Mr. Mantle, can I ... um ... have your autograph?
I was three weeks shy of my 9th birthday, and our family trekked the 3 ½ hours in our Town & Country wagon to Minneapolis. We were staying at the Radisson Hotel, where we always stayed on those rare visits to the "Big City." As we were checking in, the bell hop mentioned that the New York Yankees would be arriving soon after playing the Minnesota Twins at the old Met Stadium. I begged my dad to let me hang back for an autograph or two.
As the team shuffled into the lobby, I shyly approached a man in a suit and tie. I asked if he was a Yankee and if I could have his autograph. Third baseman Bobby Cox obliged. I did the same for the next man, Frank Crosetti. This time, I got a different result. Not only did he sign the hotel letterhead paper, but he said, “That’s Micky Mantle.” Aptly nicknamed "The Crow," Crosetti's arm lifted like a bird ready to take flight as he pointed to Mantle.
“You will want his autograph,” said The Crow.
I was shaking as I approached America’s iconic baseball player. Tongue tied in knots, I handed him my paper and pencil. He looked down, signed the sheet and was gone.
This was better than Christmas morning. My heart was pounding as my wobbly legs made their way to the elevators. When I got there, I looked up and saw Mr. Mantle. My shit-eating grin turned to shock and fear. I took off for the stairs and raced up to the third floor where I pushed the button to continue upward. The elevator doors opened. And there he was again. This time, alone.
I operated in panic mode as I stepped aboard and pushed the button. Up we went, together. A little boy and a whole lot of greatness. I sprinted out of there as if I was on fire. Mr. Mantle continued upward.
April is baseball month. But, right now, no one is sauntering on the field. No one is striking out on the Twins, giving me legit reasons to be grumpy around the house. No texts from my White Sox friends poking fun at the Cubs.
The good news: Baseball will come back. Like the sport itself, with 162 games a season, we have to play the long game. We have to believe. Like the little boy I once was who saw the chance in a lifetime.
Cheers,
Roderick
PS. The remaining autographs were obtained at breakfast the next day.