I grew up loving sports. Living in California can have that euphoric effect on a kid. I rooted for the LA Dodgers, LA Rams, LA Lakers and clapped once or twice for the LA Kings. I loved sports so much that I felt the need to meet the famous athletes and hopefully get their autograph. An encounter with a favorite athlete can totally make ones day.
I played for the Newbury Park Athletic Association boys’ basketball team in the early 1970s. Our nickname? The Lakers. So I played for the Lakers before Kareem, Magic, Shaq or Kobe, and I even have the picture to prove it.
Recently, I looked through a box of my stuff that I have been keeping since Nixon was president. I came across a Dallas Cowboys vs. LA Rams program from an exhibition game that I attended with my dad and brother in 1971. I also flipped through the pages of an LA Lakers program that we purchased at a game at The Fabulous Forum in 1972. That Lakers team featured Wilt Chamberlain, Happy Hairston, Gail Goodrich, Elgin Baylor, and Jerry West—who went by the nickname of “Mr. Clutch.”
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Thumbing through the souvenir program elicited a memory of “”Mr. Clutch” and me, and marked the beginning of my goofy encounters with professional athletes.
I have to admit that I have a tendency to lose my composure at the thought of meeting a favorite athlete.
For example, my mom took my older brother Kevin and I to a shoe store in an effort to get Jerry West’s autograph. I was seven or eight years old and extremely nervous about meeting the future NBA logo. I was ahead of Kevin in line, and soon I was face to face with Mr. West.
“Hi, son. What’s your name?”
I just stared at the man.
“Son?”
I couldn’t remember!
“Hey, buddy. Who should I make this autograph out to?”
“I…I…I..“. Clearly I had no earthly idea who I was. Oh, gosh!
Everyone in line suddenly had both eyes on the short, dopey kid who didn’t know his own name from Adam.
“His name is Kraig, with a ‘K’,” interjected the one son of an Ehm who could remember first names.
“Okay, Kraig. Here ya go, buddy.” And with that, an NBA superstar reached across the table to hand me something I didn’t deserve–an autograph with my name on it.
Meeting a famous athlete and going home with an autograph—check. Day made.
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Another time I was star struck by a famous athlete was when as a second grader I lived near Los Angeles Ram Deacon Jones, a member of the Fearsome Foursome. My mom still laughs about the time I heard Deacon was going to get married, and I planned on attending the ceremony.
“Kraig, you can’t go to Deacon’s wedding.”
“Why not?” asked the young admiring fan.
“Because you have to be invited to go to the wedding, and we’re not invited.”
I guess I figured all fans of Deacon’s and the Rams were invited. Upon hearing the not-so-nice-news, I stomped off to my bedroom, slammed the door, and had a good cry.
Not meeting a famous athlete at his wedding and thereby not getting his autograph? Day definitely not made.
This brings me to yet another star struck encounter I had with a childhood athlete. A couple of years ago, at the age of 48, I attended the U.S.G.A. Senior Open near Detroit. It was the final round on Sunday and as I parked my mulligan on the 18th, I noticed a former LA Dodger and his wife walking toward me!
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You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s Von Joshua! I have baseball cards of him when he played for LA in the seventies.
I wanted—no, I needed—to let him know that as a young kid, I was a fan of his while growing up a mere fifty miles from the City of Angels.
Keeping my composure, I slowly started to walk toward him with my hand outstretched. “Hi, my name is Kraig. Are you Von Joshua?”
The man was startled, but his apprehension soon turned into a big grin as he shook my hand. “Yes, yes I am.”
I could not believe my good fortune.
“When I was a kid, we lived near LA. I went to a game and saw you play. You were a really good baseball player. I even have some baseball cards of you.”
“Why, thank you.” Von turned to look at his wife who was also smiling.
“I have to admit I liked you when you played for the Dodgers but not when you played for the San Francisco Giants.”
“I understand,” Von chuckled. “I’ve got to ask you,” interjected Von, “after all these years, how in the world did you recognize me?”
It was a good question that demanded a good answer.
“Easy,” I explained. “Your name is on the bottom of your camping chair.”
Von flipped over his chair and sure enough, there was written “Von Joshua.” All three of us laughed. I shook his hand again and told him it was a pleasure meeting him.
Sitting in the sun watching golf one minute, then shaking hands with a favorite professional baseball player the next? Day definitely made.
And then there was the time I met Hall of Fame, LA Dodger broadcaster, Vin Scully. I guess you’ll just have to ask him whether or not he felt I had maintained my composure while hunting him down at Fulton County Stadium.
