Opening Day: Where has Stan Papi Gone?

This is how out of touch I am. I didn't realize until just now that it is opening day at Fenway. Are you kidding me? And the Sox are already 5-1, three games up on the Yankees. This is the year!

Actually, the combination of Opening Day and an element from the Ballina story (that moment of hesitation where you're not sure which way to act) reminds me of a story from my youth.

When I was about seven my dad took me to my first Red Sox game. It was after the '75 Sox had lost the World Series, which I was too young to remember, although I knew about that team. My dad had a big vinyl record with the calls of the big games on it. But I knew the ending was sad. It was also shortly after the '78 Sox lost in the one-game playoff. I knew that story was sadder because there was no record on the shelf and the game was never talked about.

Boy, was I excited. To actually go to the park I'd seen on TV so many times. When I was a kid and couldn't sleep, I'd often wander downstairs and find my dad alone in the den in his recliner, watching the Sox with a beer and a bag of chips. He'd let me sit with him past my bedtime, so long as mom was asleep. He probably knew I'd conk out soon enough. Plus, we were able have the whole bag of chips at once. My mom's rule was that you put a couple of handfuls in a bowl - that was it. Otherwise, you'd eat the whole bag in one sitting, and money didn't grow on trees.

This was back in the days when packs of Topps cards costs 25 cents. You got 15 cards and a chalky stick of gum. Problem was, there were 26 teams so there was no guarantee you'd get a Red Sox player. I was always scrounging for another quarter so that I could get two packs - 30 cards at once - then you'd have to get a Red Sox. At least that's the way it seemed. Of course sometimes you'd get a bunch of Montreal Expos, or worse, a checklist card (who wants that?). Back then I think the 'new' teams were the Mariners and the Blue Jays, they stunk even worse than the Expos.

This is the year. It seemed real back then. World Series in '75, playoff loss in '78, a great lineup - Yaz, Rice, Evans. Yes, this is the year.

About the 4th inning of the game, my dad noticed that some kids would run up to the players by climbing up on the corner of the dugout between innings, clamoring for autographs. The usher would come along and shoo them when play started again so that people could see. These were the good seats, after all. I think we were about 15 rows back. I knew my dad was real proud to have gotten such good tickets. Yaz came to the top stair of the dugout. He was on deck next. My dad pressed a pen and the game program into my hand.

"Go shout to Yaz, see if he'll give you his autograph." I looked at him like he was nuts. Yaz? Just holler at him like I knew him? But my dad persisted. I think he was more exicted than me. Imagine an autograph from Yaz. The sure-fire Hall of Famer. A 3,000 hit club member. There was no saying no. Dizzy with adrenaline, I headed down and started to climb up on the dugout.

"Get down from there!" A chubby bald usher shouted at me. I turned back to my dad. But he was too far away to hear the usher, and their lines of sight meant they couldn't see each other. My dad motioned to me and mouthed urgently, 'go on, go on!' I was no more than ten feet from Yaz. My head swiveled back and forth between these two authority figures.

"Get down I said! Kid, get offa there right now!"

'Go on, go on!'

"Kid you're gonna be in big trouble if you don't get down right now!!"

'What are you waiting for? Go! Go! He's right there!'

So what did I do? Precocious little squirt that I was, jump up to the lip of the dugout and yell out 'hey eight, how bout's an autograph'? No, I cannot tell a lie. I sat on the corner of the dugout and cried. My dad had to come down and take me back to the seat, both of us embarrassed with me having decided that Boston was the meanest place on Earth.

But then a funny thing happened. A utility player named Stan Papi had seen the whole thing unfold. He signed a ball and a program and had them sent up to our seats. I had never even heard of Stan Papi. His card said he was a Montreal Expo; he'd just been traded to the Sox. Suddenly Boston was the best place on Earth. My dad looked at the ball - it was an Official American League Ball! I don't know why that mattered so much but it seemed so real to have the same ball the players actucally used - it even had the Commissioner's signature imprinted on it. We were both beaming. What a great day!

Of course over the years I've lost the program and the ball was pressed into service in a neigborhood game, but I'd like to think that that's what a player would like to have happen to a ball, not for it to sit encased in glass somewhere to be untouched by boyish hands. But what remains is what's important. A nice guy did a nice thing for a little kid a long time ago and I remember it.

So when someone asks - who's your favorite player of all time, I pass over Clemens and Yaz and Rice and all the rest and say: Mr. Stan Papi.