E-10

I had my chance. Behind home plate, slightly toward the first base side. Lefty pitcher, righty batter. The foul came back towards us, and I was on the aisle. I stepped into the aisle, got my hands low to match the end of the ball’s trajectory, poised to snag my first major league foul ball.

You’ve been to this many games, and this has been your only shot. You may only ever get one. You see the ball get tipped off the hands of a girl a few rows in front of you. You see it happen, and you see it change paths. Instead of looking it into the hands, you see it of you in the arm. Your hands aren’t quick enough to get there, but when the ball skitters to the seats on the other side of the aisle, quick hands pick it up, and there you are. No ball. You missed it. And while it happened to you, it happens that there were a ton of TV cameras watching, with two east coast markets judging, I woulda-coulding. Alex, dutifully keeping a scorecard of the game, marked the play, E-10.

I eventually went to the centerfield barbeque stand. This one, Manny’s BBQ, is either owned or just promoted by Manny Sanguillen, a one time catcher of whom I had never heard. My cousins, though all younger than myself, had heard of him. They possess an encyclopedic knowledge of pre-1973 baseball players due to so many hours spent playing a baseball dice game, manufactured in 1974, featuring realistic probabilities related to actual player skill levels. Manny Sanguillen fielded with a 3, and ran with a 0, fairly typical for a catcher. On this date he was at the barbeque stand in person, signing autographs. I declined to get one, considering it near hypocritical to ask for an autograph from someone of whom I had never heard.

They had all had him sign their hats and ticket stubs earlier in the day. We weren’t sure if he signed them “God Bless, Manny Sanguillen,” or “God Bless Manny Sanguillen.”

I was far more interested in his pulled pork sandwich, and upon approaching the stand, I saw that Manny Sanguillen was still there, still signing autographs for fans even younger than my cousins. Who knows if or how they knew who he was, but god bless Manny Sanguillen for staying through the sixth inning. I was about to ask for his autograph on that basis alone when he stood up, took a bag that an employee had packed with pulled pork sliders, shook out his pockets and moved to leave.

“Heading out, Manny?” “Yeah” his response was brusque, he clearly feared that I would try to hook him in to signing one more god blessed autograph. An employee offered that he never stays as late as the sixth inning. “Thanks for the memories, Manny.”

I got the employee to give me one of the pens he used to sign his autographs. I then asked her to sign my receipt, pretending that I wouldn’t leave the booth until I got some autograph from someone.

After the game, I visited my dear old friend Gena, with whom I had become acquainted twelve years earlier when we were both starting out in New York City. She was a party girl fresh from Puerto Rico. Now she has dreadlocks and a daughter, both of which are beautiful. The five year old announced to me immediately that her name, Inaru, originated as the word for “girl” given by the Indio, the Indian tribe in Puerto Rico.

She said we could do whatever I wanted to do, but in the end we went where she wanted to take me. In this case it was the Hard Rock Café to see the band started by the son of her friends. The mother had been a singer for Rusted Root, the father a professional skateboarder. Their son is 14, and regaled his audience with tales of band camp and appreciative words for how special the night was, and how good the next song would be. Immediately upon walking in, we were accosted by several baby groupies asking us to buy Lighting Box T-shirts. It was surprisingly easy to refuse.

One of the groupies turned out to be, in truth, eleven years old and a boy. Furthermore, he was a member of the band, and according to the lead singer, it was impossible to look away from his drum solo. What was impressive about the drum solo was how self indulgent one can apparently become by the age of eleven. The solo, played to silence from the crowd, sounded remarkably like drum exercises assigned to students in their third year of playing a set. I’m not saying he was bad, I’m just saying I was surprised to see him throw his drumsticks into the crowd to punctuate the end of his roll. Diva.

He also threw his sticks at the end of the set. At this point, I was focused on both the drink in my hand and the sight of Inaru manipulating her Barbie dolls. In truth, about half the people were watching the band bow, and half were watching her. She was pulling focus. Diva. Good girl.

He threw a second pair of sticks. One went to the person I assume to be his mother. The other bounced off the hands of the person in front of me, ticked on our table, and hit me on the arm before skittering off to the next table. I continued to sip my drink. At least this time I hadn’t tried. At least this time no one was watching.

I had finished my drink, closed my tab, and was waiting at the table with Inaru while her mother and fat Man Dee, our ride and tour guide, said goodbyes. The eleven year old Pete Best appeared at the side of our table. His photo ops had ended, and he was offering his services. He had a fistful of Lightning Box stickers in one hand, and a sharpie in the other. “Do you want anything signed?”

I heard what he said but I asked him to repeat the question. “No. I’m good. You‘re supposed to let them come to you.” Yes, he’s eleven. No, I’m not sorry.

If I wasn’t going to beg an autograph from Manny Sanguillen, I sure as hell wasn’t going to indulge a boy begging to give me an autograph. The boy needs to learn that it’s better to leave in the sixth inning. The boy needs to learn that you can run with a 0 if you can learn to catch with a 3. The boy could learn a thing or two from Manny Sanguillen. So could we all.

God Bless Manny Sanguillen.