In a baseball crazy family I might have been the craziest of all.  Boom Boom took a train in 1966 from New Orleans to Houston to attend the first ever major league baseball game (first ever anything) played indoors.  It was and is the Astrodome, labeled back then as the Eight Wonder of the World.  The Yankees were in town and Mickey Mantle hit the first home run ever hit indoors that evening.  But I digress.

It was an awesome memory that lead to an awesome moment 33 years later in 1999 when my son and I saw the Astros play the last major league game ever in that very same Astrodome.  It was in a losing effort that eliminated them from the playoffs.  However, on our way out of the stadium I shared with my son that his grandfather opened it and we closed it.  But I digress, further.

My baseball love reached a fever pitch during my high school years.  I watched a lot of it and played even more of it.  So, when we left on a two-week vacation in May of 1976 I was pumped for more than one reason.  The first was that was that mom, dad, and I were going to spend seven days in Hawaii.  The second reason was that the first seven days were in San Francisco and I had checked the San Francisco Giants schedule.  Yep, and there it was.  The Giants were playing in their home, Candlestick Park, the night of our arrival.  When rain turned to fog and rain the game v. the St Louis Cardinals was cancelled.  As we said back in the day, “I was bummed out.”

One day led to one week and the morning of our departure to Hawaii arrived.  I guess Hawaii would more than offset my baseball disappointment.  My parents were avid coffee drinkers and I was dispatched early in the AM to bring back two cups from the lobby.  As the elevator opened my eyes opened wider.  There he was.  Sparky Anderson, manager of the World Series Champion Cincinnati Reds managed a slight nod as I practically tripped on my chin walking in.

I said nothing, but stared in amazement.  As the door opened to the lobby I hit the jackpot.  Pete “Charley Hustle” Rose was sitting in a lobby chair.  My mind raced as I raced to get the coffee and tell Boom Boom what was going on.  “They must haven flown in last evening to play the Giants son.  Take a look at the schedule in the newspaper.”   Sure enough.  I wanted to head back down to try to star gaze and get an autograph or ten if I could.  “Let’s carry the bags down and head to breakfast, he said.  Maybe you’ll get lucky then son.”

Time was my enemy.  But soon enough we were down and into the beautiful atrium breakfast area.  My radar was up.  As the hostess steered us to the right side I saw a table of pure gold to the left.  Sparky Anderson, Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, and a non recognizable fourth were sipping coffee.

Pen and hotel pad paper in hand I made the move.  Boom Boom always told me to ask for what I wanted.  “What’s the worst someone can tell you son?” he often asked me.

As I approached I needed a plan.  Where to start?  I decided on Johnny Bench, reigning MVP and multi-year All Star catcher.   Bench, seated, was reading the newspaper held straight out in front of him double wide with both of his massive hands clutching either side.  There I was.  Only a thin section of a newspaper separated me from his greatness.   “Mr. Bench, Mr. Bench, can I please have your autograph?”  Bench ever so slowly pulled the paper down.  We were face to face.

“No!”  And there it was.  With one word and one very unemotional word only he delivered his answer.  If I was stealing second base he had just thrown me out by 20 feet.  The paper ever so slowly rose back to its reading position.  I couldn’t even look at Rose nor Anderson.

Speechless and down trodden, I headed to our table.  “What did he say son?”  “No.”  “That’s all he said son?”  “Yes.”  “Look at the menu.  We need to order and get to the airport.”  Eggs sounded terrible.  Everything did.

What’s the moral of the story?  The worst thing someone can tell you is “no.”  Believe me, I know.