Time Travel

My cousin sent me a story this morning, about a chance meeting with former Tiger and Reds manager, Sparky Anderson. He and his brother grew up in Detroit as Tiger fans, and his brother (along with the movie Mask) were really the catalyst behind my baseball card collection, which I still have, although I think the idea of it paying for my college might have missed its target. Maybe one day the Kyd will want them, or her (just shit my pants) son (my grandson) will. Please hold, I’m going to throw up, I’ll be right back.

Anyway, reading his email about the conversation he had with one of his hero’s got me to thinking about my childhood heroes. I was pretty lucky as a kid, and met more than a few ball players. When I was 11, some friends and I were allowed to skip Hebrew School to go to a baseball card store in Danbury Connecticut and meet Darryl Strawberry. This is back when Darryl was the man, a World Champion, a lock for the Hall of Fame and destined for at least joining the 500 HR club. At 11, this was one of the highlights of my young life. Later that year, after a Met game, we were able to meet, and get an autograph from the Met skipper, Davey Johnson. And a few months after that, we went to a book signing by Duke Snider. Who actually wasn’t a hero, but a Hall of Famer and a class act.

We moved to Kansas when I was 12, and within just a few months, we met Danny Tartabull at a local grocery store. My buddy across the street was the nephew of an Oakland A’s catcher, who also lived in the neighborhood. I saw a bus load of A’s go to his house one afternoon, including Rickey Henderson, Dennis Eckersley and Dave Stewart, and even though I didn’t meet them, I was pissing myself to just see them in my neighborhood. And then we found out where to stand after games, to meet ball players as they went to their cars, or as visiting players got on their bus.

Fast forward to 1995, and the strike has come to an end. Word spread that the Cleveland Indians were staying in the same hotel that my Bar Mitzvah reception was held, so a friend and I headed right over. I met Eddie Murray (questioned him on the Mets, and he said they’d never win, because the exec’s had no clue) Carlos Baerga, Jim Thome, Kenny Lofton and Manny Ramirez. I talked to Dave Winfield and Mark Clark, and saw Tony Pena getting in an elevator with two young ladies. At the Royals game the night before, we saw Albert Belle (world class Asshole) respond to a mother who was asking for an autograph for her son, that if she got in his limo they “could discuss it.”

I was no longer a kid, and I was seeing these guys for what they really are for the first time. A friend in college met Paul Pierce, who told her “I own this campus, I can get my D**k sucked anytime.” You stay classy, Paul. Later I saw Tony Gonzalez and Warren Moon in a local bar, surrounded by women, and it was no secret that Moon was married. I even was able to attend the wedding reception for a well compensated, often injured, Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher. See, I’ve been pretty damn lucky. But to have the opportunity, to go back to when I didn’t know them as assholes, man, that just sounds too good to pass up. To actually, even if just for a day, reclaim some of that innocence, is priceless, even when done so vicariously.

But this morning I read this email from my cousin, who is no stranger to rubbing elbows with familiar names and faces, and the picture of him and Sparky looked like it was just a picture of a 12 year old and one of his heroes. So I’m wondering, and day dreaming, about whom from my childhood, would have that effect on me.

There’s always Dwight Gooden. Put his well covered troubles aside, and even though I can’t say his name without wondering “what if,” I know just how clammy my hands would get. Just how dry my mouth would get, hell, just typing about it, I am starting to feel all those things. Mike Tyson and Lawrence Taylor also make my list, but again, there’s so much drama connected with those guys. I really wonder if I’d have such an innocent moment of reliving my childhood if I came face to face with them, or if I’d be filled with the disappointment of what could have been.

Magic Johnson, he absolutely would make me feel 12 again. Sadly, the 12 year old Hirp wasn’t much shorter than the 32 year old is. But I’d have my hair again, so there’s that. I think Billy Joel, Mookie Wilson, Wally Backman, and Roger McDowell would bring out the 12 year old me. And talking about “bringing out the kid in me” it’s hard to pass up on the obvious Michael Jackson jokes. But this is bigger than that; I hate myself for even thinking those jokes.

So I must say thanks to my cuz, for sharing his story and pictures, and getting me to spend some time thinking about the 12 year old version of me.