Every Signature Tells a Story: "Double Duty," "Peanut" and a Lesson Learned

Tigers pitcher Mike Henneman in his Detroit Stars uniform.

Sometimes I think I know a lot about baseball history.

Sometimes I’m embarrassed by what I don’t know.

I was excited when I heard the Detroit Tigers would be honoring Negro League players by wearing Detroit Stars uniforms for a July 8, 1995 game. They were playing the Kansas City Royals, who would be wearing the Kansas City Monarchs road grays, modeled below by Wally Joyner. The team is playing a similar tribute game this weekend.

And I was even more excited that some of the Negro League stars would be on hand to sign autographs. Historic uniforms and free autographs – that’s all good. I have a lot of respect for these players. I never will be able to imagine how frustrating and hurtful it must have been to be prevented from playing in the Major Leagues because of their race.

Will and I arrived early and hopped on the line where Ted “Double Duty” Radcliffe, Lester Lockett and Dennis Biddle were signing; all were in good spirits and sharing stories about their playing days.

There was a woman sitting behind the table, too. Some people were asking for her autograph, which I thought was strange. I didn’t know if she was a player’s wife or an assistant. We made polite small talk while waiting my turn to pass a ball to the next player.

Signatures secured, we slipped down to the field to watch batting practice and snap some photos of the players in their Negro League uniforms. One of things I enjoyed most about old Tiger Stadium was that you could get right down near the field.

Before long, “Double Duty” was brought on to the field for some television interviews. He was 93 then, and celebrated his 103rd birthday in July and passed away Aug. 11.
Ted "Double Duty" Radcliffe interviewed before the game. He passed away Aug. 11.

Before the game, the Tigers brought each of the Negro Leaguers out on the field, and I noticed the woman walked out with the rest.

The Tigers announcer introduced her as Mamie “Peanut” Johnson, one of three women to play in the Negro Leagues in the 1950s.

Will looked over and said “Oops!”

I was deeply embarrassed, exposed as both ignorant and sexist in one swoop.

Later I did the research. Johnson -- a right-handed pitcher -- and teammates Toni Stone and Connie Morgan played for the Indianapolis Clowns. Johnson posted a 33-8 record and credits Satchell Paige with helping her with her curve ball.


She was called "Peanut" after Monarchs third baseman Hank Bayliss came to bat against her and called out “You're nothing but a peanut!” Johnson struck him out and the name stuck.

Remember that scene in “A League of Their Own” when the black woman picks up and overthrown ball and whips it back on to the field? That’s homage to Johnson, who was turned away from a tryout when All American Girls Professional Baseball League would not allow black women to play in the all-white league.

Johnson taught me a lesson that day, and she’s still teaching, speaking about Negro League history around the country.

The other players I met that day also have interesting stories. Radcliffe got his nickname in the 1932 Negro League World Series, when he caught Satchel Paige in the first game of a doubleheader, then pitched a shutout in the second game.

Biddle, who pitched for the Chicago American Giants, tied Bob Feller’s record of winning five games as a 17-year-old in 1953, turned 18 and won 10 more. He injured his arm and was out of the game by 19. Today he is an executive with the Helmar Brewing Company.

Lockett played during the 1930s and 1940s with the Birmingham Black Barons, Philadelphia Stars, Cincinnati Clowns, Chicago American Giants and the Baltimore Elite Giants, hitting more than .400 twice.

I humbly apologize to Mrs. Johnson, and if I ever have the opportunity I’d be honored to have her sign my Negro leagues ball.

In Other Words...

Greg at the always interesting Faith and Fear in Flushing site has a great article about how he is finally thinking about Tom Glavine as a Met and not some former Brave parading in a Mets uniform, almost forgiving him for his Atlanta misdeeds. You can read it here.

Off-the-Wall Mets Treasures are Part of the Fun

Some of the fine relics Will and I saw at the National Sports Collectors Convention in Chicago last weekend were valued at thousands of dollars — hundreds of thousands in the case of the famed Honus Wagner card that was on display.

But my favorite purchase of the day set me back a whole buck.

See, while I can appreciate the expensive stuff, I'll never afford it. Luckily, I've developed a fondness for the strange and the fun, the off-the-beaten-trail treasures you usually find in the bargain bins.

I’m talking about items like my new Mets outlet cover.

Hey, anybody can walk out of there with a Startling Lineup figure. Lots of dealers were selling them. But I also like the stuff you come across once in your life.

This particular treasure was in a box in front of a table stacked high with McFarlane sports action figures, which are amazing. But I cheered when I pulled out the outlet cover, about as loud as I did when Will found the affordable stack of 1971 Topps high numbers.


It’s just too strange. Think about it. I’ve seen Mets switch plates before, and that makes sense. Light switches are in visible places. But outlet covers? I usually hide them behind the book shelf.

And that’s what makes it cool.

There are a bunch of wonderfully off-beat items decorating my basement baseball room, from the Mike Piazza yo-yo to the Tom Seaver super-ball.
There are even some semi-useful things, like the Mets logo salt and pepper shakers, the Gil Hodges coasters and serving tray and the Tom Seaver Action Baseball game, where you hit a marble and it rolls into different slats. All are fun, all are on display.

Then there are the "what in the heck were they thinking" things. Those are the classics.

Clearly some company paid the Major League Baseball properties licensing fee, then wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Here are some of my favorites:


The Mets fly fishing lure: What can you catch with this? Marlins, of course.

The Mets toothbrush: It’s shaped like a bat, and hangs in a little adhesive-backed stand with the logo.

The Mets bike reflector: You gotta keep safe biking home from night games.

The Mets pocket radio: This might be able to pick up “Mike and the Mad Dog” — if I was standing right next to the transmitter.

The John Franco “Happy Birthday” greeting: This is a cassette where Franco reads a generic birthday greeting, then shares a baseball memory. It’s fun, it’s in his own voice and I’d love to get it on my iPod somehow.


Other than the Franco tape — which I just had to hear — I don’t know if these work. I keep them in their package and hang them on a cork-covered wall in the basement with the Mets subway ads, player buttons and other glorious relics.

The best head-scratcher in the bunch isn’t actually a Mets item, but it’s still amazingly cool.

It’s an official SkyDome international time zone calculator. There’s a photo of the stadium on the front, and when you open it up there’s a map of the world with the time zones and a little wheel so you can calculate what time the game starts when the Blue Jays are in Seattle. Or Asia.
So keep the Honus Wagner card. I’d rather save space for my new outlet cover.

In Other Words...

One of the best things purchased at the National was “The Fenway Project,” published by the Society of American Baseball Research. SABR collected 64 stories of Fenway for the book, including one from Will that starts on page 35. We’ll have complete coverage of the convention at BaseballTruth.com.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Johnny Ramone, Card Collector

I was using a pay phone to let my wife know all was well at the card show I was attending in one of those huge piers on the Hudson when a familiar figure in a leather jacket walked past.

I almost dropped the phone and I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped open.

"Yeah, it's him," assured a guy walking not far behind Johnny Ramone, guitarist in the seminal punk rock band.

Ramones collect baseball cards too?

"Honey, I gotta go."

My buddy Rich introduced me to many important things during my three years in Connecticut, from the glories of Fenway Park to how to survive in a mosh pit. And of course, the Ramones.

We're talking a true friend here.

I was familair with a handful of the band's songs -- it was impossible to go to college in the 1980s and not hear some of them -- and had even seen them in concert once, a horrible mismatch of a bill when they opened for the B-52s in the Hofstra University field house.

All wrong, as Rich pointed out. Forget the records, you have to hear the Ramones live. And it's got to be in a small, sweaty club -- like Toads, in New Haven, where we saw them several times.

We admired the Ramones' musical philospohy: Get up on stage, say what you gotta say and get the heck out of there. If you can get a song out of the way in under three minutes, good. Under two minutes? Even better. Loud and fast, and don't look too closely for meaning in the lyrics. Guitar solos are for posers and stage banter other than onetwothreefour! is unnecessary.

