Life has been a whirlwind as of late...Florida for baseball, North Carolina for golf. As of yesterday, one final leg of the journey remained -- back to Philadelphia to catch Mike Schmidt's book signing in Rittenhouse Square.
The Missus works in Center City and thankfully, she selflessly volunteered to get to the bookstore early and reserve a place for me in line while I drove in from my suburban office after I finished up with work.
As much as I want to be a city person, I'm not [you can take the boy out of da coal reejin, but you can't take da coal reejin out of the boy] and navigating solo through the city by car or by foot is never easy for me, particularly at rush hour. On top of that, the stress of the last few weeks was really beginning to mount...leave X on time in order to be at Y by such and such a time...cross this off that list...etc...
By the time I arrived at the bookstore, I could have really used a stiff drink, but still, despite all the obstacles, things were going according to plan, and I took my place in line, number 94. The Missus was in line just ahead of me in order to get an additional book signed and then snap a photo of me with The Greatest Third-baseman of All Time.
Suddenly, with just seconds to go before I was to meet Schmidt, I realized that I had nothing in mind to say to the man. I wanted to say something original, not the standard, "what do you think of this year's team Mike?" But, as I inched closer and closer to my boyhood hero, my mind was drawing a blank.
Finally, with Schmidt right in front of me, I blurted, "Uh, how's the golf game?" I'm pretty sure I didn't stutter and my voice didn't squeek, but it might as well have. On the inside, I was thinking, "did I just say that?!? 'how's the golf game?' where the hell did that come from?!?"
No doubt, it was original. Schmidt looked at me -- somewhat dumbfounded as well -- and said something to the effect of, "Oh, not bad...Not as good as it could be." I replied uneasily, "Uh, it never is, is it?" Again, on the inside, "what am I saying? Is this really you? For heaven's sake, just shut your mouth."
"Uh, if you don't mind," changing the subject, I point to The Missus, "she's going to take a quick picture." We both looked at my wife's camera-phone and smiled uneasily.
Exiting the bookstore, I decided that even though I stumbled over my words, at least I'd have a photo to mount on the wall of my study of The Greatest Third-baseman of All Time and myself. As we flip through her cell phone, we come across the photo:
Apparently, my wife's hand is as steady under pressure as my mouth. I can't wait until someone looks on my wall and says, "Hey, that's a great photo of you and Barry Bostwick".
Later, over dinner at Pietro's, The Missus, looked up at me and asked incredulously, "So, I left work early, fought for a place in line, just so you could meet your boyhood hero and ask him 'how's the golf game'?"
Sheepishly, I returned to golf parlance, "I guess I hit that one a bit fat, didn't I?" Better luck next time. And Mike, if you are reading this, just send me an email, I'll send you a copy of the pic. It should look great next to your Gold Gloves, MVP Awards, and World Series rings.
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Reminder: In addition to online purchases, Clearing the Bases is now available in stores. Get your copy and join in the reading group.
