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My Brush with Greatness
 
Tony Gwynn is one of my favorite baseball players.
He stayed with the same team his entire career; he never won a World Series; he was cheerful,
loved playing, articulate and intelligent, gutsy and a real player, with his Hall of Fame talents and achievements.

One summer night in 1984 (I think) the Padres came to Busch Memorial Stadium.
Tony Gwynn played right field. Going back after a fly ball off the outfield wall at the bleachers,
Gwynn ran to catch it, his back to the plate, running full tilt.

He dropped the ball and landed in a pile near the wall (I can't remember if he HIT the wall, but I don't think he did).
No one could tell WHY he crumbled and fell, but it became clearer after the trainer went out to help him.

Some asshole Cardinals fan had thrown a penny at him and hit him RIGHT IN THE EYE.
Gwynn had to be taken out of the game; that's how bad it looked right after it happened.
No permanent damage occurred, but he was out of the game.

I was waiting after the game for Cardinals and Padres to sign autographs.
There's always a crowd after every major league game of fans hoping to get lucky.
A few low-level players signed a few autographs before Tony Gwynn came out the clubhouse door.

The crowd knew what had happened. They surrounded him wanting an autograph, and he stopped and signed
two or three (I was not fortunate enough to get his at that time). Someone asked him about the penny tossed
into his eye. He squinted even harder, in pain, and acknowledged what had happened.

But the mere fact that this man came out and signed autographs for fans of his opponent's team impressed me
beyond the beyond. As far as Tony Gwynn could have known, he signed an autograph for the asshole who
tried to put his eye out...but he signed.

That was CLASS.

I had a brush with greatness concerning Pete Rose.

After a Reds game, I got a few not-so-memorable autographs from players with names like John Wockenfuss
and Von Hayes. When Pete Rose came out, he saw the crowd and without a word slithered away into the shadows
of the darkened Busch Memorial Stadium outside plaza.   He walked slowly and furtively, hands in his pockets,
like he was on a stroll in the park, with no fewer than four goons keeping autograph seekers like me away.
Physically. Literally. It was the weirdest display of fame and a refusal to acknowledge one's fans at the same time...

This was exactly when he was supposed to have been betting on the games he managed and played in...whatta creep.
Later,
  Daddy-O!

PS--Excellent road trip report! If you have any more details to write about, don't leave them out! Good stuff, Bart.

Daddy-O!, thanks for that.

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