“A rose with any other name would smell so sweet.”
The bard said so in Romeo and Juliet, but was he right? Names are powerful. Names are personal. Names mean something.
Collecting autographs has never been a hobby of mine. It is understandable that there are people who enjoy collecting signatures from celebrities – sports heroes, movie stars, singers, politicians. In a way, getting the name on a piece of paper, baseball, or a hat creates a long-term bond with that person. The name and the person who writes it are important.
There are only two names in my collection, and both of them matter to me. One is from a baseball player that few will remember today. In the late 1950s and early 60s, Bob Skinner was a left fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates. His # 4 jersey can be seen in the photo of Bill Mazeroski as he gallops towards home plate after the victorious home run in Game 7 of the 1960 World Series.
Before most of the great Leaguer were multimillionaires, they lived in middle-class neighborhoods, mowing their lawn in summer, raking leaves in autumn and shoveling snow in winter. For a year while serving with the Pirates, Skinner and his family lived two houses from my aunt and uncle in Verona, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Steel City.
While visiting the family for a week that year, some of my brothers and I met and played with Skinner’s boys. One day as a teenager, I gathered my courage and asked my new friends if I could get their father’s autograph.
A time was set for the next day and Aunt Dory handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. We went to the front door and knocked. Skinner’s 6’4 ”frame loomed over us and I gave him the piece of paper and pencil he used to scribble his name with before handing it back with my thank you.
It’s been 60 years, but this paper is in a box in the attic. I look at it occasionally, font faded and everything to make sure it’s still there. The name still means something.
I didn’t get the other autograph personally, but received it as a gift. It’s from my golf hero, Arnold Palmer, whom I followed in high school and beyond at Masters. One of my sons-in-law worked at the Augusta National Golf Club for the company that provides caddy services there. During the tournament a few years ago, he asked Arnie’s caddy if he could get an autograph to give me. This year it was a Christmas present.
While covering the Masters for a year and meeting some famous golfers – Gene Sarazen, Curtis Strange, Tom Kite, and Ben Crenshaw – I didn’t get a chance to meet Arnie. The autograph on an Augusta National Scorecard is as close as I got.
This scorecard with the distinctive signature hangs in a frame on the wall next to a picture that was also a gift. It’s a large black and white photo of a teenage Arnie at the Masters signing an autograph for a teenage boy. It is this photo, more than the autograph, that gets my attention and piques my interest.
It was apparently taken before a practice round in 1963 or 1964, based on a serial badge in the picture. Near the first tee, Arnie signs a ticket for a boy wearing a plaid shirt and golf hat with a putter under his arm.
Next to the boy is an older man whom I consider to be the boy’s grandfather. (Since it’s a photo from more than half a century ago, I can make up a story about the characters.) A gentleman in sunglasses stands nearby, not looking in the direction of the golfer and child.
In the middle of the photo is a woman, also with shadows to protect her eyes from the bright day. She has a skirt and blouse, a soft drink in her hand, and a paper ticket that dangles from her waist as she watches the golfer and the boy. On the far right, behind Arnie, is a middle-aged man with a Panama-style hat on his head and a serial badge on his shirt.
When people visit and see the photo on the wall, they often ask if I’m the young man who gets Arnie’s signature. Of course this is not the case. Then why is this framed picture so important to me? Why does the autograph next to it mean something? And why do I find the box in the attic every few years and inspect a piece of paper with the name of a career .277 batsman on it?
It’s because memories are important, as are names. Although I wasn’t in the photo, I attended Masters during those years and followed Arnie as far as my young legs would allow. I only met Skinner at his front door for 30 seconds, but meeting a major league baseball player was a memorable moment for a teen.
At the beginning I said I don’t collect autographs. But I have the signatures of junior high school through high school classmates in the annals on a shelf in my office. Occasionally I leaf through these and look at the names that were written by friends more than 50 years ago. It’s a connection to the past as I scan the signatures and remember that names matter.
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