Meeting the Washington Capitals players reminded me of the first time I asked a professional athlete for an autograph. My dad tended bar at Porter Street Station during the late '70s and early '80s, a club known for Disco Night Fridays. Located a few blocks from Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit, Porter Street was popular with Tiger players, who would sneak in the back door to avoid the crowds.
One afternoon while running errands, Dad and I stopped in. "Come with me," he beckoned and we approached a table where two men were eating lunch. "This is my daughter, Heather." I sucked the room's oxygen into my lungs with a gasp. It was pitcher Dave Rozema and right fielder Kirk Gibson! "Can I have your autograph?" I squeaked, unable to exhale. Amused by my embarrassment, Gibson and Rozema signed drink coasters. I felt both victorious and idiotic.
I had been playing softball for close to 10 years. Other than pitcher and first base, I could play any position, but my favorite was catcher because I had an enormous crush on Lance Parrish.
I came close to pummeling a teammate when she grabbed the #13 jersey before I could. Head and shoulders sagging over the loss of an intangible source of strength, I reached for the next shirt on the pile, #9. My coach leaned in and remarked, "You know, that was Al Kaline's number." Ha! Did you hear that, Number Stealer? I got a Hall-of-Famer! I wore nine the remainder of my softball days. Lance would understand.
In the end I got my man. For my 13th birthday Dad gave me a framed autographed poster of Lance standing next to a Bengal Tiger, the words "Tigerrr Catcher" along the bottom. My heart fluttered when I read the inscription. He signed it To Heather, My very best wishes!
Decades later Lance resides in my basement laundry room because I don't know where to hang him. And because my husband hates it. Whenever I considered moving him along (the poster, not my husband) I would remember why I loved baseball. Ernie Harwell on the radio. George Kell drawling to Al Kaline on TV, "Eeewwww, look out, Al!" when a ball would sail foul. The Boys of Summer. Sparky Anderson. The 1984 World Series.
Those were good years with great memories. Lance, will you please pass the detergent?
One afternoon while running errands, Dad and I stopped in. "Come with me," he beckoned and we approached a table where two men were eating lunch. "This is my daughter, Heather." I sucked the room's oxygen into my lungs with a gasp. It was pitcher Dave Rozema and right fielder Kirk Gibson! "Can I have your autograph?" I squeaked, unable to exhale. Amused by my embarrassment, Gibson and Rozema signed drink coasters. I felt both victorious and idiotic.
I had been playing softball for close to 10 years. Other than pitcher and first base, I could play any position, but my favorite was catcher because I had an enormous crush on Lance Parrish.
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| Autographed poster of Detroit Tigers Catcher Lance Parrish |
In the end I got my man. For my 13th birthday Dad gave me a framed autographed poster of Lance standing next to a Bengal Tiger, the words "Tigerrr Catcher" along the bottom. My heart fluttered when I read the inscription. He signed it To Heather, My very best wishes!
Decades later Lance resides in my basement laundry room because I don't know where to hang him. And because my husband hates it. Whenever I considered moving him along (the poster, not my husband) I would remember why I loved baseball. Ernie Harwell on the radio. George Kell drawling to Al Kaline on TV, "Eeewwww, look out, Al!" when a ball would sail foul. The Boys of Summer. Sparky Anderson. The 1984 World Series.
Those were good years with great memories. Lance, will you please pass the detergent?
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