long story.

It went back to spring training in 1989, when I was 15 years old, and got pulled out of the stands to be the Padres batboy.

Sharpie Scribbles -- Chapter V, the 1988 Olympic team

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

To say that I was obsessed with the 1988 Olympic baseball team is a massive understatement.

The summer of 1988 was the peak of my Sharpie-Scribbling, Ball-Chasing, Game-Watching existence. I went to 53 A’s games that year. From the time my freshman year in high school ended in June, until my sophomore year started in September, I only missed two games – and that’s because I was in Reno with my mom and sister to celebrate our birthdays.

The stars of the 1984 Olympic baseball team – Mark McGwire, Will Clark, Barry Larkin, Cory Snyder, B.J Surhoff, Bill Swift, Bobby Witt – were established in the big leagues by 1988. I recall reunions of that team at massive baseball card shows, which were exploding in popularity.

I’d already snagged most of those players’ autographs at the ballpark, so I didn’t wait in the lines and pay the money. But one of my favorite purchases was an official baseball from the 1984 games in Los Angeles.

So when the 1988 Seoul Olympics arrived, I was ready for the next generation of American heroes that would become major league stars. And when I say ready, I mean ready to buy anything that had their name on it, and ready to hound them for Sharpie Scribbles.

It wasn’t easy to find information or watch that team. Baseball was only a “demonstration” sport. Pretty sure not a single game was on TV. This is when NBC only had one network to show events. There were some highlights on NBC’s coverage, but you’d have to scour the agate of newspapers, and hunt for little nuggets from Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News.

Team USA won the gold medal at those games. Jim Abbott went the distance in the championship game victory over Japan. All the baseball card companies would follow Topps’ lead from 1985, and put those Olympic players all over their sets in 1989.

It wasn’t enough for me to buy those Topps, Bowman and Upper Deck cards. I found myself buying the “rookie” minor league card for those players too.

In the case of Robin Ventura (Birmingham Barons), Tino Martinez (Williamsport Bills), Ed Sprague (Dunedin Blue Jays) and Charles Nagy (Kinston Indians), they were smart purchases.

In the case of a few others, it was an utter waste of money. That’s why I still have in binders the 1989 team sets of the Springfield Cardinals (Mike Fiore), Peoria Chiefs (Ty Griffin), Osceola Astros (Scott Servais and Dave Silvestri), Shreveport Captains (Ted Wood), Cedar Rapids Reds (Jeff Branson) and San Bernardino Spirit (Jim Campanis).

The most disappointing flameout was Griffin. I had big hopes for him. So did the Cubs. They drafted him with the ninth overall pick in 1988. The plan was for Griffin to take over at second base, so Ryne Sandberg could move to third base. Griffin blistered the competition for the USA national team, posting a .416/.485/.805 slash line, plus 21 steals.

I bought two 8x10 photos, a lot of his rookie cards, and even some minor league cards. One year in spring training, I went to the Cubs minor league fields to look for Griffin. Nobody else was there looking for autographs. I found Griffin and got a signature on his Olympic card. He was destined for greatness, I thought for sure.

Griffin, drafted between Abbott and Ventura, played nine years in the minors. Four of the last five years were in independent ball. He never made it higher than Double-A ball.  

That was a miss. Others were big hits.

Everybody knew Ventura would be a star. He had that 58-game hitting streak at Oklahoma State, made his big league debut a year after the Olympics, and was a regular in 1990.

Ventura made an appearance at a baseball card show in San Francisco in the 1990-91 offseason. My good friend Jeff Coulthart and I bought a dealer’s table at that show to sell cards.

It wasn’t my style to pay for autographs, but I made an exception for Ventura with three specific items – his minor league card, his Olympic card, and in the sweet spot of an (almost) shiny white ball that I got one day at during batting practice.

Immediately, I placed them in a Ball & Card Display, which I shortened to BCF for Ball Card Frame. I was all about the BCF’s, especially for that Olympic team.

In spring training, I got Andy Benes and Abbott’s autographs on those Olympic cards and the sweet spot of a ball. More BCF’s were purchased. The shelves of my bedroom became a shrine to that Olympic team.

Usually, anything was fair game for an autograph. I made a rare exception for a rare 1987 Olympic team item. Yes, 1987, the year before the Olympics.

It’s a team set produced by the United State Baseball Federation. Most of those players went on to play in the Seoul Olympics, but a few didn’t. To this day, I’ve still never opened the packaging to look at any of the cards. The only card I’ve ever seen is the pitcher Abbott, who is showed with a bat in hand.

The back of the packaging shows the checklist, which includes Frank Thomas, Gregg Olson, Cris Carpenter and Pat Combs.

The name Pat Combs means nothing to you. But for reasons that I can’t fathom to this day, I was totally obsessed with Pat Combs. I must have 10 of his minor league cards and 20 of his rookie major league cards. A lot of good those purchases did me.

Olson is interesting to note. Once I learned he was on the USA training team, I started purchasing more of his items, and added him to my BCF wish list. When I took the photo a few nights ago of what remains of my batting practice ball collection, I saw Olson’s signature on a ball in the sweet spot and in a protective case mixed in.

Not sure what happened to the autographed card, or the rest of that BCF frame. Just like I’m not sure what happened to Olson’s once promising career. I guess they both got injured somewhere along the way. But I do have Olson’s signature preserved on an 8x10 photo. I remember exactly where I got it: the parking lot of the Oakland Hyatt hotel, before he went across the freeway to the Coliseum.

***

In 2000, my first year covering the Giants for The Oakland Tribune, their top prospect in training camp was a kid named Kurt Ainsworth. He was a first-round pick, made a solid pro debut, and his appearance in training camp warranted an early feature story.

That September, Ainsworth was chosen for the USA National Team that went to the Sydney Olympics. Ainsworth was the starting pitcher for a couple victories in those games. Ben Sheets won the Gold Medal game over Cuba, and those players came back home heroes.

A few of my colleagues, especially Mark Saxon, accused me of writing too much about Ainsworth and having a man-crush on him. I tried to justify it by saying what a top prospect he was for the organization, and what else was there to say about Russ Ortiz and Kirk Rueter?

In retrospect, Saxon probably was right. The number of stories and notes on Ainsworth probably was overkill. Upon reflection, maybe I’ve never got over my obsession with USA Olympic Baseball teams.

***

In 2008, a few weeks before I moved from Modesto to Los Angeles to take the job as the reporter for the Dodgers Radio Network and the co-host of PostGame Dodger Talk, I attended a fundraiser for the University of the Pacific baseball team in Stockton.

Ed Sprague, a Stockton native, was the Pacific head coach. He invited his friend and old Olympic teammate, Jim Abbott, to be the keynote speaker. Abbott is an incredible speaker, and the audience was enraptured by the story of his no-hitter, and how he was shelled the start before that no-hitter.

For me, the best part of the night was the stories that Sprague and Abbott told about that Olympic Team, and winning the gold medal in Seoul. As I listened, I was a 15-year-old kid again.

Before leaving for that banquet, I thought about digging through my trunk of childhood memories, finding the items left from my Olympic collection that still needed to be signed, and buying a fresh new Sharpie to get a couple new scribbles.

In the end, I decided against it. Autographs were my childhood addiction.

Now, I’m content with a free banquet meal … and a chapter for the Sharpie Scribbles.