Chasing Autographs Often Turns Fruitless
July 28, 2016 at 4:25 p.m.
PITTSBURGH - It is four hours before Sunday's baseball game at Three Rivers Stadium between the Houston Astros and Pittsburgh Pirates.
The fans here this early before the first pitch are few - less than 20 - but you find them lined up on a sidewalk behind a fence. They carry backpacks and hold things like baseballs, albums and bats.
They are the autograph seekers, the ones who have turned the profession into an art and a science. They are the ones who call each other by name because they are together at the park so much.
The talk this day is of one Big Unit, one 6-foot-10 stringy-haired, craggly-faced left-hander named Randy Johnson. Johnson was traded to the Astros at 11:54 p.m. Friday, six minutes before the trading deadline, and his flight to Pittsburgh arrived Saturday evening. Sunday afternoon he will make his first start for the Astros.
A few of the greener autograph seekers talk about Johnson signing their cards and baseballs.
Little do they know.
The grizzled veterans, they know. The Big Unit is The Big Bust when it comes to getting him to sign. He's a notorious no-signer.
Funny thing hanging around these guys. You hear all kinds of speculation.
"I hear The Big Unit's already here," one guy says. "He went in through center field to avoid the crush."
You wonder if this is really the truth, or if they are trying to throw others off the trail.
The Astros team bus arrives. The players are far enough away from the fence that they do not have to walk by the fans unless they want to. All choose not to and instead walk into the stadium.
The Big Unit is not among them. Maybe there is something to the center-field rumor.
These autograph seekers come in all ages, shapes and size. There are as many men hanging around as there are small children. You wonder if these men may be the dealers who are looking to sell the autographs for profit. Then again, those guys often have 10-year-olds getting the signatures for them, so you no longer know who in the autograph crowd is looking to make money and who simply wants a keepsake.
One of the men, presumably in his late-20s or early 30s, tells his Big Unit story.
"I was at the hotel this morning," he says. "I saw Randy. I go up to him. Me and Randy are the only ones there. I ask him to sign. He tells me to leave."
He shakes his head.
"The only one there, and he wouldn't sign."
Forty minutes after the Astros bus arrives, a yellow cab pulls up to the players' entrance, located near home plate. The man sitting in the back wears a suit, has long hair and appears very tall.
He sticks one leg out and unfolds himself out of the backseat. It is The Big Unit. So much for the center-field rumor.
He does not acknowledge the fans screaming Randy, does not turn his head or even wave. One of those watching speculates The Big Unit is going through an unhappy time in his life right now. He never wanted to leave the Seattle Mariners, but the organization didn't actually run through walls to keep him. And then he was traded to the National League, something he said he didn't want if he was traded.
The Big Unit, who almost looks like he's in a trance, is determined to walk straight to the players' entrance.
These fans, some of them are determined, too. Two of them tear out from behind the fence and go after Johnson. This they can do, because once the Astros team bus arrives, the security guards leave.
From the cab and even into the players' entrance they flank Johnson, one at his left elbow and one at his right. All three disappear into the entrance.
One of the autograph seekers returns. Like everyone figured, no luck.
The second returns, a small boy, probably 12. He has freckles and bright red hair and wears a blue and white Los Angeles Dodgers Hideo Nomo jersey. He carries his albums of baseball cards in a pouch at his hip.
This red-haired boy wearing glasses, who has blue ink marks above his lip and on one cheek, has done the impossible.
He got The Big Unit to sign.
"I just kept on him, kept telling him I am his biggest fan," he beams.
Stunned fellow autograph seekers huddle around the boy. Sure enough, they see Johnson's hand-writing.
It is not the perfect signature. For one thing, Johnson signed the back of his baseball card. For another, all he scribbled was a huge "R" and a "J."
Another guy, this one in his late 20s, looks at the card. He is one of the vets. He carries a baseball bat to the park that 22 Pittsburgh Pirates have signed. He tells you he needs only three more, Todd Van Poppel, Jeff McCurry and Freddy Garcia. Garcia isn't even with the Pirates, he's in the minors.