It especially made sense when we saw AC/DC at the Hartford Civic Center and Angus Young spent about 20 minutes preening on the edge of the stage for was was supposed to be a solo. I remember thinking that the Ramones would have ripped through 10 songs during that same amount of time.

So there, walking among the dealer tables was Johnny Ramone, dressed exactly as he appeared on stage with ripped jeans and leather jacket.

He was just another collector with a card list flipping through commons bins.

I casually examined the stuff on the dealer's table until I got the nerve to say something.

"Are you Mr. Ramone?" I asked, immediately realizing how stupid it sounded. So much for being cool. His real name was John Cummings. Everyone in the band adopted "Ramones" as a last name.

He smiled and said he in fact was. I stammered something about how I had recently seen the band at Toads and that I liked their stuff.

He seemed genuinely friendly, humoring me a little and then said, "Would you like an autograph?"

Whoa! This was an opportunity. I couldn't give him a spot in my Mets history book, so I offered the only other thing I had, my reporter's notebook where I recorded my want list.

He asked my name, and even added "best wishes."

I thanked him and ran off. An encounter with a Ramone shouldn't last longer than "Blitzkrieg Bop."

I was at the show to get autographs from a good chunk of the 1969 Mets team, and they were neat. But I might have had more fun meeting Johnny.

Johnny died Sept. 15 of cancer, just after being inducted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I'm still a fan -- a lot of Ramones songs take up very little space on my iPod.

In Other Words...

Derek Jeter overrated? Hey, don't take my word for it. Michael Hoban is professor emeritus of mathematics at City University of New York and a serious baseball analyst. Check out his latest article at BaseballTruth.com located here.

Ballpark Ghosts: Forbes Field, Where Yankees Wept

Any place where Yankees are humbled -- and goodness knows we need more of them -- is considered hallowed ground in my eyes.

So I was pretty excited when Will suggested we pay a visit to the site of Forbes Field before a recent trip to PNC Park in Pittsburgh.

Forbes, of course, is where Bill Mazeroski earned his Hall of Fame plaque by driving a stake through the Yankees' black hearts, winning the 1960 World Series with a home run in the bottom of the ninth.

How much did this hurt the Yankees? Let's go right to Mickey Mantle's autobiography, "The Mick."

"Nothing ever hurt as bad as that one.....Bottom of the ninth. Bill Mazeroski is at the plate, taking the first pitch, a high slider....And the most tearing moment of all, seeing Mazeroski's hard line drive heading for the left field wall. Yogi moves toward it, me backing him up, but it keeps going, going, going....There's a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. There's that unforgettable look on Yogi's face when he turns around, grim acceptance, expressed by a slow shrug of his shoulders.


"We walked off the field, a mob of fans already streaming past, and as Mazeroski crosses the plate his hysterical teammates grab at his uniform.

"In the locker room, all of us are wandering around in a trance, muttering, 'What happened?' I'm slumped in a stool, feeling so low I can hardly peel off my uniform."

Now that is something to savor. The problem with the Yankees, well, one of them, is that they think they are entitled to all the World Series championships, not just an occasional or even frequent trophy.

And the 1960 loss was so traumatic that the team fired legendary manager Casey Stengel two days later and raided their farm team -- err, American League rival -- Kansas City Athletics for Roger Maris.

The Pirates played their last game at Forbes in 1970 and gave the site to the University of Pittsburgh, which had the good sense to know that it was treading on sacred ground.

A good chunk of the outfield wall remains carefully preserved, ivy and all, as well as the centerfield flag pole, which was in play.

Home plate rests almost exactly where it was, but it is encased in glass in a first-floor hallway of Posvar Hall, an otherwise drab building.

A row of bricks outside traces where the outfield wall stretched, and there's a plaque at the spot where St. Maz's ball crossed the fence, so all right-thinking fans can stand and reflect.

I caught up with Will and his brother Scott at outfield wall, which is slightly covered by trees in a nice, park-like setting.

After posing with home plate, we opted to pay homage by playing catch in what was rightfield, where Roberto Clemente once patrolled.

Forbes, which had been home to the Pirates since 1909, also was the site of Babe Ruth's last three home runs on May 25, 1935.

But it was Maz's blast that elevated Forbes to hallowed status. We remarked that 45 years later, the you could still catch a scent of Yankee shame lingering in the air. Of course, it had just poured buckets and all the trees were in bloom, which might have had something to do with it. But I prefer the former.

While the team's next ballpark, Three Rivers Stadium, was a multi-purpose concrete disaster, I'm pleased to report that PNC is a worthy successor. It's an intimate yard with an awesome view of downtown and its yellow bridges, easily the best of the new ballparks I've visited.

The view of downtown from our seats, where we enjoyed watching Chipper Jones take the collar -- with three strikeouts!

In Other Words...

We were in town to kick off the BaseballTruth.com annual Executive Game weekend. Will detailed all our adventures -- and we have many -- on his site, which always is recommended reading.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas and Coed Softball

I sure can’t blame the other outfielders on The Grand Rapids Press coed softball team if they want to wear football pads when they play along side me.

We’ve had a couple issues with collisions this season.

One of the complexities of the seemingly simple slowpitch coed ball is that you don’t want to appear to be a ball hog, which inherently implies that you don’t think the women teammates can make the plays.

So the other extreme tends to happen, where you hang back and don’t go after balls that you probably should catch. You get points for being a gentleman -- but those are not reflected on the scoreboard.

That happened once this season, and a ball that both a teammate and I each of us could have handled dropped in for a hit. In the next game, I assumed a ball was mine and April — trying not to repeat the prior incident — ran right into me. Luckily, she wasn't hurt, though we got a lecture about calling for the ball.

But two games later there was a gapper that both Gayle and I went charging for. This time I called it, but I don’t think she heard me. Wham-o! We collided at full speed, Gayle’s knee into my thigh.

I gimped off the field -- I think more embarrassed than hurt. Gayle toughed it out and stayed in the game. But later her knee started swelling up, and after a trip to the doctor learned she ruptured something, leaving her with a dark purple brusie that stretches from her calf to lower thigh.

Naturally, I feel horrible. She's wearing some kind of brace and I cringe when I see her limp across the newsroom.

But the crash reminds me of my favorite story about the 1962 Mets. It’s told wonderfully by author Roger Angell in Ken Burns’ epic Baseball documentary.

Centerfielder Richie Ashburn, a future Hall-of-Famer, was forever crashing into shortstop Elio Chacon, who didn’t speak English and didn’t understand when Ashburn was calling for the ball.

So teammate Joe Christopher pulled Ashburn aside and taught him some Spanish. “Yo lo tengo!” which roughly means “I got it!”

So the next time there was a fly ball between them, Ashburn put his new skills to the test, shouting “Yo lo tengo, yo lo tengo.” It worked perfectly, as Chacon backed off.

Except that Ashburn was then knocked flat by leftfielder Frank Thomas, who spoke no Spanish.

I was lucky to meet both Ashburn and Thomas at a card show in the late 1980s that featured a good chunk of the 1962 team, the original Mets.

Photo Updates

A little knowledge, of course, is a very dangerous thing. Now that I've learned how to add photos, I've gone back into some of the earliest posts and updated them. Here are links (which I've fixed, sorry about that) if you are interested:

Pop Shortell, Dave Winfield and Richard Nixon

Terry Nichols and the Rockies (Part One): Coors or the Keynote?

Terry Nichols and the Rockies, (Part Two): Wrangling for a Seat.

Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life

Busch Stadium Memories (Part Two): Sabes, the Unit and Reality

Two-time Cy Young Award winner Bret Saberhagen

Dreams die hard.

Sometimes reality comes ripping by you at 90 miles an hour. I came to this conclusion at Busch Stadium in 1995.

