“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
The Bard said it this way 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 folks who love to collect signatures of celebrities – sports heroes, movie stars, singers, politicians. In some ways getting the name on a piece of paper, a baseball or a hat provides a long-term connection to that person. The name and the person writing it are important.
There are just two names in my collection, and both are meaningful to me. One is from a baseball player that few today will recall. In the late 1950s and early ’60s, Bob Skinner was a left fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates. His No. 4 jersey is visible in the photo of Bill Mazeroski as he gallops toward home plate after hitting the winning home run in Game 7 of the 1960 World Series.
Before most major leaguers were multimillionaires, they lived in middle class neighborhoods where they mowed their lawns in summer, raked leaves in the fall and shoveled snow in the winter. One year during his time with the Pirates, Skinner and family lived two houses away from my aunt and uncle in Verona, Pennsylvania, a suburb of the Steel City.
While visiting family for a week that year, a couple of my brothers and I became acquainted with Skinner’s boys and played with them. A preteen, I screwed up my courage one day and asked my new friends if I could get an autograph from their dad.
A time was set for the following day, and Aunt Dory handed me a piece of paper and pencil. We went to the front door and knocked. Skinner’s 6’4” frame rose above us, and I handed him the piece of paper and the pencil which he used to scrawl his name before handing it back to my thank you.
It’s been 60 years, but that paper resides in a box in the attic. I look at it occasionally, faded writing and all, to make sure it is still there. The name still means something.
The other autograph is one I did not get in person but was given as a gift. It’s of my golfing hero Arnold Palmer who I followed at the Masters while in high school and beyond. One of my sons-in-law worked at the Augusta National Golf Club for the company that provides caddy services there. During the tournament several years ago, he asked Arnie’s caddie if he could get an autograph to give to me. It was a Christmas present that year.
While I did cover the Masters one year and met some famous golfers – Gene Sarazen, Curtis Strange, Tom Kite, Ben Crenshaw – I didn’t have a chance to meet Arnie. The autograph on an Augusta National scorecard is as close as I came.
That scorecard with the prominent signature hangs in a frame on the wall next to a picture that was also a gift. It is a large black and white photo of a youthful Arnie at the Masters signing an autograph for a youngster. It’s that photo, more than the autograph, that catches my attention and piques my interest.
It was apparently taken before a practice round in 1963 or ’64, based on a series badge in the picture. Near the first tee, with putter under his arm, Arnie is signing what appears to be the ticket of a young boy wearing a plaid shirt, golf hat topping his head.
Next to the lad is an older gentleman who I take to be the youngster’s grandfather. (This being a photo from more than half a century ago, I get to make up a story about the characters.) Near them is a gentleman with sunglasses who isn’t looking in the direction of the golfer and the child.
In the center of the photo is a woman, also with shades to protect her eyes from the bright day. She has a skirt and blouse, soft drink in hand and a paper ticket dangling from her waist as she watches the golfer and boy. To the far right, standing behind Arnie, is a middle-aged man with a Panama-style hat on his head, series badge affixed to his shirt.
When people visit and see the photo on the wall, they often ask if I am the young boy getting the signature from Arnie. That, of course, is not the case. Why then is that framed picture so important to me? Why does the autograph next to it mean anything? 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 hitter on it?
It’s because memories matter, just as names do. Even though I wasn’t in the photo, I did attend the Masters those years and followed Arnie as much as my young legs would allow. I met Skinner for only 30 seconds at his front door, but it was an unforgettable moment for a youngster to meet a major league baseball player.
At the beginning of this, I said I don’t collect autographs. But I have the signatures of classmates from junior high through high school in the annals on a shelf in my office. Occasionally I thumb through those and view the names written by friends more than 50 years ago. It’s a connection to the past as I scan the signatures and remember that names do matter.
"that" - Google News
January 10, 2021
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THIS AND THAT: A rose by any other name - Charleston Post Courier
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