As a teenager on a few occasions some friends and I would wait at the players' gate at Yankee Stadium to try to get autographs from players as they exited the stadium after a game. Consistent with what others have said, the players differed markedly in how they treated autograph seekers. Ralph Terry and Tony Kubek were always friendly and gave an easy to read autograph. Yogi Berra seemed to tolerate the clamor, would sign a few, but said nothing. Other players would not sign, would not speak, and simply ran through the gauntlet of admirers. My friends and I were usually in agreement about which players were nice and which ones were nasty. But there were a few who were highly variable, nice on some occasions and nasty on others. When nice they gave a clear autograph, and when nasty either did not sign or just gave an illegible scrawl. We could not understand why this set of players seemed so moody.
Flash forward about 20 years. I am at a regional sports show where Hank Bauer is signing. I had long lost my interest in autographs, but I was avidly into collecting pins. Bauer's pin had eluded me despite looking high and low for it (this is long before eBay). I knew a pin had been made of him, as a fellow collector had one. So I had a plan. I would buy a ticket and get in line to talk to Bauer. I did not want his autograph---I didn't even bring anything to sign. When it was my turn, I was going to ask him about his pin (a large PM-10). Surely he must have several, I reasoned. Then I was going to make him a financial offer he could not refuse. Additionally, in my pant's pocket I had a pre-addressed padded envelope with lots of postage on it. I had even rehearsed my speech.
I finally get before Bauer. It went something like this:
Bauer: "So what do you want me to sign?"
Me: "Nothing. I just would like the chance to purchase a pinback button of you."
Bauer: "What button? I don't have no button of me."
Me: "You must! They made buttons of all the players back then!"
Bauer: "I don't know what you are talking about."
Me: "But,...."
Bauer, the ex-Marine, then shoots me a look that nearly cut me in half. A sports writer once described Bauer's face as "a clenched fist." On that day I saw the fist about to smash into my face. I quickly moved along. I always wondered if Bauer took out his frustration with an illegible scrawl to the poor sap who was in line behind me. I also learned something about moodiness.
Paul
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