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Pray for the Great Number Eight
August 19, 2008
Autograph Day:
It was the Summer of '69. I was twelve. My dad and I had made the hour and a half drive from Connecticut to Fenway, to take in a Sunday afternoon game. We usually arrived at the park at eleven, in order to watch batting practice.But, this would be a special day. The Sox were starting a brand-new promotion, where two of our beloved Red Sox would be signing autographs for one hour before the game. And, I was fourth in line. Who would it be? To whom would I have a fleeting chance to mumble and stutter a few words, in hopes of impressing these big leaguers with my vast baseball knowledge? Would it be some mop-up pitcher out of the bullpen? Some rarely-used utility infielder? It didn't matter. We were getting the chance to meet someone who actually wore that uniform for a living; someone who had made it; someone we all wanted to be.
I looked behind me, and the line was snaking down one aisle, and up into the cheap seats on the first base side. The anticipation was building, and the kids were murmuring to each other, almost afraid to speak above a whisper, for fear that we'd be asked to leave the line for being disruptive.
It was time. Out from the dugout walked our first guest signer. It was Bob Montgomery -our starting catcher! Well, this was cool! Bob was on the field every day; a major player. He sat behind a table, which had been set up on the dirt, adjacent to the dugout, and waited. Then, it happened. I heard one of the kids in front exclaim in a hushed voice: "Oh my God!" Rising out of the dugout, with his hat pulled low over his forehead, his bright white uniform almost glowing under the sun, a commanding presence - a god to me, and every other kid in that line - the "Great Number Eight", the "Captain", my hero, Carl Yastrzemski! I couldn't breathe. There he was, sitting just feet away! I was going to meet the man! I was going to have my touch with greatness! What would I say? What COULD I say? Just keep cool! Just keep cool!
Finally, one of the ushers pulled back the gate leading to the field, and let the first two kids approach the table. Yaz and Monty were signing stacks of eight-by-ten photos, and handing them to each kid. It was an assembly line. It had to be. I didn't care. It was my turn. I sheepishly approached the table, and my hero passed me a photo, while he continued to sign his stack of glossies. But, I paused for a second, and said "Thank you, Mister Yastrzemski." Yaz stopped writing, mid-autograph, as if I had said something foreign, something unexpected. He slowly looked up at me, his eyes squinting from the sun, smiled a half-smile, and simply said "You're welcome". It was over. I was shuffled away by the usher. I walked back to my seat behind the dugout, cherishing my prized possession, cherishing my moment with Yaz.
I showed my dad the photo, and he chucked me on the shoulder, and told me that I would remember this day for the rest of my life. I sat there for the rest of the hour, looking over at Yaz, as he handed out photo after photo, thinking my moment with him was better than anyone else's that day. He actually spoke to me. We had a connection.
That was almost forty years ago. I'm looking up at the bookcase in my office, and there's the photo. I had it mounted on a trophy board, with an engraved plaque, which reads: Carl Yastrzemski Triple Crown 1967 3000 Hit Club HOF 1989 I think about that day, and I still get emotional. For, Yaz fulfilled a dream for this twelve-year-old. I was just a face in the crowd to Yaz, that day, but he gave me a memory which will remain with me for the rest of my life.
-Mr. Cool
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