He looks at the Johnson card. "You have something there," he instructs the freckle-faced boy. "Hold onto that for dear life and don't trade it for anything, 'cause that dude just don't sign. I would have taken an 'X' on a card from him."
Unlike Johnson, Pirate players are an easy sign. They almost seem eager.
But you need some background on the Pirates. Their payroll for 25 players is $13 million, one of the smallest payrolls in the majors. Consider that Chicago White Sox outfielder Albert Belle alone makes $10 million. In some parking lots for professional athletes you see Mercedes, BMWs and Porsches.
These Pirates are reknown coupon savers.
At least half, if not three-quarters of the Pirate players, drive sport utility vehicles. And for the most part, they are middle-size ones, like Chevy Blazers and Jeep Grand Cherokees. There are exceptions, a few Lincoln Navigators and Ford Expeditions.
Most of the Pirates are in their 20s, and the "crush" surrounding them usually numbers seven or eight people. Signing is not a chore for them.
Teams like the New York Yankees, teams with the big payrolls, with the All-Stars, typically have people standing seven or eight rows deep to get their signatures. Then signing becomes a chore, and you almost don't blame them for refusing. Ever stand in one of these packs, arms thrusting baseballs and baseball cards everywhere, people grinding and jostling for position, you wonder if it's worth it.
Players often say they don't understand the idea of the whole autograph thing. Mark McGwire is one. Once on TV, he said a handshake would mean much more to him than scribble on a paper.
He's probably right. There are only a few autographs out there I still want.
One is Baltimore Orioles bench coach Eddie Murray, another notoriously tough sign. He and the Orioles were in Detroit last week. He arrived between eight and nine in the morning for a 1:35 p.m. game. Eight fans were there. They asked him to sign. He refused.
Oh, well. There's always hope. The red-haired, freckle-faced kid wearing the Hideo Nomo jersey can testify to that. [[In-content Ad]]
PITTSBURGH - It is four hours before Sunday's baseball game at Three Rivers Stadium between the Houston Astros and Pittsburgh Pirates.
The fans here this early before the first pitch are few - less than 20 - but you find them lined up on a sidewalk behind a fence. They carry backpacks and hold things like baseballs, albums and bats.
They are the autograph seekers, the ones who have turned the profession into an art and a science. They are the ones who call each other by name because they are together at the park so much.
The talk this day is of one Big Unit, one 6-foot-10 stringy-haired, craggly-faced left-hander named Randy Johnson. Johnson was traded to the Astros at 11:54 p.m. Friday, six minutes before the trading deadline, and his flight to Pittsburgh arrived Saturday evening. Sunday afternoon he will make his first start for the Astros.
A few of the greener autograph seekers talk about Johnson signing their cards and baseballs.
Little do they know.
The grizzled veterans, they know. The Big Unit is The Big Bust when it comes to getting him to sign. He's a notorious no-signer.
Funny thing hanging around these guys. You hear all kinds of speculation.
"I hear The Big Unit's already here," one guy says. "He went in through center field to avoid the crush."
You wonder if this is really the truth, or if they are trying to throw others off the trail.
The Astros team bus arrives. The players are far enough away from the fence that they do not have to walk by the fans unless they want to. All choose not to and instead walk into the stadium.
The Big Unit is not among them. Maybe there is something to the center-field rumor.
These autograph seekers come in all ages, shapes and size. There are as many men hanging around as there are small children. You wonder if these men may be the dealers who are looking to sell the autographs for profit. Then again, those guys often have 10-year-olds getting the signatures for them, so you no longer know who in the autograph crowd is looking to make money and who simply wants a keepsake.
One of the men, presumably in his late-20s or early 30s, tells his Big Unit story.
"I was at the hotel this morning," he says. "I saw Randy. I go up to him. Me and Randy are the only ones there. I ask him to sign. He tells me to leave."
