We were among the last to arrive. People were lined up along King Street for blocks as we drove up to the park, and I was grateful to find a parking place. We came up from the lot and took our place in line on the 3rd Street Bridge. The crowd started to move just before ten, and about twenty minutes later, we passed through the right field Lefty O’Doul Gate and climbed the steps to the lower concourse where we could see the field. What we saw presented an immediate choice about how to spend our day.
On my previous visit, I did not reach the field until after it was completely full. I had expected the same this time around, but instead I saw that the field was still about two-thirds empty. I suspected that they opened the O’Doul Gate first, and I couldn’t believe all the green grass that stretched out in front of us. More importantly, I saw people waiting for autographs, and instead of the long and serpentine paths that I had encountered last year, the lines extended only once about halfway across the field and appeared invitingly short. It took me about five seconds to realize that this was an opportunity that might not come again. “Let’s go!” I said. We raced down as fast as we could and got into the right field line just as it reached the edge of the grass and started to turn back on itself. The line grew fast as people rushed in from the stands, and within ten minutes it had tripled in size from when we had taken our place. I pointed this out to Jillian and let her know how lucky we were. “I think we’re going to make it,” I said.
Fortunately, I had the official major league baseball that I kept for such occasions. It was a no-brainer to give it to Jillian as her item to have signed, but then I needed to figure out what to do for myself. The Fan Fest handed out 11X13 cards for this purpose, but I wanted something smaller and easier to display. Fortunately, there were vendors on the field to address this problem. Baseballs tend to be the most valued autographed items in the sports memorabilia market, but I wanted something different, mostly because I had bought a Jeremy Affeldt baseball last year to salve my earlier disappointment. A vendor with Giants baseball card sets came by, and I bought two, hoping that the players that I would see in the autograph booth would be featured on the cards I had purchased.
The line moved as I thought it would, advancing a few feet every ten minutes. At noon, we reached a series of retractable belt stanchions that had been set up to direct the crowd into a narrow path that criss-crossed several times before reaching the autograph booth, much like an entrance to an amusement park ride. I felt more secure about our prospects. If the ushers came to send people away, it seemed likely that any cutoff would take place outside the cordon.
Once we were inside, however, the line got slower. A half-hour passed when it didn’t move an inch, and I began to watch the stadium clock nervously as the hour got later . I wondered if we would reach the booth by the official closing time of three o’clock, and I began to think that I had been premature in my assurance to Jillian. She had begun to sigh under the strain of waiting, however, so I kept my doubts quiet so as not to discourage her. At about two, I looked back and saw that the line outside the cordon had disappeared. It looked like we’d made it, but not by much. Only about thirty people remained out of hundreds that had previously stood behind us.
I was able to glimpse two players inside the booth. One of them was Gregor Blanco, who had replaced Melky Cabrera in left field when Cabrera was suspended for PEDs in 2012. Blanco had performed well in several critical moments during the 2012 playoffs and Series. In 2013, however, he had hit with little power or consistency at the plate, and Giants GM Brian Sabean had openly shopped for a replacement during the off-season. I liked Blanco, but I hoped for a better reward for our trouble.
I am a soft touch for stories of failure and redemption, mostly because I have seen more of the former than the latter in my experience. Vogelsong’s career is as good as it gets in this regard. When my oldest brother turned 60 just over a year ago, I bought him a baseball autographed by Vogelsong as an inspiration to pursue dreams regardless of age or circumstance. At the FanFest, I hadn’t dared to hope that I would draw Vogelsong in what was basically a lottery. When I saw him sit down behind the table, ready with his Sharpie, I pumped my fist and whispered, “Yes!”
Finally, our turn came. The moment felt as sacred as any I have experienced. The desire for autographs and other physical memorabilia of sports, as I see it, comes from our need to connect with greatness, much like the holy relics that every self-respecting cathedral in medieval Europe once spared no effort to obtain. As I approached Vogelsong and Kontos with my cards, I felt self-conscious, as if even the slightest misstep could ruin the moment. After they signed with looping scripts accompanied by their uniform numbers, it took all my presence of mind to thank them. It was even more gratifying to watch them sign Jillian’s baseball. I couldn’t do much better to show her what the world could offer beyond our out-of-the-way part of northern California, and in addition to an officially autographed major-league baseball, she would have a happy moment to remember for the rest of her life. Not a bad day’s work for a dad.
By the time we finished, Fan Fest was almost over, so again we were denied its other attractions. Newly minted treasures in hand, neither of us had any regrets as we left the park. Besides, as they say in baseball, there is always next year.
