The Autograph

IT ALL started last spring. I went back to my old junior high school to give a talk on college life, as a favor to my old guidance counselor.

I was introduced as a Central Junior High School graduate who was attending Harvard, and I talked for most of third period about college, studies, activities, et. al. The kids were not enthralled. Most junior highers are not overly concerned about next week, let alone...

It was painless though. The bell rang, the class piled out, and I was about ready to make my exit, when a little blond-haired boy poked my arm.

"Mister..." The kid meant me.

"If you go to Harvard do you know Tom Sanders?"

"Well not exactly...I, ah, know who he is, but..."

"Do you think you could get me his autograph?"

"Well...ah...Ya, I guess I could--when he comes to Harvard next fall."

It sounded like a simple way to make a kid happy. No big deal, right? Wrong.

If you think differently, you didn't grow up around Boston in the sixties, and you don't know who Tom Sanders really is.

Tom Sanders played forward for the Celtics when the New York Knicks used to finish last. Tom Sanders played through ten years of Celtics dynasty. In those days the Herald, the Globe and the Record would take turns once a week writing a story about how Tom Sanders was the most underrated basketball player in the N.B.A., the best defensive forward in basketball, unfairly over-shadowed by high scorers. Tom Sander's Number 16 dangles from atop the Boston Garden right beside the 6 and 14 of immortals Bill Russell and Bob Cousy.

But I had made a promise and I had to follow through.

So one afternoon in mid-October I headed over to Sanders's office at the I.A.B.

Nervously I asked the janitor where I could find Coach Sanders.

"He's upstairs in the gym running a practice. You can go on up if you want."

I had this vision of walking up to him, trying to get his attention as he busily supervised the practice. I'd start to talk in a kind of quiet voice and then there'd be a silence--no grimaces, no flying elbows, no squeaking sneakers, no dripping sweat--silence. Just all these basketball players looking at me while I asked Tom Sanders for his autograph. And then bang--everyone on the floor laughing, holding their sides to stop from dying.

This approach had its weak points.

"Ah, no thanks. I'll come back some other time, when he's in his office, alone...that is, uh, alone. Wouldn't want to intrude." And smiling I backed my way out of the I.A.B.

THE NEXT time I came back in the morning when all basketball players are busy studying and coaches are X-ing and O-ing definitive plays. In their offices. Alone.

I ducked into the I.A.B., filed a nod of recognition from the janitor, turned the corner, and walked straight down the corridor to Sanders's office. I was unsettled. His door was closed. It occurred to me that maybe coaches don't like to be disturbed when they're making definitive plays. Maybe they get bitchy.

I pondered, I hestitated, and...hell, I knocked...No answer. I knocked again and still no answer. This relaxed me. I knocked again nine or ten times just to make sure no one was in there hiding under a desk or something. Still no answer. I felt better. After all, the kid couldn't blame me if Tom Sanders wasn't there.

But ultimately I am a man of conscience. Slow conscience. Two weeks later I headed back to the I.A.B. I walked out of the gray afternoon and into the building--ignoring the janitor, turning the corner, and heading straight down the corridor for the crucial door.

It was open and Jesus Christ there he was. He didn't look as scary without Bill Russell beside him. He didn't look as scary with a polo shirt, sweater and glasses. He didn't look as scary sitting down.

But I was still pretty clammy. I panicked--Was it Tom? Satch? Tom "Satch" Sanders? Mr. Tom "Satch" Sanders, sir?

"Ah, hello...there. I'm a student here and I...ah, promised this kid from my hometown an autograph, ah, your autograph...and I ah, was wondering..."

He smiled. "How're you doing," he asked.

Jesus Christ, what does that have to do with anything, was the only thing I could think. However I managed an "I'm fine" as I pulled a sheet of folded (and by now slightly brown-from-age) paper from my pocket.

"His name is Roy Mastico."

Sanders penned a large "Tom 'Satch' Sanders" together with some best wishes. I thanked him. There was a pregnant pause, and I felt pressured to deliver:

"Ummmm...how's the basketball team look this year Coach?"

Creative.

I don't really remember how the basketball team is going to look this year. When Sanders stopped talking I thanked him and left.

I walked down the corridor, around the corner, past the janitor and out of the I.A.B. I was proud of myself. Ultimately I had handled the whole thing pretty smoothly--except I wished I had brought a second piece of paper with me.