He shakes his head.
"The only one there, and he wouldn't sign."
Forty minutes after the Astros bus arrives, a yellow cab pulls up to the players' entrance, located near home plate. The man sitting in the back wears a suit, has long hair and appears very tall.
He sticks one leg out and unfolds himself out of the backseat. It is The Big Unit. So much for the center-field rumor.
He does not acknowledge the fans screaming Randy, does not turn his head or even wave. One of those watching speculates The Big Unit is going through an unhappy time in his life right now. He never wanted to leave the Seattle Mariners, but the organization didn't actually run through walls to keep him. And then he was traded to the National League, something he said he didn't want if he was traded.
The Big Unit, who almost looks like he's in a trance, is determined to walk straight to the players' entrance.
These fans, some of them are determined, too. Two of them tear out from behind the fence and go after Johnson. This they can do, because once the Astros team bus arrives, the security guards leave.
From the cab and even into the players' entrance they flank Johnson, one at his left elbow and one at his right. All three disappear into the entrance.
One of the autograph seekers returns. Like everyone figured, no luck.
The second returns, a small boy, probably 12. He has freckles and bright red hair and wears a blue and white Los Angeles Dodgers Hideo Nomo jersey. He carries his albums of baseball cards in a pouch at his hip.
This red-haired boy wearing glasses, who has blue ink marks above his lip and on one cheek, has done the impossible.
He got The Big Unit to sign.
"I just kept on him, kept telling him I am his biggest fan," he beams.
Stunned fellow autograph seekers huddle around the boy. Sure enough, they see Johnson's hand-writing.
It is not the perfect signature. For one thing, Johnson signed the back of his baseball card. For another, all he scribbled was a huge "R" and a "J."
Another guy, this one in his late 20s, looks at the card. He is one of the vets. He carries a baseball bat to the park that 22 Pittsburgh Pirates have signed. He tells you he needs only three more, Todd Van Poppel, Jeff McCurry and Freddy Garcia. Garcia isn't even with the Pirates, he's in the minors.
He looks at the Johnson card. "You have something there," he instructs the freckle-faced boy. "Hold onto that for dear life and don't trade it for anything, 'cause that dude just don't sign. I would have taken an 'X' on a card from him."
Unlike Johnson, Pirate players are an easy sign. They almost seem eager.
But you need some background on the Pirates. Their payroll for 25 players is $13 million, one of the smallest payrolls in the majors. Consider that Chicago White Sox outfielder Albert Belle alone makes $10 million. In some parking lots for professional athletes you see Mercedes, BMWs and Porsches.
These Pirates are reknown coupon savers.
At least half, if not three-quarters of the Pirate players, drive sport utility vehicles. And for the most part, they are middle-size ones, like Chevy Blazers and Jeep Grand Cherokees. There are exceptions, a few Lincoln Navigators and Ford Expeditions.
Most of the Pirates are in their 20s, and the "crush" surrounding them usually numbers seven or eight people. Signing is not a chore for them.
Teams like the New York Yankees, teams with the big payrolls, with the All-Stars, typically have people standing seven or eight rows deep to get their signatures. Then signing becomes a chore, and you almost don't blame them for refusing. Ever stand in one of these packs, arms thrusting baseballs and baseball cards everywhere, people grinding and jostling for position, you wonder if it's worth it.
Players often say they don't understand the idea of the whole autograph thing. Mark McGwire is one. Once on TV, he said a handshake would mean much more to him than scribble on a paper.
He's probably right. There are only a few autographs out there I still want.
One is Baltimore Orioles bench coach Eddie Murray, another notoriously tough sign. He and the Orioles were in Detroit last week. He arrived between eight and nine in the morning for a 1:35 p.m. game. Eight fans were there. They asked him to sign. He refused.
Oh, well. There's always hope. The red-haired, freckle-faced kid wearing the Hideo Nomo jersey can testify to that. [[In-content Ad]]