The Tiger in My Basement

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. 

Autographed poster of
Detroit Tigers Catcher 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?

Hooky for the Home Team

For some it's the college bowl games in January or the Superbowl in February.  For others, it's March Madness.   I look forward to late April, the end of hockey's regular season and the start of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Playoff hockey is intense.  The play is so fast that I don't dare look away from the TV because I could miss a critical play.  The split-second shifts in momentum leave my heart racing long after the last siren sounds.  It's a rush.


This time of year my husband resigns himself to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles for dinner.  Our bathrooms may be dirtier than a truck stop's, but I do fold the laundry, and then only because I can do it in front of the TV.  He learned the game to watch it with me otherwise he'd be a lonely man.

So, there we were last night, the entire family watching the Capitals play the NY Rangers.  Bedtime had come and gone.  The youngest child lie on the floor, fighting to stay awake.  When the Caps won in regulation, everyone cheered, and I hatched a plan I called the Red Surprise.

The next morning I said, "Wear red today."
"Why?" they asked in unison.
"If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise."

Later that morning I collected the kids from school and we drove to Kettler Capitals Iceplex to watch the Washington Capitals practice skate.

There was a respectable fan turnout but the rink was not as crowded as I had feared.  Having never purposely sought autographs, I spoke with several veteran "stalkers" who offered tips on where to approach players.  We found our post and waited.  Our patience was rewarded.

When the first player, Nick Backstrom, left the iceplex, the kids hung back.  Feeling their eyes on me, I approached him and asked if he would sign their Capitals hats.  He politely obliged.  They watched a tired Michael Neuvirth and John Erskine sign and became excited.  Then came Karl Alzner.  

It's difficult to recognize players without their uniforms, even more so when they sport traditional playoff beards and don't look like official photos.  After three trial runs the boys approached Karl on their own.  When one of them asked if he was John Carlson, he laughed and said, "No, I'm not that Carl," and then graciously posed for a photo.

The boys talked about it all the way back to school, where they shared their spontaneous adventure and autographs with classmates.  When we watch Game 3 tonight they'll look for their new heroes and cheer loudly.  Skipping school for a few hours was worth the memories made.