July 26, 1995: Cardinals 3, Mets 2

Will and I were in St. Louis for the National Sports Collectors Convention, and it just worked out that the Mets were in town. Naturally we were at Busch when the gates opened and hustled down to the box seats to watch batting practice.

But even better, we saw Bret Saberhagen tossing in the bullpen. Busch used to have the bullpens in foul territory along the stands, and you could get right up there and stand maybe 10 to 15 feet from the pitcher.

Saberhagen was really airing it out, and we were stunned by the velocity. The slap of the ball into the catcher’s mitt echoed throughout the empty ballpark.

It’s one thing to sit deep in the stands and watch a pitcher hurling from the mound. But it was another to stand just a few feet away and watch Saberhagen throw some gas.

"Sabes" was in his waning days as a Met.

After a couple throws we went down by the catcher to try to get a batter’s perspective. That was probably as close as we were ever going to get to standing in a major league batter’s box.

Again, we were amazed at how fast the ball came. We couldn’t understand how a batter could see the ball, judge where it would pass through the strike zone, decide to swing and actually move the bat through the zone in the fraction of a second it took for the ball to leave Saberhagen’s palm to reach the plate.

Could I hit Saberhagen's heat?

It’s a series of calculations and movements that have to occur in the blink of an eye — or less.

“At what point do you decide to swing?” Will said. “Is the ball still in his hand? Is he still in the delivery?”

We all harbor dreams that we could dig in at plate and get a hit one off these guys. That day I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't be able to make contact with one of Saberhagen’s pitches if I went up there with a piece of plywood instead of a bat.

We didn’t know it, but It also was one of the last times Saberhagen would appear in a Mets uniform. He was 5-5 with a 3.35 ERA in his fourth season with the team and was soon traded to the Colorado Rockies.

On the light side, you can always find something interesting and new at the ballpark. We noticed that a group of guys in our section would be cheering or groaning at the end of each half-inning, and it didn’t seem to be connected to the game. Journalists are nosey by nature, so we asked what they were up to.

Turns out at the end of an inning, the pitcher or the fielder who made the last out will throw the ball on the mound for the next pitcher to pick up. Sometimes the ball will stay on the dirt of the mound; sometimes it would roll onto the turf. These guys were betting on which would happen.
As for the game, the Mets came up short in the tenth inning, the fifth game of a six-game losing streak. We sensed it would be a long day when the line-up included the likes of Rico Brogna at first, Tim Bogar at short and Alberto Castillo catching.

Not only were Cardinals players better, I think their coaching staff would have polished off the Mets that day – it included Hall-of-Famers Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and Red Schoendienst.

Big Mac and Busch Stadium in sand at Fair St. Louis.

July 5, 1999: Cardinals 1, Diamondbacks 0

This was probably the best-pitched game I’ve ever seen in person. And it jsut goes to show that you just never know what will happen in baseball.

This game should have been a rout, with studly Randy Johnson going up against Jose Jimenez, entering the game with an unimpressive 4-8 record.

The Big Unit performed as promised, throwing a four-hit, 12-strikeout gem. Sadly for him, Jimenez hurled the game of his career, holding the Snakes to two hits and a walk while fanning nine

The Unit, in his first year with Arizona, was enroute to the second of his five Cy Young Awards and led the league with 354 strikeouts and NL-best 2.48 ERA.

Jiminez, on the other hand, finished 5-14 and was shipped the Colorado the next season where he became a servicable reliever.

Both players threw complete games — something you never see — and Mark McGwire got one of the Cardinal hits and scored the game’s only run.

McGwire had bashed his 70 homers the year before and was the toast of the town -- as evidenced by his likeness shaped out of sand along with the city's other landmarks at Fair Saint Louis.

It was a swelteringly hot afternoon when my son Andrew and I made the trek from Illinois, where we were visiting relatives. But the fair was in full swing and we took part in some of the festivities and enjoyed watching military jets roar past the Arch as part of the the annual air show.

Taking in the view at Busch

In Other Words...

Bad Guys and Uniforms, Too: Blogging buddy Metsradamus is an excellent writer, and his recent post about an all-time team of Mets villains is both on the nose and wickedly funny. Check it out here.

Haunted by Pinstripes at FanFest

Baseball’s All-Star FanFest is a glorious celebration of the National Pastime, and a must-attend event if the game is within driving distance.

So I happily motored two hours east to Detroit this week to bask in all that is good about baseball – and couldn’t escape the dreaded clutches of the Evil Empire.

Not that I let it spoil the fun. After all, any day spent immersed in the Grand Old Game is a good one, even if the Yankees are involved.

In case you’ve never been, the FanFest is a collection of baseball displays and activities that takes place in the weekend before the All-Stat Game in the All-Star host city, usually in some convention center. There are opportunities to meet everyone from Hall-of-Famers to professional softball players. It’s a collector’s paradise, and I’ll soon detail that aspect at http://www.baseballtruth.com/.

I’ve been fortunate to attend FanFests in Pittsburgh in 1994, Cleveland in 1997, Milwaukee in 2002 and Chicago in 2003.

I started the event by wandering into an area called FanFest Bazaar, which was filled with corporate sponsors, many giving stuff away. Dave Winfield was there at a booth sponsored by the Major League Players Alumni Association, posing for photos with fans. He wasn’t allowed to sign autographs, which MLB rules say can only happen in the designated “Legends” area.

After the whole Reggie Jackson ball-pounding incident, I’ve limited my contact with Yankees. Winfield, of course, has serious Yankee taint, and I had to think before posing.

I ran through a brief mental checklist.

A Yankee? For sure.

Number retired by Yankees? No.

Yankee cap on his Hall-of-Fame plaque? No.

Milestone achievement while playing for Yanks? No.

Plus I had a nice experience with Winfield that I blogged about before. And he departed the Yanks on his own terms and even indirectly led to Steinbrenner getting suspended for a while.

I figured it was safe, and Dave indeed was a nice guy.

Me and Dave Winfield

Not 10 feet away stood another Hall of Famer, Phil Niekro. Phil was there raising awareness for deep vein thrombosis, better known as blod clots. Seems odd, I know.

Of course, Phil was another Yankee. And while not quite as sinister, he was a long-time Brave before that. Ran through the same checklist, with the only difference was that Phil did have a milestone achievement -- win No. 300 – in pinstripes.

Took another chance, and Phil was a nice guy, too, even shaking my hand a second time. “Read this stuff, guys,” he said, pointing to the deep vein thrombosis pamphlets. “It’s important.”

Me and Phil Niekro

Snapping photos with two Hall-of-Famers in the first 20 minutes is a good way to start the day, and I heard loud cheers from another area. Scrambling over, I saw none other than Alex Rodriguez in the baseball clinic area.

Another Yankee. What, was Carlos Beltran not available? ARod was supposed to be bestowing his baseball knowledge on a bunch of elementary school kids who were hitting off tees on a mock diamond. I noticed much of his bestowing consisted of “Good!” and “Nice,” as the kids flailed at the sponge balls.

It was nice to see ARod up-close, but I was in need of a serious Mets infusion. The official All-Star store was nearby, and I had plans. I’ve been waiting to buy the new batting practice cap. The sizes on these things are goofy, and I’d wanted to be able to try one on before purchasing, rather than ordering one through the mail.

I made it back to the Wall of Caps where every team and their assorted home, road and alternate caps were to be available. Locating the batting practice caps, I saw, Pirates, Mariners, Yankees, more stinking Yankees….and no fine orange-and-blue headware!

“Oh yeah, we must be out of them,” grumbled a clerk. Denied!

Things were not looking up, but I had a lot of fun scanning the exhibits on the Negro Leagues, the making of bats and gloves, seeing some of baseball’s trophies and other diversions.

More troublesome, the buzz throughout the day was about whether Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers was going to play in the All-Star Game.

