Just Hand Over the Autograph, and Nobody Gets Hurt

July 6th, 2008

July 06, 2008 — I’m going to make some folks really mad at me for saying this. . .

No matter how many times I hear people griping about players not giving autographs, I still don’t get it. In fact, I find this hard-held belief that players are obligated to anoint our souvenirs to be one of the most puzzling aspects of the fan-player relationship.

I should clarify a bit. It’s not the ritual of collecting and seeking autographs that troubles me. Collecting seems like fun—whether it be stamps, beanie babies, coins, baseball cards, pins, shot glasses, etc. (I’m afraid the only thing I seem to collect with regularity is dustballs. Martha Stewart, I ain’t.) It delivers the “thrill of the chase” without the messy gutting and skinning aspect of more literal versions of trophy hunting. I also understand how this familiar and longstanding custom allows us to find commonality with an otherwise complete stranger. Nor am I making fun of kids (and adults) who are intimidated upon meeting these larger-than-life athlete/heroes in their dazzling uniforms. You have to start a conversation somewhere, right?

H*ll, I’ll readily admit to shamelessly employing similar social-bonding tactics in order to hawk my own services—I’ll talk to a potential client about movies, dogs, Thai food, opera, sports. Anything to get the conversation warmed up for the sales pitch. (Being self-employed will do that to a gal.)

All of this I can understand. What I don’t understand is why people shouldn’t be permitted to opt-out of social interaction. A ballplayer who refuses to engage with fans is very likely to hear in the next breath, “Hey, you bum, you’d be nothing without people like us showing up to watch you play. The least you could do is sign my stuff you [appropriate-to-position, failure-to-perform descriptor, or failing creative inspiration a simple f-bomb] prima dona.”

Um, gee . . .as a writer I get paid when someone asks me to write stuff down. Despite never even having been scouted, much less drafted, I’m certainly not expected to start giving it away for free. (Which makes one wonder about the sanity of blogging. Oh well, some things you do for love. ) Or how about this example? Someone shows up at the door wanting my priceless Joanne Hancock on a petition. Should I refuse, I’m 99-percent positive they will thank me very politely for taking up my time, AND LEAVE.

Years ago I spent some time with a young man shortly after he won a very big sporting event. He said it was weird. His whole life got turned upside down because of one win. His name scribbled on a piece of paper had suddenly become a thing of priceless value. In exchange for his newly acquired, god-like status, he was required to sprinkle the rest of us with occasional scraps of these sacred texts. It was, he said, awkward to say the least.

Particularly amusing to me (since I wasn’t the target of such two-edged attention) was his description of fans actually getting angry because he wouldn’t (or sometimes couldn’t) give them what they wanted. It reminded me of a two-year old shrieking because she really wants ice cream for dinner instead of fish sticks and carrots.

Worse yet would be the behavior of people who didn’t actually know what he’d accomplished. To these fans, he didn’t even have a name. He became THAT GUY. As in, who’s THAT GUY in the competitors’ holding area? We don’t know THAT GUY’S name or hometown, but THAT GUY is wearing an Olympic Team jacket. Well, THAT GUY must be a big deal then, “Hey, #137! Sign my program!”

Call me stubbornly eccentric; I don’t collect sports memorabilia, I keep mementos of extraordinary people. Call me crazy; I’ve purchased a pair of season seats every year since 1998 and I never scalp unused tickets. (They aren’t wasted, I donate them to my local youth rec program.) Call me an old-fashioned idealist; I believe we are human beings first and foremost. I cannot fathom any other role—ballplayer, fan, athlete, writer—taking precedence over the original identity into which we all were born. And as much as I LOVE this game for its simple beauty, brilliant speed and indescribable grace, I believe there are other things that should and do take higher priority. I’ll close by offering the following perspective, from another athlete, who put it so eloquently I’ve nothing else to add. Bye for now!

I try to remind folks that 80% of the world’s population will never go to a professional baseball game. 80% of the worlds’ population doesn’t even own a car. One-quarter of the people on this earth will die from extreme poverty and malnutrition. Of that one-quarter, about half will die from unclean drinking water alone. But that kid crying about not getting a ball will most likely go home in a car, to a hot meal and a nice tall glass of free, clean water, and be thankful for none of it. Makes you wonder where our priorities are sometimes.

Entry Filed under: Game of Life,Major League Baseball,Minor Leagues