[16 of 100] Mr. Joc! Mr. Joc!
If you’ve never been to spring training, I highly recommend it. It’s baseball distilled into its purest form, light years away from the million dollar contracts and corporate cynicism that have invaded modern professional sports. At spring training facilities, superstars mingle with up-and-comers in relatively humble surroundings. Imagine the vibe of a little league game at your neighborhood park where families lay in the grass and soak up rays. The easy, ambling pace of the game is interspersed with the crack of the bat and the modest cheer of a small crowd of baseball faithful. It’s how baseball was meant to be enjoyed.
While the games themselves are fun, the best part of spring training is the level of interaction with the players. It’s amazing being several feet from your favorite player as he throws bullpen or takes batting practice. Being that close to such supreme talent and skill quickly obliterates all prior misconceptions of “Psh, I could do that.” And of course, all that access to players makes it a perfect time for autographs.
I try to get a couple autographs each time I’m at spring training, usually from the up-and-comers. Some people think it’s silly for grown men to get autographs (even if they’re sold on eBay, which I never do because that would be dishonorable!). For me, it’s all about the fun of reverting back to my 8 year-old self while using my physical maturity to muscle actual 8 year-olds out of the way.
The last time I went to spring training in 2015, my target was Joc Pederson, the soon-to-be star center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers. After some trial and error, I realized the best strategy was to camp out in a location I knew the players would visit before the game. This meant arriving at the ballpark a good hour before the game started and standing along the railing underneath the blistering Arizona sun. I’m from California and thought I knew a thing or two about sun. However, unlike the relaxed beach sun in my home state, the desert sun in Arizona was ornery and angry. It hammered down on me relentlessly and viciously. I thought I was going to pass out, but held strong. I was happy I did when I saw the players make their way into the ballpark, including none other than Joc himself.
Positioning myself near the players was just one part of the battle. Next came the critical step of actually getting the player to come to me. This wasn’t guaranteed. Sometimes the players don’t feel like signing autographs. And, even when they do, there was no guarantee they’d come to where I was standing. Fortunately, Joc was right in front of my group, and eventually we were able to convince him to mosey on over for autographs.
Now we were into the super critical part of the process — actually getting the player to sign my ball. By this time there was a wave of humanity crushing me from behind as late comers trying to jam their arms through the crowd to get their paraphernalia signed. I had to block them while at the same time making myself attractive for an autograph. The problem is a thirty-something male is lowest on the totem pole for getting autographs. It was tough to compete with the cute children and busty women next to me.
When Joc came over, I gave him my best smile and held out my ball and pen. He took some others around me first then made like he was done signing. I sensed he was slipping away and wanted to call out to him, but didn’t know what to say. “Mr. Pederson” seemed a bit formal given he was ten years my junior, but “Joc” also seemed too informal since we’d never been introduced to each other. My mind raced as he was about to walk away, and I shouted, “Mr. Joc! Mr. Joc!”
He stopped. Turned. And signed my ball before heading for the dugout. A rush of euphoria came over me. The thrill of victory. It’s what I imagine primitive man felt when he killed a saber tooth tiger with his bare hands. Joc would go on to have a successful rookie season, putting up good numbers as the Dodgers chugged along into the postseason. Meanwhile, I proudly displayed his signed baseball on my bookcase, a reminder that I’m not too proud to pretend like I’m a Japanese fob to get some man-child to sign a piece of leather wrapped around tightly wound cork and yarn.
