At the autograph hole, Sox fans create their own lineup
October ball extends a signature season
When a loud motorcycle roared down Van Ness Street behind Fenway Park one sunny fall afternoon, the people peeking into the players' parking lot didn't even have to turn around.
''Kevin! Woooooo! Kevin!" one of their number shouted as a rider in the silver helmet rumbled by and took a right into the guarded gate down the block. As any good autograph hunter knows, Kevin Millar of the Sox arrives for work on a motorcycle. They know who signs and who doesn't, which pens fade the quickest, and in many cases, how much they can get on
Whenever the Red Sox play at home -- and you can circle Friday on your calendar, when they'll take the field for Game 3 in the first playoff round -- fans and collectors cluster around the screened chain-link fence near the clubhouse door. The dealers show up early, often 5 hours before game time, and are later joined by worshipful little boys and grown-up hobbyists. Until recently, these autograph hounds had to lie on the sidewalk and slip their souvenirs under the roughly 8-foot fence. But last season, the team cut three neat, long holes in the fence just big enough to slip your hands through. If you're less than 5 feet tall, you can stand at the fence, stick your ball through the slot and plead with players as the walk from their cars to the clubhouse. The adults have to work a little harder. You can only bend, kneel, or squat on the hot sidewalk for so long. Still, the grown-ups often outnumber the kids.
But 10-year-old Mathew Kelly, who got out of school early to come up from Hebron, Conn., for a game, gets right up there with them. Not the biggest kid for his age, Matt still held his own. On the other side of the fence, catcher Jason Varitek quietly made his way down the line and signed for everyone,
''Thank you Mr. Varitek," Kelly said, and got a ''You're welcome" in return..
Not everyone is so gracious. A group of regulars hang around the lot, trading balls and insults. If this is the Red Sox' red carpet, these are the paparazzi of Boston baseball. They bark at the players as they pass by, but quiet down and get humble if they come over to sign. None of the adults who deal in the memorabilia wanted to give their full names. Few want to talk about selling their autographs. Many fans think dealers who collect signatures only to sell them have made the players reluctant to sign. Protective parents also say they've had to resort to sharp elbows to keep them back, but some of the dealers seem to defer to the kids, making room for little guys and gals who squeeze in late. There's a shortish, beefy guy with sunglasses and a big mouth. He always has a few bats lined up at the fence, along with some glossy 8-by-10 photos.
''Kevin! . . . Youk!" he shouts through the slot as Kevin Youkilis approaches while Varitek signs. The infielder goes into the clubhouse without signing. There's Glenn, who says he has three rooms full of autographed sports memorabilia and goes off on tirades against players who won't sign, calling them ''crybabies." And there's Tom, a 64-year-old retired firefighter from Billerica with a 12-pack of balls at his feet, who says he keeps some of his.
''I've got three grandkids and two sons," he said. ''I sell a few. I trade a few. A little of this, a little of that."
They know who signs regularly -- Johnny Damon and Varitek -- and who never signs at the fence. Pitcher Pedro Martinez doesn't usually use this door and slugger Manny Ramirez is known to offer a smile and a wave but rarely a signature.
Young Matt Kelly is a fourth-generation Red Sox fan. Matt's dad, Martin, watches his back from the sidewalk, baseball cards in hand. Martin came to Fenway with his father and saw Mickey Mantle play. And now he takes his son, who loves Nomar Garciaparra and still wears his No. 5 jersey.
''Dad, dad, dad, here he comes!" Matt yells.
''Who? " his dad asks.
''I don't know!" Matt yells.
It turns out to be relief pitcher Scott Williamson, who comes over and signs. The ball will eventually end up in what Martin calls Matt's ''little Red Sox shrine."
Three hours before a game, most players are inside and the crowd dissipates. Some come back after the games. You might find a retired schoolteacher, suburban teenagers, or tourists from as far away as Oregon and Japan. The entire Glassman family comes up from Connecticut regularly, including 10-year-old Anna. She wore a hat with the word ''Believe" on it and a Johnny Damon T-shirt. ''He inspires me to be a better player," she said, showing off a photo of Damon with his arm around her taken at a fan club event. About a half-hour later, she turned from the fence, beaming, displaying Damon's signature on the photo.
And, as usual, there are the regulars.
''Manny, Manny. . . . Come on Manny!" they yell, with the kids chiming in, as slugger Ramirez disappears into the clubhouse door. 