Signing Bonus

One of the bummers of working this summer has been missing a number of activities that had become, if not traditional, then certainly, part of our routine. With less time comes more prioritizing, so while some of these habits have been altered with the arrival of Hunter some things have taken on greater meaning as they are helping form his background. One of the things we have started doing the last few years is create a memorabilia collection and because of that Hunter has been experiencing new variations of stalking. He is like a mini paparazzo already.

I am not sure where I caught the bug for collecting autographs and collectible souvenirs but I know much of it had to do with chasing Lance Armstrong around the world. The first time I saw him, I safely admired from afar, as he raced in the colorful Postal kit in the streets of France. A huge part of the cycling fan experience is chasing all the free mementos and roadside treats. It is the closeness of the athletes to the fan that is the main attraction. And I picked up all the candy and certainly drank the Cool-Aid, Jim Jones style, feeling more than a little entitled to encroach personal space while chasing a souvenir.

On that first trip we met some savory characters who had slept in their tiny Euro car in the hotel parking lot where the US Postal Service Cycling Team was staying and managed to have their pictures taken with the icon himself the next morning. I thought that was cool, to the point where we some how found ourselves on a couch in the tiny lobby of the new hotel in which the team was staying. Truthfully the whole thing felt awkward, poor Heather would have crawled into the couch cushions for shame if she could, but I was set on meeting the man.

We sat in that little hotel, in a remote non-toursity part of France, as long as we could, knowing we were not allowed. We tried to blend in, but something about the four of us gave away our intentions. I am not sure exactly what it was. It could have been the stench of replica Postal Team jersey the guy Heather and I dubbed "Mike Myers" was wearing. This thing had practically melded with the original skin of the man, forming a new smelly exo-dermis primed for stalking. (Of course this being France, the stench, oh never mind, too cliche.) Because of his quirkiness and odd resemblance to the "Wayne's World"/"Shrek" guru, I listened intently to his stories of sleeping in the back of the car filled with road signs and other schwag that he was going to bring home to add to the decor of his home which had been built into a mini Tour de France shrine, complete, somehow, with multi-stage venues.

Still, it did not seem weird to us (me?). Sitting in a foreign hotel, stepping deftly past the HUGE sign strictly forbidding anyone who was not a registered guest (written in perfect English), next to Mike Myers and his companion, a small, loud talking, one-legged cancer survivor wearing a giant, bright Yellow US Postal t-shirt that had not been washed for weeks, was just part of the Fan Experience I told myself. So I was angered when they came to remove us. I wondered what gave us away. I guessed it was because Heather was carrying two huge bags emblazoned with the Tour de France logo or that maybe she had been spotted in the lobby after hours of loitering. As they were removing us, of course, Lance walked by. I saw him, looked him dead in the eye. And froze. And then we were kicked out.

From that point I have taken on a new mission when meeting my heroes. I was going to get what I came for. So, I was so cool when I finally came close to Armstrong again, all the way in the foreign streets of San Francisco, where I shook his hand and took some pictures. Never-mind that I had no means for an autograph.

If that is the rationale for this new irrational hobby, my penchant for collecting clearly came from my baseball card collecting days. Kids in the 80's had to entertain themselves so, for me, baseball cards were the video games of our times until Video Game Arcades and Atari were invented anyway. During that time I could be found in the dark light of my room shuffling through cards and organizing them in a new way every night. So I guess this new form of collecting taps into that part of my childhood. And, that, perhaps is why I am dragging poor Hunter all around collecting autographs of local athletes.

This summer, besides the Hunter ball we secured, we have already been out to Candlestick Park getting signatures from coach Mike Nolan, Joe Staley and Justin Smith, three very important 49ers. And we met Matt Cain, the venerable Giant in the Downtown Macy's basement, where Hunter also met Lou Seal.

Though he is too small to appreciate any of this, I know he knows. I know he is picking up on the vibe, the tradition, the atmosphere so that someday he will not be intimidated by greatness, nor even chasing greatness, but rather achieving greatness in part because of learning good habits of family bonding and being raised correctly.


And for those who are tired of my Athlete Worship and worry for my son, I have made a new movie of Hunter incorporating months 5-8 (he just turned 9 months), where not only has he started his own memorabilia collection but he will be walking soon because he has crawled and climbed over everything in the house. Enjoy. (There is faint music in the background).