I’m quite certain that if I used all of my fingers and toes and all of the hairs on my head I would not be able to count the hours we spent pushed up against the fences on E. 9th, ball glove, Game face, and permanent marker in hand, waiting for that magical moment when our big league heroes would make their exit from the stadium, climb into cars only comparable to the matchboxes we played with, and depart for adventures unknown.

It was our belief that ballplayers did nothing but play ball.  If we didn’t witness it at the stadium, it didn’t happen.  They ran, hit, spit, cursed, and cheered.  The only families they had were those that climbed in those oversized matchbox cars with them, or joined them celebrating on the field after penant championships (I wish I could say World Series, still waiting on that one…)  For all we knew the days ended early for our men in uniform – their lives not ruled by hours and minutes, but innings and pitches. 

Once they left the players’ parking lot at the Prog (née Jake) they drove off the horizon and into oblivion, returning the following day from their mystery lives for the next game.  They couldn’t be living simple mortal lives like the rest of us - they got to play games all day!  They didn’t have to work, or pay bills, or “diet,” or fight about who’s turn it was to walk the dog, or try to remember to pick the kids up from school, or complain about in-laws, or pump gas…  All they had to worry about was playing ball, chewing bubble gum, and dumping Gatorade on people (later to be replaced with pies-in-the-face.)

It was always a test of true fandom to be able to recognize each player without the aid of a numbered jersey.  I always felt sorry for the bench guys that had the bad timing to follow somebody like Kenny or Thome out… the deafening screams silenced once said superstar gave a little wave of autograph-negligence and shut the car door.  Then here comes Joe-Somebody, recently acquired or called up from Triple-A, instantly humbled of his promotion by the cricket chirpings and the random know-it-all fan that happens to recognize name and face of all 40 men included on the roster.  Or even worse, an uproar of fans yelling THE WRONG NAME.  That’s got to be embarassing. 

Anyways, I always made it a habit to study my Game faces the day before the game and picture each player in street clothes so that while I stood in the semi-silence the couple moments after a lesser-known player emerged I could yell with full confidence their full name, in hopes that my true fan efforts would be reciprocated with a measely autograph or two.  This unfortunately happened at a much lower success rate than I anticipated.

So.  All these years growing up I spent eating up rejection and relishing the slightest bit of excitement in the sheer sight of my favorite players.  I finally learned to appreciate the game for itself and accept that the players were indeed on a much higher social plateau than my lowly self.  Why should I expect any type of voluntary interaction with these people I treat as Gods?

Apparently memorizing names and cars and stats and wive’s names and birthdays were inconsequential.  All it took was for Omar to get traded to San Fran, for the boyfriend and I to travel to Houston, and for me to scream OMAR as loudly and unashamedly as possible during BP, while jumping up and down pointing at my Indians hat.

Omar: <in a still very prominent Venezuelan accent>  “I thought that was a Braves hat when I first looked over”

me:  “OH GOD NO.  NEVER!”  <my brain paralyzed by awestruck fandom, and my face stuck in a Joan Rivers-esque permanent smile, which is apparent through the picture> 

boyfriend:  <to the rescue, since my conversational abilities had reduced to that of a pumpkin>  “We’re here all the way from Cleveland… big fans.”

me:  Smile.  Nod enthusiastically.  Cheese.

Omar:  “Wow yeah, what you doing all the way down here??”

me:  “BASEBALL!”

bf:  “I’m playing in the Class-A World Series in Houston.” 

me:  Nod, nod.  Smile.  Cheese.

Omar:  “Oh, so you married?”

me:  “NO.”  I’m available for you, Omar.

bf:  “Haha, not just yet…”

Omar:  <all this while signing dozens of random paraphernalia for annoyed locals wondering who the hell let the random Tribe fan in…>  “But soon then, right?”

me:  Smile.  Cheese.  Yes, whatever you say Omar.

bf:  “Yeah, sometime soon…”

me:  Unless you want to pack me in your duffle and take me to San Francisco with you…

Omar:  “Ok well bye, enjoy the game!”

bf:  “Good luck!  Thanks Omar!”

me:  “I LOVE YOU!!!”

I’m sure you won’t believe me, but I (under normal circumstances) am a very socially inept person.  Put me face to face with the only person to trump JTT and Leo DiCaprio on my 11 year-old poster-filled wall howerver, and apparently my head turns to mush.  I blame this very adamantly to the years and years of rejection and self-degredation at that fence on E. 9th…

 : DISCLAIMER :

To any MLB affiliate, sports management head-honcho, or Cleveland Indians Executive reading this that might be in search of a well-educated marketing professional with impressive career experience and a dexterous work ethic, please do not be turned off by this seemingly shameful exhibition of player-to-fan interaction.  It was a one-off and I swear it is totally out of my system.