Performer: Neil Young & Crazy Horse
Songwriters: Neil Young, Jeff Blackburn
Original Release: Rust Never Sleeps
Year: 1979
Definitive Version: Live Rust, 1979.
I was in the midst of a huge Neil Young run when I came up with one of my more brilliant plans in 1997. The National was to be held in Cleveland that year, and after the wild success of Anaheim the year before, there was no question I was going. But … what if I could go without having to take vacation time from work?
Because this was before the Business coup, I had some pull with the editor, and I pitched my idea: I’d generate a Sunday section front story on the crumbling baseball-card business, a daily preview story and—the cherry on top—an interview story for Sports.
Gordie Howe was doing a press conference to promote his autobiography. The National Hockey League just had announced that Columbus would get an expansion team in 2000. What better than to ask Mr. Hockey a few questions about the newest hockey town?
Gerry went for it, so I took half of the week off to “work” the National. I asked Dave if he’d be able to make it, but he wasn’t sure. Not taking any chances, I went ahead and got two press credentials in case he could come down over the weekend.
I went up Wednesday night, and stayed where Scott and I stayed for the epic Memorial Day weekend in 1994—Middleburg Heights. The National was at the I-X Center, an old airport hangar that had been turned into a convention center, not far from Middleburg Heights, so I was set.
The National was huge and awesome, but it was obvious that it wasn’t the same as it had been the past two years. In between Anaheim and Cleveland, the Powers That Be—hearing complaints from dealers that attendees spent too much time doing fun stuff and not enough time buying overpriced crap on their tables—kicked out the major sports and all the card companies.
The National was going to be just an oversized card show, and everyone knew it was going to be a debacle. Well, Dave and I did. Only at the last second, when advance tickets were way off from the previous year, did cooler heads prevail, and the card companies were invited back. Only a couple bothered. I’m a collector, so I’m OK with spending all my time hunched over tables going through bins, so I didn’t mind that the show would be less crowded than in years past.
Debbie came up to stay with me Thursday night and use Dave’s credential to go to the show Friday. Why the hex was my fiancée going to a card show or—a better question—why was I allowing her to go? Debbie had attended a Gibraltar show with me, and she liked seeing all the autographs on old baseballs, so she could do that while I was working. (She was a baseball fan after all.) The fact that she also could shop for me for the next Christmas didn’t hurt.
Friday was a big day, because I had my interview with Gordie Howe in the morning. Later I would have Hank Aaron sign the Hank Aaron Day poster that Debbie’s aunt Dot gave me the previous year. In between, I had to write my story for Sports and send it in via the funky work notebook computer.
The interview was before Howe’s press conference, and he couldn’t have been nicer. I mean, I was just some schlub asking him questions about hockey in Columbus, and he’s MISTER FREAKIN HOCKEY. He was great, joking with me a bit about Ohio vs. Michigan, and very gracious.
I scurried downstairs to write the story for the next day’s paper. Debbie said she wanted to stay upstairs on the convention-center floor to see her baseball idol, Pete Rose, who was signing at the time. No problem.
While I wrote my story, I heard a bit of commotion just outside the press room, and I saw Debbie smiling while chatting with someone whose back was turned to me. She was beaming when she came in. She held out the press credential without saying anything and showed me Pete Rose’s signature.
How did you get that? She told me that she had been standing around, just watching, when the line to Rose dwindled to no one. Rose noticed her, they talked for a bit, and she got his autograph—free. (I wondered whether Charlie Hustle might have wondered whether she had been one of his conquests back in the day. For the record, she wasn’t.)
So, she says, she was holding out her credential to not smudge the ink when another guy downstairs made fun of her a bit. Yeah, I heard you out there, I said, nodding to the door. I saw an older black gentleman whom I definitely recognized talking outside the door. “Was THAT him?” “Yeah,” she said. “That’s Frank Robinson.” “Noooo.” I looked again. “Yep, that’s Frank Robinson.” “Where’s your Sharpie?”
I handed over the implement, and Debbie charged out the door. Sure enough, a few minutes later, she was back, with her credential now adorned by the signature of TWO former Reds greats.
She said she went up to Frank and said confidently, “you’re Frank Robinson. My Dad used to take me to watch you play in Crosley Field.” She said Frank resisted, saying he was Ernie Banks. Debbie was insistent, and right then, as luck would have it, Rose came downstairs after finishing his autograph section, saw Frank and said, “Hey, Frank. How’s it goin’?” Frank sheepishly grinned and admitted to Debbie, “OK, you’re right,” and signed.
So, Debbie had a much better day than I did when it came to serendipity. While I waited in line for Hank to sign my poster, I noticed Wilt Chamberlain sitting close to Hank at an empty table in the signing area. He had finished signing and just sat and chatted with his handler or show organizer, I don’t know, in public view. Occasionally, someone came by and take a picture.
Now THIS was an opportunity. Wilt was THE MAN when it came to basketball when I was a kid. I had shaken hands with Mr. Hockey, Hammering Hank and now I had my eyes trained on Wilt the Stilt. Three of the best to ever play their sport, and I would shake all of their hands in a single day.
When I finished with Hank, I went up to Wilt, held out my hand, smiled and said, “Hey, Wilt. How’re you doing?” He started to hold out his hand to shake it, then pulled it back—psych—and waved me off dismissively. I stood there for maybe a minute with my hand still out and a dumb smile still on my face, knowing I’d just been had by one of my childhood idols.
I walked around the rest of the day with my hand out, dumbfounded that I was humiliated by Wilt Chamberlain—who I saw play exhibition VOLLEYBALL when I was 7! He was cool to everyone else, and then he decided to stiff … me. That sucked.
When, by the grace of God, Wilt dropped dead two years later, nary a tear was shed in my household. Every tribute talked about what a great guy he was. It was like the opposite of meeting Rickey Henderson the next year; Rickey was supposedly an ass, yet he was great to me for the brief time that he needed to be. I’ll always defend him. Wilt? He was an ass to me, so I could care less what others thought.
Well after that, how could a mere card show measure up? I don’t remember now what all I bought, but I’m sure I bought … something.
Dave did come down for a day and got his own credential—thank goodness, since Debbie had hers at the center of a new shrine to the Reds on her dresser—but he agreed with me: Like everything else about the card industry in the Nineties, greed won the day and destroyed The National. It hasn’t been the same since.
No comments:
Post a Comment