Rogers, of course, is facing a 20-game suspension. I don’t get it. Stomping on a TV cameraman is only the second-biggest atrocity "The Gambler" has committed.

This is the guy who, while pitching for the Mets in the crucial Game Six of the 1999 National League Championship, started the 10th inning by serving up a lead-off double to weak-hitting Gerald “Ice” Williams, then walked the next three batters to hand the Braves a trip to the World Series. And I’m supposed to be upset because he kicked a cameraman?

But I digress.

Later, I sought to shake loose some of my aggression in the Home Run Derby activity, where a guy feeds a baseball into a pitching machine and you hit for distance. After a couple of misses, I got my timing down and even launched a couple spongeballs off the convention center wall, earning me a prize – a player pennant.

I was handed a pennant of Roger Clemens. Sweet!

Looking closer, it's Clemens depicted as a bat-tossing Yankee. Son of a ...!

The last activity was a video pitching cage. It’s like one of those speed pitch booths, but you throw at a video of a batter projected on slots. As the ball passes through, the machine records your speed. If you hit the strike zone, the video of the player swings and misses. If a ball, he steps out off the plate. You keep throwing until he either walks or strikes out.

You get to select the batter from a list that ranges from the Phillie Phanatic to Barry Bonds. I did this a couple of years ago against Mets-killer Chipper Jones, and it didn’t end well. OK, it ended well for Chipper, inflicting yet another wound on the Mets.

This time, I knew I had to battle a Yankee to reverse the karma of the day. The attendant asked who I wanted as I stepped to the plastic pitching rubber. JETER! I barked before he even finished.

The video image of the Smug One stepped to the plate, and I fired my first pitch. Beauty. Strike one. And I think the gun that measures pitch velocity is set on “flatter” because I don’t think I actually threw 62 mph.

Second pitch sailed high, a ball.

Third pitch nailed Jeter right in the video batting helmet. Not necessarily a bad thing. The attendant laughed. “You must me a Mets fan.” Darn right.

Fourth pitch was grooved down the middle, and the projected Jeter flailed. Sweet! One more strike and all those Mets defeats and mockery at the hands of Yankee fans would be avenged.

Fifth pitch sailed wide. Full count.

Flop sweat had kicked in. Not good, not good at all. As soon as the ball left my hand, I knew. Way high. I swear the video Jeter smirked as he walked toward first, probably advancing Chipper Jones to second base, having walked two years ago.

Beaten by the Yankees, again. They will break your heart. Every time.

Alas, I passed the Hall of Fame display on the way out. And there, shining like the Holy Grail was a game-used Tom Seaver jersey, nestled between treasured relics of Gaylord Perry and Mike Schmidt.

It was one of Tom’s Reds jerseys, but that was as close as I was going to get.

A Seaver jersey reminds us of all that is good in the world, that baseball is a glorious game and the Yankees will get what is coming to them.

Eventually.

Busch Stadium Memories (Part One): Doc Gooden and Lots of Ice Water

Julie, Tony and me at Busch Stadium in 1993.

It used to get so hot on the Busch Stadium artificial turf that players would run off the field after each inning and jump — spikes and all — into tubs of ice water kept in the dugout.

I got this from a pretty good source: former Cardinals outfielder Bernard Gilkey.

Busch, despite the apparent discomfort for players in the humid Missouri summers, is one of my favorite places to see a game. I was sad when I realized this was the final year for the yard.

It’s certainly true that Busch is a multi-purpose ash tray along the lines of Three Rivers, Riverfront and the Vet, all of whom have preceded it in being demolished. But the little arches along the top made it a little different, and adding natural grass a few years back was a tremendous step forward — and I presume a step cooler, too for the players. Plus, Cardinal fans are among the best in all of baseball and you can’t help but get swept up in the group hug that is a game at Busch.

I’ve been able to attend six games at Busch over the years. Here are some of my favorite memories:

April 24, 1985: Cardinals 5, Mets 1

I was getting pretty homesick toward the end of my first year at University of Missouri, and my passion for the Mets was not a well-concealed secret.

So when a friend from the dorm suggested I join him for a sprint to St. Louis to see the Cards play the Mets, I jumped at the chance even though it meant skipping out on my News 105 class -- the boot camp of journalism school. It was the first time I’d seen the Mets as a visiting team.

This was at the height of the Cardinals-Mets rivalry, and the pitching match-up couldn’t beat. Dwight Gooden was early in his Cy Young Award season, and Jaoquin Andujar was the Cards’ ace.

Gooden lost just four games all season, and I saw two of them in person. This was one. He didn’t pitch poorly, giving up two runs on four hits in seven innings. But the Mets couldn’t manage more than a run off Andujar.

The Cards, of course, went on to choke away the World Series to the cross-state rival Royals that season, with Vince Coleman getting run over by the Busch Stadium tarp machine and Andujar melting down in Game Seven.

Andujar – who was never the same after that season – didn’t fully grasp English, as indicated in his famous baseball quote. “There's one word in America that says it all and that one word is ‘You never know.’”

The News 105 professor also happened to the School of Journalism’s assistant dean, and he was curious why I missed class.

“Mets were playing the Cardinals, Gooden vs. Andujar,” I pleaded. Of course he'd understand.

His stone-faced response: “Interesting. Not a valid excuse, but interesting.”

July 10, 1993: Cardinals 9, Rockies 3

My editors at The Flint Journal knew of my love for all things St. Louis and sent me to write a travel story about the city. Armed with an expense account, my wife and I caught up with my buddy Tony and his wife for a weekend of fun – all in the name of research, of course.

Tony, a man of remarkable patience, survived being my roommate at Missouri, and we’ve been close since.

Naturally, a game at Busch Stadium was on our list of things to see, and the Rockies, in their inaugural year, were in town. Even more exciting, we found out that the Cardinals offered stadium tours.

This was too good to pass up. We were not allowed in the clubhouse – there was a game that night, after all -- but we got some behind-the-scenes peeks of the press box and other areas.

The highlight, by far, was going out on the field and hanging out in the dugout. The artificial turf was indeed like fuzzy concrete with very little bounce. That didn’t stop us from doing sweet Ozzie Smith flips. Well, more like Tony holding my feet while I did something resembling a handstand for a photo. But properly cropped, me and Ozzie are one and the same!

After exploring the field, the tour took us into the Cardinals museum, which has since moved across the street. The Cards have a pretty rich history, and it was all displayed well. Much to our glee, we found that on some Saturday afternoons, a Cardinals player is in the museum to meet fans.

And there, as if he was one of the exhibits, was outfielder Bernard Gilkey. There wasn’t a big crowd that day, so we had plenty of time to chat.

This was a surprise, so I wasn’t prepared with a ball for Bernard to sign. I offered the bill of my Cards home cap as he gave us the inside scoop about the turf, and that the temperature on the field sometimes reached 110 degrees, hence the ice water.

We returned later for the game, a Cardinals rout over the expansion Rockies. Mark Whiten and Brian Jordan supplied much of the damage, hitting three- and two-run jacks.

I've had some other adventures in Busch, but we'll save those for later.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Reggie Jackson, Punk

Reggie's signature on the Hall of Fame ball, and Willie Mays, too.


It’s my fault. I accept all the blame. I trusted a Yankee.

To be fair, Reggie Jackson had two strikes against him even before he picked up the famed Hall of Fame ball.

His two-run blast in Game Seven of the 1973 World Series crushed the Mets’ bid for a championship. Then he became Mr. Yankee, forcing all of us to have to endure endless stories about those three home runs in the 1977 series against the Dodgers.

But Reggie’s actions at a 1989 baseball card show in New Haven, Conn., were shameful -- even by Yankee standards.

My Hall of Fame ball is a prized baseball possession, second perhaps only to my autograph-filled Mets history book.

