The phrase “epic fail” has been thrown around the internet in recent years like a beach ball at a Nickleback concert. Usually when you read such a tale of woe you are underwhelmed that the sheer embarrassment and failure does not match up with the gaudy words used to describe such an event. In the next couple paragraphs allow me to regale you my story that I feel is epic enough, and certainly has excessive amounts of failure. I kept this stupidity I will soon describe hidden from my family, friends, friendster friends and everyone else. My plan was going to keep this hidden deep down within myself until it would eventually manifest itself as cancer or something that would slowly and systematically devour my internal organs. It’s been 15 years…I have had a change of heart, I think I’m ready to get this off my chest.
Here’s a little background on me. I was that kid who went to games at Tiger Stadium hours early so I could attempt to get autographs. My day was made if I could score a Melvin Nieves or Buddy Groom autograph on my scorecard. I was also the kid who would go to card shows at Gibraltar Trade Center to get autographs. You want to know the guy who pays $25 for a Chet Lemon autographed ball? That was me. In elementary school, this is what I loved.
When I was in the 1st grade (1991) I went on a family trip to Cooperstown. Being the 7 year old goober of a kid I was this was the ultimate vacation. Looking at plaques and memorabilia in upstate New York was infinitely more appealing then a trip to Disney World. On the trip, we went to the Cooperstown Bat Company. While we were there, I had a custom wooden bat made for me. To me, it was the coolest thing I owned. I even got a giant bat display case to put this in. On that day, I made a deal with myself I was going to get Alan Trammell’s autograph on this bat.
Alan Trammell was my idol growing up. By the time I was watching him, obviously he was not the MVP candidate like he once was. I didn’t care, every little league team I tried to be #3 like Trammell. Trammell was a tough autograph to get. So, I waited…and waited….until the opportunity finally came 5 years later.
TigersFest ’96 was being held at Joe Louis Arena. All players would be available for autograph. I knew this was my chance. I took my bat out of it’s display case and took it to JLA. Cecil Fielder and a young Bobby Higgingson were the main draws, but I had a mission. I got in line for Trammell knowing that I was mere minutes away from achieving my dream. I even had a heartfelt little speech…that I had rehearsed beforehand…that I was going to say to Trammell as he was signing my bat. I finally got there…gave my little spiel to Trammell…and he signed my bat. The only time I think I had ever been that happy was the release of NBA Jam for Super Nintendo. Here is the picture of Trammell’s autograph on my bat.
So, a pretty heartwarming story, right? A kid met his idol and fulfilled his 5 year old dream. Well, this is the shit sandwich portion of this tragedy. Please make liberal usage out of this for the remainder of my story.
All throughout JLA’s concourse Tiger players were stationed around for fans to line up and get autographs. Usually these lines were stupid long, like 20+ mins to meet the great Chad Curtis. I was walking around completely euphoric with my Cooperstown bat with Trammell’s fresh signature not even dried when I saw something I would regret till the end of my days. There was Chris Gomez, with hardly any line, just sitting there looking like Chris Gomez. I made the decision to get Gomez’s autograph, because that is what I was wired to do at that age. Unfortunately I had only brought the bat, nothing else suitable for signing. So, I made what is still the dumbest decision of my life and handed the bat over to Gomez to sign. I will never forget Chris Gomez’s stupid face as I handed him my Cooperstown bat to sign. I mean, he was a man, he had to understand the absurdity of him, Chris Gomez, signing a Cooperstown wooden bat with only Trammell’s autograph accompanying his. Instead, Chris signed my bat. Here is the worst thing of all time.
As soon as Gomez‘s sharpie hit the bat I knew I would regret this for years. It’s been 15 years, and I thought it would be cathartic to put this out there rather then my diary. On that day, my obsession with autograph collecting pretty much came to a screeching halt.
I also got Mickey Lolich’s autograph later that day. That’s the squiggles just north of the horror. Lolich still didn’t come close to redeeming my colossal brainfart in my eyes. I pretty much solely put the blame on myself for Trammell not getting into Cooperstown. In my scientific opinion, Gomez’s Gomezedness seeped through to Trammell tarnishing his career in the eyes of baseball royalty that are in charge of Cooperstown voting. To this day, the bat sits in the corner of my closet at my Mother’s house hidden from the light.
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