Mall of famers

Struggled yesterday to wake up and get through my morning exercises. I stopped for a moment to look at the bookshelf that holds my Ted Williams and Mickey Mantle signed baseballs and to think about how much better it must have been to have been a naive baseball fan when the dirtier aspects of the game were unknown or not yet invented.

These signatures weren't bought, authenticated and truly worthless beyond sentiment.

Ted Williams arrived via an aunt who has a house in the Florida Keys and befriended Ted's nurse. Mickey Mantle came when I was a boy and was invited to a Yankee game by someone who had some special clubhouse tickets to meet a Yankee -- who turned out to be the Mick.

I was more impressed that they had Chunky bars in this place, but duly crawled on the floor, apparently cutting a line, to get my baseball signed. Reminded I should get one for my sister, I crawled back on the floor and shortly returned to the front of the line.

"Weren't you just here?" he said before signing a slip of paper.

On the elevator to our seats we shared the ride with Bill White, a former first baseman, then Yankees announcer and future NL president. I asked him to sign the ball. Later, at a mall visit I had Dennis Rasmussen, a scrubby pitcher, sign it. He tried to refuse, knowing his John Hancock would mar it, but I stupidly insisted. I also had him ruin my '86 All-Star game program, which is filled with signatures from the game courtesy of my Dad's friend.

Coincidentally, in a not so tragic or sentimental story, Christine recently spotted a picture of she and a friend with Dave Hollins from a mall autograph-signing session. Made her laugh.