The day I met Bob Feller

I was pretty young the day I met Bob Feller, not quite 10-years old yet in fact, yet I can still remember the day vividly.  

Most others who encountered the man they called Rapid Robert throughout his 92-years of excellence can as well.

My Dad being one of those others. 

When Mr. Feller passed this week, we talked about that day, which occured more years ago now than I’d like to admit.  We laughed about it, recalled what he said to us, and marveled at the life he led like so many others did this week. 

Just another gift he gave fathers and sons everywhere I suppose, even in his passing.

My cousin was in town that day.  He was from DC, same age as me, and for whatever reason – maybe the mullet or the cannon for an arm – he was a big Cory Snyder fan too.  Just like me and my younger brother, who rolled down to the Tribe game that night, along with my cousin, and old man behind the wheel.

They were playing the Brewers, and we sat near the left-field wall at Municipal Stadium, over by where the visiting bullpen was at the time.  This was a change in that we usually sat in right field, the bleachers.  But we never thought they were simply the right field bleachers that we were sitting in.  My Dad had us convinced that we actually sitting in “Cory’s Corner” – a highly prestigious and sought after ticket, I imagined.

That night the corner had to have been sold out though, or something, but we were okay with that.  Especially when the unthinkable happened – unthinkable for a couple 9-year olds and an 7-year old with Cory Snyder posters everywhere, I mean. 

Snyder hit a foul ball right to us.  Actually right at my cousin, who put two hands up, thought he had it, only until the ball biffed off both his palms and fluttered down into the camera bay by the visiting bullpen.

Fail, we thought.  “Dude you had that,” I’m sure my brother and I must have told him, “what happened?”  Shortly after though, BJ Surhoff happened.  

Surhoff had not yet assumed the role of starting catcher for the Brewers – a role he’d then have for one team or another for seemingly the next 47 seasons – walked up out of his role as bullpen catcher, over to the Cory Snyder foul ball my cousin definitely should have caught, picked it up, and handed it to him.

Surhoff’s awesome, we thought.  What a guy.  Now we just need Snyder to sign this baseball he hit, and night complete.

So my Dad, not a big autograph guy, and a bit to proud to ask another grown man to write his name down on a piece of paper or whatever, swallows that pride and leads us on a charge to get Snyder to autograph the ball he hit.

Game’s over, we head towards the clubhouse parking lot, I’m sure they lost, sure we didn’t care, just needed Snyder to sign that baseball, and we’d ride off into the sunset as the coolest kids at least we knew of that night. 

But when we got to the clubhouse parking lot area, the Indians players – members of one of the worst teams in MLB history at the time – began walking out of the clubhouse, not looking to sign anything for anybody.  

In fact, they were all carrying boxes with them, with both hands, and telling people:

“Sorry, we can’t sign autographs tonight, our hands are full.” 

Swear that’s true.

Best part is, once they got from the clubhouse to their cars, they handed the boxes they were carrying – with both hands mind you – to the clubhouse boy who then carried it back with one had.  Boxes aren’t heavy when they’re empty, you know?

Some other parent in the crowd yelled out after a while – and I can remember this: 

“You are all a bunch of bums, and have been since 1954,”  in the direction of those players.  

Next, another guy yelled in the direction of Tribe catcher Andy Allanson:

“Allanson, you’re hitting a buck ninety and you can’t write your name on a piece of paper for my kid?!”

My Dad then looked down at us, and said as the crowd grew angrier:

“I think it’s time to start walking to the car, fellas.”

So we did.  And as we’re walking, sans Snyder ink, we hear an older man behind us say: 

“Keep up with me and I’ll sign anything you got,” to some little kid like us previously bumming for some reason because a guy like Felix Fermin didn’t want to sign their baseball card.

The look in my Dad’s eyes, though, upon hearing this older man, told my brother and I that whoever that old guy was back there, was some kind of important to my Dad, who then stopped and asked us:

“Do you guys know who that is?”

He sounded at that time like we might have, had we asked someone a similar question about Snyder.  Obviously we had no idea. 

“That’s the greatest right-handed pitcher to ever play the game boys,” he told us.  “That’s Bob Feller.”

We waited as he walked closer, and my Dad went up to him. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Feller, can you sign this ball for my kids?”

“Sure thing,” he said.  “Who has the ball?” 

My cousin handed it to him, and after he grabbed it, Feller turned to my Dad and said:

“You know, Babe Ruth started all this, signing your name on everything.  Nobody did this before Ruth.  I don’t mind though, I’ll sign anything for anybody, as long as you’re polite.”

Then Feller looked down at us three, and said as he handed back the autographed ball, and my brother an I’s ticket stubs he also signed:  

“Always be polite boys, you got that?  You should always be polite.”  

He looked each one of us in the eyes as he said that, still remember it, and we all told him we would.  

Since then, we probably haven’t always been polite, sorry Mr. Feller.  But we will never forget that he was, and we’ll always remember that he took a minute to stop for us that day.  Thanks for the memories, Mr. Feller, you’ll be forever missed.