Autographs were fairly inexpensive then. Card shows were just starting to pop up as the hobby was taking off. I jumped at chance to meet any Hall-of-Famer who passed through the area and thought it would be fun to have them all sign the same ball.

It’s been signed by Tom Seaver, Willie Mays, Stan Musial, Bob Feller, Duke Snider, Harmon Killebrew, Whitey Ford, Monte Irvin and Johnny Mize.

Sometimes I had to think long and hard about whom would gain entry. Some of the recently retired players were making the rounds and I wanted to limit the ball only to guys who would eventually be enshrined in Cooperstown.

Seaver was a no-brainer, of course. But I wasn’t sure about Steve Garvey, so he didn’t get to sign the ball. I was on the fence about Dave Winfield. He was still a ways from getting his 3,000th hit at the time and didn’t ask him to sign, a mistake in hindsight.

I had no doubts about Pete Rose — did any of us? He remains the only person on the ball who isn’t in the Hall of Fame. Pete signed while he was still managing the Reds, and I remember there two televisions showing football games near the table where he was applying his signature to the parade of balls, photos and bats, which I thought it was odd at the time.

Reggie was appearing at a show where several 1980s Mets were signing, and I thought it would be fine to add another Hall-of-Famer to the ball. He wasn’t enshrined yet, but a safe choice.

And as with the book, I like to shake hands with the player and maybe ask a question or two. Several of the players commented on the ball, treating it respectfully and turning it around to see the other signatures.

It was near the end of Reggie’s time to sign, and the line wasn’t very long as I approached.

I handed Reggie my ball and extended my hand for him to shake. He barely looked up as is signed and refused to shake my hand, leaving it hanging there.

Then Reggie palmed my prized ball and started banging it -- banging it! -- on the table.

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” he said, thumping the ball three times, then rolling it down the table. I had to move quickly to catch the ball before it rolled off the side and on to the floor.

I was absolutely stunned. “What a jerk!” I said to no one in particular.

I realize that Reggie was under no obligation to shake my hand, answer a silly question or even make eye contact. I paid for a signature, and that’s what I got.

But to take my prized ball, bang it on the table and roll it away was just horrible.

But I learned a valuable lesson that day. Never, ever trust a Yankee.

Let Me Tell You About Michael

I’m blessed to have two cousins named Michael. I’m very proud of both of them.

One is a couple years younger than me and is one of New York’s Finest. The other was an OB-GYN practicing in California near Sacramento. We lost him in May in an accidental drowning while he was training for a triathlon. He was 42, married with a 10-year-old son.

Michael, and his twin brother, Tim, are a year older than me. Tom was born a year before his brothers. Together we were the oldest kids of the next generation. As a kid I looked up to the three of them more than anyone — at least anyone not wearing a 41 on a Mets uniform.

Mike — like his brothers — was smart, funny, athletic and did all the coolest things. The highlight of the family holiday gatherings was when Timmy, Tommy and Michael arrived.

But our extended family spread out around the country through the years, as families do. I probably haven’t seen him in 15 years. We exchanged cards and photos at Christmas, and I’d hear about him through my mom and my aunt. It was no surprise that he went on to become a doctor, like his twin. Tom is a computer expert and also is very successful.

I don’t know how many times I thought I should get their e-mail addresses and see how they were doing. I never got to it, always thought there would be time.

So it hit hard when my wife called on my cell phone as I drove back from a Board of Education meeting to break the news. And I was struck that it was hard for me to draw upon a first-hand memory from recent years. I have tons of memories from when we were kids. But I let time pass and the distance grow. I didn’t know if he was like the person I remembered.

The Sacramento Bee has an online guest book linked to obituaries, and I read some of the thoughts expressed by Michael’s patients.

A patient from El Dorado Hills, Calif.: "I was 24 weeks pregnant with twins and having contractions. He put me on bed rest and said he was going to New York but would be back in a few days and then he would see me. I loved him, and knew that he had to be my doctor. Two days later, at 25 weeks, I delivered my boys, Henry, who lived 6 hours, and Zachary who is now 3 years old. When he came back and found out, he immediately came to the hospital and sat with my husband and I while our 1-pound, 8-ounce little boy underwent heart surgery. He cried with us over our loss and was a rock for us. He would come in every couple of weeks to hold our son. He helped us come to the decision to try again and it is because of his compassion, patience and support that we have our daughter, Phoebe, who he delivered after a long day in surgery so that he could be there for the birth and to reassure me. He was an amazing man, father, husband and doctor."

A patient from Rocklin, Calif.: "Dr. Wild was my OB through 2 difficult pregnancies. The first ended at 20 weeks when we discovered there was no heartbeat. I am so grateful that Dr. Wild was my doctor during this time. He was kind and compassionate and helped both my husband and I through one of the roughest times of our lives. Dr. Wild was also there for my next pregnancy which was hard, having had a previous loss. He never made me feel bad for being nervous, in fact he made sure he did everything he could for me. With his help, I was lucky enough to give birth to a beautiful baby boy in January 2004."

A patient from Sacramento: "I made the appointment and got to meet a doctor I will never forget. During my first few weeks of being pregnant, we had a bit of a scare and I needed to be seen right away, Dr. Wild was there to comfort me and put my mind at ease. He was always so kind and caring, his bedside manner was the best. We always had questions and he always had answers for us, he took extra time to sit with us and make sure we felt assured before we left our appointments. He always remembered his patients and always made you feel welcome when you came to see him. He was such a great doctor, a great man and a true friend."

Another patient from Sacramento: "I'll never forget when he walked into the room to be examined or the first time. The look on my face. I jokingly said to him I always wanted my OB GYN doctors to be old, gray and wear glasses. He had a great laugh over that. I had a lot of complications and he would always call me back directly at home to let me know how all of my test results came out and what we were going to do next."

These are from people who knew about the online guest book and felt comfortable writing. I suspect there are many, many more with similar tales of Michael's warmth, care and skill.

None of these heart-felt stories surprised me. As I read them, I’d alternate between getting choked up and smiling.

That’s the Michael I remembered. That’s exactly the kind of person I expected him to be.

One Man's (Yankee-free) All-Star Ballot

I've read some of the All-Star Game ballot tallies that Major League Baseball updates once a week. Frankly, I'm horrified. Some people are even voting for Yankees.

I can no longer sit by and watch, lest we are all forced to endure the likes of Hideki Matsui patrolling left field in Detroit. It’s time for someone to step up and do the right thing in these waning weeks of voting. And since Bud Selig insists on making this game count, we have to make sure ballots are filled out properly. It's not going to be my fault if the Mets don't have the home-field advantage in the World Series.

I’m not saying there shouldn’t be any Yankees on the 30-man roster. MLB rules state that they get a team representative, just like the Devil Rays. I suggest reliever Tanyon Sturtze, since he’s played for both of them, and we can cover two bad teams in one shot. And he’s no worse than some of the Yankees who Joe Torre filled the roster with.

Feel free to print this for future reference when casting those 25-votes per e-mail address at MLB.com.

NATIONAL LEAGUE

First Base: Doug Mientkiewicz, Mets

The debate over the Cardinals’ Albert Pujols and Cubs’ Derek Lee is getting rough. National League fan is being pitted against National League fan, and it’s a sad thing to watch. Enough, I say. End all the fighting and pick a compromise candidate we can all embrace. That would be the person in third place in the balloting so far. Enter Doug Mientkiewicz. Sure, he's been in a bit of a slump this season. But Doug has served his country admirably by winning the Olympic gold medal. And he played a role in the biggest Yankee embarrassment ever -- and has the game ball to prove it. That alone earns him a trip to Detroit.
Second Base: Kaz Matsui, Mets

You weren't really going to vote for Jeff Kent, were you? C'mon, this guy thinks were stupid enough to believe he missed a quarter of a season healing from wounds suffered washing his truck. Oh, Kaz has a couple issues to resolve. But we can overlook those for now. Actually, this is for Kaz's own good. He's been booed at Shea, and it apparently has shaken him up a little. But what kind of reception do you think a Japanese import is going to get in Detroit? The booing he gets there will be so intense that he'll come back to Shea and think the fans are whispering sweet nothings!

Shortstop: Jose Reyes, Mets

Jose gets some grief for having more triples than walks. A walk gets you to first base. A triple gets you to third. I guess the guy knows what he’s doing. And the vast green spaces of Comerica Park were designed for triples. Not that the Tigers have figured this out.
Third Base: David Wright, Mets

Scott Rolen's a great player. But I just can't defend voting for him while he's missed big chunks of the season due to injuries. Everybody says Wright is the next Scott Rolen. So if Rolen's hurt, you are morally bound to send the next best thing.
Catcher: Mike Piazza, Mets

Why? Because he's Mike Freaking Piazza, he and he goes straight from Shea to Cooperstown. When you show me a kid with a Paul LoDuca poster on his bedroom wall, then you can vote for someone other than Piazza. And we all want to listen to another round of Piazza-Clemens battery irony stories if LaRussa gets Clemens into the game. Of course, after Roger spotted the AL 6 runs in the first inning of last year's debacle, I hope Clemens doesn’t see any action. Clearly all his years in the AL and last year’s apparently throwing of the game revealed that he is still and American Leaguer at heart. Here’s a plan. Let Clemens come out for the foul line for his introduction, then have two security goons follow him back to the bullpen and duct-tape his butt to the bullpen bench for the duration of the evening.

Outfield: Carlos Beltran, Mets; Mike Cameron, Mets; Cliff Floyd, Mets

Carlos Beltran is the best player on the planet. Why else would we be paying him $119 million? And Mike Cameron is the best center-fielder ever. I know this because the Mets pretty much told us so when they signed him last year. And we already know what happens when Cliff Floyd gets left off the All-Star team. Remember that tiff with Bobby Valentine in 2001 that dominated game coverage in Seattle? And Cliff’s been using Yankees pitchers for batting practice lately.

Besides, an all-Mets outfield would drive Mets-haters like Bob Klapisch and Tom Verducci straight over the edge, sending both of them to curl up in the fetal position behind the Gehrig monument in Yankee Stadium. That will spare us another round of Yankee apologist columns about how the Orioles and Red Sox have unfair advantages or that the “dirt tenders” in the Boston bullpen are provoking poor Yankee pitchers to violence.

Pitcher: Pedro Martinez, Mets

I realize we can't vote for pitchers. But this just needs to be said. We already know Clemens is not allowed to start. And Dontrelle Willis is a kid, and Willie Randolph made it clear that kids have to pay their dues. D-Train can come in for the third inning. That leaves Pedro, who has been outstanding and gets bonus points for always wearing the pinstriped home uniform.

AMERICAN LEAGUE

First Base: Mark Tiexeira, Rangers

If Tino Martinez starts this game, it will be a national embarrassment. Tiexeira's a stud, and his name is almost has hard to spell as Mientkiewicz.

Second Base: Brian Roberts, Orioles.

Tough call here. Alfonso Soriano won the MVP of last year's game. We want the NL to win, so let's not give "So" another shot. Plus, he's still got the stench of Yankee taint all over him. A couple more seasons and we might forgive him for that time in the Bronx.

Shortstop: Migel Tejada, Orioles

Well thre's no freaking way I can vote for that punk Derek Jeter. Tejada's got an MVP that he quasi-deserved and he's "The Man" on the team keeping the Yanks out of first place. Let's give him this little confidence boost so he keeps it up.

Third Base: Hank Blalock, Rangers

Some of you were actually voting for Alex Rodriguez. Do you really think it's safe to give him an opportunity to slap Doug Mienkiewicz around on the basepaths they way ARod slapped Bronson Arroyo in the playoffs last year? What was he doing, challenging him to a duel? It's just best if we avoid the whole situation and put that nice Hank Blalock there.

Catcher: Jason Varitek Red Sox

Wow, this is tough. Both Pudge and Varitek played big roles in embarrassing the Yankees. Pudge did it with the Marlins in 2003 and Varitek with the Red Sox last year. Pudge was in the World Series, and Varitek made them historically choke away a 3-0 series lead. Pudge has the famous gun for an arm, and I want Jose Reyes to run bases without fear of getting caught. Must vote defensively here and give Varitek the love.

DH: Frank Thomas, White Sox

Frank threw me a game ball once. That earns a lifetime vote. And the White Sox are in first place.

Outfield: Ichiro Suzuki, Mariners; Manny Ramirez, Red Sox; Vlad Guerrero, Angels

After watching Bernie Williams in the Mets series this weekend, the temptation is to put him out there and tell the NL sluggers to hit cans o' corn to center all game. But there's no way I can vote for a Yankee, even the carcass of one, which is about what Bernie is these days. Ichiro's going to get elected anyway, so we might as well jump on the bandwagon. Same with Vlad. And Manny's just a freak, a hitting savant.

There you go! Get busy. And let’s wish Tanyon Sturtze well.

A Rare Sight in the Bronx

Jim Abbott pitching for the Angels.

Only twice have I witnessed visiting players get a standing ovation at Yankee Stadium.

And one of those times shouldn’t count. It was August 4, 1985, the day Tom Seaver won his 300th game, and we Mets fans pretty much took over the Yankees’ home that day.

But the other time was May 24, 1989, coming when a rookie pitcher was doing something as ordinary as making warm-up tosses.

Jim Abbott was already pretty famous. He was on the mound when the United States won the Olympic gold medal in 1988, was drafted in the first round by the California Angels and went straight to the major leagues.

What amazed a lot of people was that Abbott was born without a right hand.

The handicap didn’t seem to hold him back at all. He pitched and was the quarterback at Flint Central High and played for the University of Michigan’s baseball team. There were stories about how an opposing college team tried to take advantage of him, sending the first four batters to the plate bunting. The team changed its strategy after Abbott fielded each attempt cleanly.

What amazed me was how gracefully Abbott would catch the ball and get ready to pitch.

He would wear a left-hander’s glove, catch the ball, tuck the glove under his arm, take the ball out and place the palm of his glove over the stump at the end of his right wrist. After throwing the ball he’d quickly slip his left hand back into the glove to be ready to catch the return throw.

Abbott could complete the cycle so smoothly and quickly that it looked like he wasn’t even thinking about it. It was completely natural to him.

So I was excited when the Angels rolled into town in 1989 – a month and a half into Abbott’s rookie season – and that he would pitch in the series. This was well before the Yankee dynasty. Don Mattingly and Rickey Henderson were in the game, but they were surrounded by people like Ken Phelps, Bob Geren and Mike Pagliarulo.

I scammed seats in the lower level of the first base side so I could get a good view. There was polite applause for Abbott when the line-ups were introduced. But I was surprised by what happened when the Angels took the field in the bottom of the first.

There was quiet as he walked to the mound, at least as quiet as ballparks get. Then Abbott started taking warm-up pitches, making the complicated maneuvers with the glove.

It started with more polite applause, and it started to swell with each throw, building and building. Finally, everyone in the stadium was on their feet cheering. It was really emotional. And all he was doing was throwing warm-up pitches.

I think it was a sign of respect. This guy had a handicap, and there he is standing on the mound in what is perhaps the most famous ballpark in the world. It wasn’t an Eddie Gaedel-like stunt. Abbott earned his way.

But keep in mind, this was the Bronx. As the applause died down, I remember a guy a couple rows ahead of me saying, “All right, you got your applause. Now let’s kick his ass.”

If there was any butt-kicking that day, it was done by the Angels, who beat the Yanks 11-4, making it a good day all around. Abbott got the win, pitching 5 and a third innings allowing three runs on 10 hits.

Abbott, of course, got another ovation from Yankee fans when he pitched for them several years later and threw a fantastic no-hitter, the high point of his 10-year career in the majors.

Jim Abbott pitched for the Yankees, but we like him anyway.

A year after I saw Abbott pitch I moved to Michigan to work for the Flint Journal, and our coed softball used to practice at Central High, where Abbott once pitched. Occasionally I’d stand on the mound, look around and think of that day in Yankee Stadium.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Tom Seaver

One of my favorite possessions is a book, “The New York Mets — The First Quarter Century.”

It’s not particularly well-written, though the photos are nice. It was a Christmas gift from parents in 1986, which makes it special in and of itself.

But the book as been my companion to dozens of ballgames and card shows. Every time I meet anyone connected with the Mets — or might potentially meet anyone connected with the Mets — I ask them to sign the book.

There are easily more than 150 autographs in there by now, from owner Fred Wilpon to former back-up catcher Brent Mayne, Hall-of-Famers to guys up for a cup of coffee.

Don’t worry, I’m not one of those freaky autograph stalkers. I usually get signatures at card shows or spring training, were everyone is relaxed and doesn’t mind signing.

I like to shake hands with people after they sign, maybe ask a question or two. That way, the book is a collection of experiences, not just autographs.

And some of experiences are true adventures. Like the first one: Tom Seaver.

The Franchise was my baseball hero. Actually, it might not be accurate to put that in the past tense. Most of my basement baseball shrine is dedicated to chronicling his career. OK, so I wear No. 41 on my softball jersey. And my first cat’s middle name was Seaver. And the kids’ middle name...well, my wife drew the line somewhere.

But I’d never met the man in person until a baseball card show in Trumbull, Conn., in 1987.

I stood in line with three things I wanted Tom to sign: the book, a baseball and my ticket stub from win No. 300. My wife held our camera in case Tom wouldn’t mind posing for a snapshot.

And as I got closer, I realized was absolutely terrified.

I’d met ballplayers before. But this was Tom. Much of my childhood was spent trying to look like him and be like him. I’m still scarred from June 15, 1977, when he was traded to the Reds.

What if, when we got up to him, he was a jerk? A lifetime of hero worship wasted.

So I was probably shaking when it was my turn to approach the table.

“Hi, Tom,” I said, holding out the ball and laying the book in front of him. “Could you write: 'To Dave?'”

“Hello,” he said in a warm, friendly tone.

“I’ve been a fan since I was.....” and I just couldn’t get the words out, but motioned my hand about waist high.

Seaver smiled. “When was that, last week?”

I handed him the ticket stub.

“That was a good game. I brought my whole family.”

“It was a good game,” Seaver said, and wrote his name and “#300” on the stub.

Then I got really bold.

“Could you pose for a picture?”

“Sure! Come around here.”

Seaver motioned for the assistant to get out of his seat and let me sit next to him. He put his arm on my shoulder and leaned close.

“How’s this?”

“Awesome!” I said as my wife took the photo.

I probably thanked him a million times as I collected my stuff and walked off , very grateful -- and relieved -- that he was so nice.

We dropped the film off on the way home to be developed.

Remember the scene in the “Princess Bride,” when Prince Humperdink cranks up that life-sucking machine and Wesley makes that mournful wail that is heard throughout the kingdom?

“That is the sound of ultimate suffering,” Inigo tells Fezzig.

I’m pretty sure I made that sound when we picked up the photos. The camera malfunctioned.

I’m over it now.

I’ve since met Seaver two other times. Once at another card show in Connecticut, and another a couple years ago at the huge sports collectors’ convention in Chicago.

I didn’t get anything signed the last time — prices are way out of control now — but I had my son with me. The employees allowed me to walk up and shake Tom’s hand and introduce him to Andrew.

I didn’t ask to take a photo. Not going there again.

Mayhem in Miami -- and the Marlins, too

If you think Michael Jackson got one over on the legal system, let me tell you about a trial I once covered.

This case involved exotic locales, courtroom chaos — and baseball, too. Pretty much a trifecta of glory for this reporter.

The Flint Community Schools thought they were getting rid of a problem when they allowed a music teacher to quietly resign after being accused of molesting students in 1987. This saved the district from getting involved in messy teacher tenure hearings and airing dirty laundry.

Unfortunately, the teacher — I’ll avoid using names here — moved to Miami, got a job in a school there and allegedly picked up right where he left off.

This time, the girls involved thought they would be better off going to the police instead of their school administrators.The teacher was charged with multiple felonies, with a 1997 trial in Dade County.

Normally the Flint Journal would not send a reporter on the road to cover such a thing. But there were a number of Flint school people on the witness list, and I could save the paper money by crashing with my folks, who live about two hours north.

It was pretty nasty stuff. The guy married one of his former students. And several young women took the stand, each with a similar story. They either didn’t have a father, or had one that was too busy to spend too much time home. The teacher would start to build up trust with the girl and her family, become sort of a surrogate father and before too long the molestation would start.

Seemed like a pretty iron-clad case to these untrained eyes. The teacher was allegedly having and affair with not only a student, but her mother, too. Prosecutors broke out a tape of a telephone conversation between the teacher and one of the girls, pledging his love and announcing his plans to marry her. One of the Flint witnesses grew up to become a prosecutor and sounded pretty credible to me.

The weekend break came as things were wrapping up. I always try to work a baseball adventure into every road trip — and the first week in February is one of the few times of the year where there is no baseball in Florida.

Luckily, the Florida Marlins came through in the clutch with their annual winter fanfest.The Fish are an enigma because they can be awesome to their fans and horrible, too. But this fanfest was pretty sweet.

The White Sox held these functions in hotel ballrooms, and the Tigers in the Joe Louis Arena. But cold weather isn’t an issue in Miami, so the Marlins were able to conduct the festivities at Joe Robbie Stadium.

There were booths lining the outside concourses with all sorts of freebies, activities and discounted goodies. I picked up a complete set of programs from the team’s first season and a bat autographed by former manager Rene Lachemann. The team offered tours of the clubhouse and dugouts and even let fans see Jeff Conine's All-Star Game trophy . Former player Warren Cromartie broadcasting a radio show and greeting fans.

The areapas alone made the trip worthwhile. Areapas are a Cuban treat made from two slices of sweet cornbread grilled with cheese. Apparently they’re considered borderline carnival food, like elephant ears, which is why they were sold from a cart at a fanfest. But I’m hooked.

It was cool to be in Miami, which seems like a different country because virtually everyone speaks Spanish. I thought this was a good time to try my limited abilities. The guy selling hot dogs from the cart in outside the courthouse did not seem impressed.

One of the Miami Herald reporters took me out to lunch in a real Cuban restaurant in Little Havana. After the incident with the hot dog vender, I let Herald reporter order for me.

Back to the trial.

The sides presented their closing arguments, with the prosecutors playing the tape again. The public defender representing the teacher noted that the victims had filed a civil suit. He repeated two phrases over and over: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," and "Show me the money!"

Now, I haven’t covered a lot of trials. And I know these guys didn’t have a lot to work with. But I’m thinking there are few successful legal defenses built upon quotes from "Jerry Maguire" and pithy phrases.

At first I wondered if the jury would even have to leave the box to break out with the verdict. I studied the six people — apparently that’s the number for some Florida trials — during the proceedings. There was one stern-looking woman who barely moved as she watched intently. One guy seemed odd, wearing shorts and carrying his lunch in a metal lunch box that he kept in his lap the entire time. And there was one person who I’m pretty sure slept through the whole thing.

No one could figure out what was taking so long, but I used the down time to get to know some people in the court. I’d been speaking to the lawyers on both sides on the phone for a couple weeks, so it was nice to let them connect my voice and face. They were all from New York, so we had a lot to talk about. The judge even called me into her chambers to chat and asked me to send her some of the Michigan newspapers. "I can’t imagine what they’re talking about in there," she said of the jury. "There isn’t really a lot to decide."

Finally, late in the morning of the second day, the jury came back. The court was packed with family members of the victims and some of the teacher’s family and friends. It was very quiet, and very tense. Then the clerk read the verdict: "Not guilty."

First there was stunned silence, like people couldn’t believe what was happening. Then all heck broke out.

Shrieks, screams, sobs. One of the fathers yelled "Burn in hell!" A mother yelled to one of the public defenders — who was seven months pregnant — that she hoped the lawyer’s child gets a teacher like the accused. Several of the girls collapsed in tears. The judge was hammering her gavel like Marky Ramone beats his snare drum.

I knew it would be a while before the victims families could compose themselves enough to talk to me, so I walked up to the defense table for a quote."You have to give me a couple minutes, Dave," the lead defender said. "We have statement here for a guilty verdict. We didn’t even write one for not guilty."

Frank Thomas and the Magical, Misty Night at Tiger Stadium

Tim "Rock" Raines and Frank

Will and I were huge Frank Thomas fans even before I came into possession of the glorious sphere now known as "The Frank Ball."

The slugger came onto the scene just around the time both of us had moved to Flint. And we believed the tall first-baseman with the mega-watt smile would be the person to finally lead the moribund White Sox to better things.

We both had the life-sized poster of Frank — his last name was unnecessary by now — gracing our homes and collected his cards.

But actual contact with our hero was elusive.

We were on the field before the final game at Comiskey Park, rubbing elbows with Sox catcher Ron Karkovice and reliever Scott Radinsky, but Frank was nowhere to be found.

A year later we waited on a long cattle-chute autograph line at the White Sox Winterfest, snaking back and forth while Frank signed, smiled and posed with other fans — only to have the slugger heart-breakingly replaced with other signers as we inched closer. Minnie Minoso and then-manager Gene LaMont are nice guys, but we wanted Frank.

And at one Tigers-Sox game, an early afternoon shower washed out batting practice, leaving players lots of time to sign autographs. Two-thirds of the Sox signed a ball for me — but Frank remained in the clubhouse.

So when the White Sox were in Detroit for a series with the Tigers in early 1992, we weren’t discouraged by the showers that fell throughout the day.

In fact, we liked going to Tiger Stadium in such conditions. The vast majority of the lower deck is covered, and the rain kept a lot of people home, especially early in the season. We’d buy the cheapest tickets and sit pretty much wherever we wanted.

My favorite spot was section 224, right behind the visitors’ dugout on the first-base side and with easy access to a concession stand. That night Will and I were joined by friends John and Emily — my wife wanted no part of damp, cold nights at the ballpark.

There was a miserable drizzle that fell through most of the night, light enough to keep playing and wet enough to either send people home early or keep under cover. We sat toward the back of the section, bundled up and well under the overhang.

I wore a 1980s-era Sox cap — with a purpose, of course.

The new, black cap with the Old English lettering was all the rage, even with people who didn’t follow baseball. I wanted to show I was an actual Sox fan — such things are important.

I’ve followed the team as a secondary favorite since Tom Seaver played for them from 1984 to 1986, and had to stand out from the bandwagon-jumping cap-buyers. The tri-color 1980s cap, with the futuristic S-O-X, is so brutally ugly that only a real fan would be caught with such a thing. Keep in mind, this was long before the retro craze that made all things ugly popular again.

By later in the game, the drizzle diminished into more of a mist and there was probably less than a thousand people in the stands. Emily and I decided to move down to the row of seats directly behind the Sox dugout during the eighth inning. The orange-capped Tiger Stadium ushers had long-since lost interest in chasing seat-hoppers.

Frank was playing first base, so we were able to get a close look. After the inning ended Frank walked back toward the dugout and glanced up. We weren’t hard to see since all the other seats were empty. That, and we were screaming his name.

I think Frank heard us.

I think people in the left field stands probably heard us.

He looked up, flashed the mega-watt grin.

We had made eye-contact with Frank. Yes!

We were not leaving those seats.

The Tigers went meekly in the bottom of the ninth. Out No. 3 was a routine grounder to short with an easy throw to our man Frank at first. Game over.

Walking back to the dugout, Frank looked up, making eye contact a second time. Yes!

Then the unthinkable happened.

As he got closer, Frank took the gameball from his glove. "HEY!" he said in my direction, then tossed the ball — a soft arc through the mist to my outstretched left hand.

It took a nano-second for the gloriousness of the moment to sink in. Frank Thomas, the elusive Frank Thomas, had just given me a ball that ended a Major League game.

I remember yelling "Thanks, Frank!" and some guy saying "Hey, can I have that?" As if.

I’d once snagged a foul ball at a New Britain Red Sox game, and had a batting practice ball from the Rochester Red Wings from when I was on the field for an interview. Valued treasures, to be sure. But this one was special.

Frank’s career with the Sox has had ups and downs. He was once a sure-thing for Cooperstown, now he’s more of a borderline candidate. I think he’ll get in, but I’m nothing if not loyal. The game ball is enshrined in plastic with a card from that year, an permanent exhibit in the baseball room of what has come to be known as the "magical, misty night at Tiger Stadium."

The Major-Leaguer, the Actor and the Truth

He was getting the knuckler!

Will and I were so into Wiffle Ball that we carried a ball and bat in our trunks at all times. You never know when you’ll come across a great place for a game.

We had one of those moments in Chicago in 1990. We were excited to be in town to cover the historic final game at Comiskey Park and arrived the day before because we snagged tickets for the final night game as well.

With some time on our hands before the game, we headed to Wrigley Field to check out the souvenir shops. To our great glee, we discovered a perfect strike zone painted on stadium wall along Waveland Avenue.
Will delivers to the alleged Major-Leaguer.

We were happily breaking off curves like Greg Maddux from the center of the street when two guys came up to us, amazed that we would be playing Wiffle Ball alongside Wrigley Field.

They wanted to play, and when we hesitated they tried to impress us. One was tall and stocky, and claimed to have a cup of coffee with the 1987 World Champion Minnesota Twins, even flashed what appeared to be a championship ring. The other was slender and dark, and claimed to be an actor with a role in "Bull Durham."

Reporters are skeptical by nature, of course.

I didn’t recognize the name of the guy who claimed to be a former Twin. I had a pretty good knowledge of major leaguers since baseball card companies at the time issued extensive sets that included just about every player in the bigs as well as even minor prospects from the minors.
I'm taking this guy deep!

And Will is a walking baseball encyclopedia. In fact, if there was a contradiction between Will and the official baseball encyclopedia, I’d believe Will. And he didn’t recognize the name, either.

The guy did have a 1987 Twins ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a player. Teams give rings to a lot of employees.

The other guy claimed to be an infielder in "Bull Durham," one of the guys on the mound when one of Nuke’s eyelids is clogged, Jose needs a live chicken to sacrifice and no one knows what to get Jimmy and Millie for their wedding. "Candle sticks," of course, was coach Larry Hockett’s answer.

The guy had the lines down pat, and we didn’t have any photos from the movie in hand for comparison purposes.

This was a little icky. It seemed like the kind of lines guys would be spouting trying to pick up girls over a bottle of Bud at the Cubby Bear after the game.

We told them we were in town for the final Comiskey games — a very big deal, the hottest ticket in town — and they didn’t seem to believe us, either.
No roof-top spectators for our big game.

Will and I exchanged some skeptical glances. It’s not like we could openly debate this in front of them. Lacking proof, we decided to let them play. We even took some photos — just in case they were legit. Although I must say the alleged Major-Leaguer couldn’t hit my nasty Wiffle knuckleball, making his claim that much more dubious. Note the photo, the knuckler is on the way!

After playing for a while, the guys moved on, presumably to hoist those brews at the Cubby Bear.

"What do you think, were they telling the truth?" I asked Will.

"Who knows," Will replied. "They may be lying. But we know for sure that we really are going to the final game at Comiskey!"