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Aug 20, 2004 My husband is a consummate baseball fan. Wait. Let me rephrase that. The consummate baseball fan. Of all time. Really. His favorite team is the Yankees and he swears he’s been a fan since “in utero.” His Dad listened to ball games on the radio and Alan says he absorbed all the stats and information about games and players by “osmosis.” Even though no team tops his favorite one, ( how could they ? he would ask incredulously should someone venture to question him ), he does show a keen interest in Little League (he was a coach for a Bad News Bears-type team), Triple A clubs, and, just recently, Independent League teams. It was his friend Eldo aka Hobbes, from Staten Island, who had sparked his interest in the “indies.” Thus it was that one warm, breezy night at the end of June, 2002, we found ourselves seated with Hobbes and his wife-to-be Pauline, at the Newark Bears’ stadium. Let me mention here that Hobbes is also a die-hard Yankee fan. Pauline, like me, enjoys the Yankees a lot, but I wouldn’t say we are die-hard fans. In other words we are able to leave the stands to get a soda during a game and not worry that we are missing something. We both figure if it is important enough someone will fill us in on it. There isn’t much that can rival sitting at a baseball game in a “ball field-type” stadium on a warm Summer’s night with a sweet breeze blowing. Don’t get me wrong, there will always be a special excitement about major league stadiums that cannot be denied, but the intimacy that encircles a “ball field,” as opposed to a large stadium, is more relaxing. The game goes faster, the players are more accessible to meet, and the organized antics on the field between innings, sponsored by the ball club are fun. Both the kids participating and the adults watching them have a good time. We were seated three rows from the field, just to the right of home plate sipping lemonade, talking, and watching the game, when my husband suddenly leans over me, stares at a man in the row one aisle seat, and yells in my ear. Normally he is a very laid back guy, not prone to yelling in my ear, however, baseball can do strange things to grown men. So he shouted into my left ear: “Hey! Isn’t that Rick Cerone?! It is Rick Cerone!” Hobbes, alerted by Alan’s shout, turns and shouts back into my right ear: “I think it is Rick Cerone!” “Where?” I ask. I am speaking a little too loudly also, but that may be because I can’t hear myself talking since I am now deaf. Alan and Hobbes point to row one. I look down to see a man with thick grayish hair and a ready smile, dressed casually in shorts and a loose shirt. “It’s Rick Cerone! That man is Rick Cerone!” Gee, I wonder, do we think Mr. Cerone heard us, just two rows back, shouting his name and pointing at him? If he did he was being a gentleman about it and gave no sign that he heard. As the men talk excitedly about Rick’s stats and his playing days with the Yankees I lean forward and call: “Mr. Cerone? Excuse me Mr. Cerone, but, when there’s a break in the game, may I take a picture of you with my husband and his friend ?” He turns and smiles, nodding assent, then asks if I mind waiting a bit since he has something to do right now. As he gets up, he assures me he will be right back. I am impressed. Alan is aghast that I’ve “bothered Rick” and tells me to wait until the ninth inning so “Rick” is not disturbed during the game. Alan has class. I decide not to tell him that he has probably made me deaf. I don’t want to ruin the game for him. When Mr.Cerone comes back he is with three little girls, two of whom are his daughters. Tonight is his oldest daughter’s birthday. He smiles at me and sits down to watch the game. The girls make their way through ice cream and jaw-breakers and avidly watch the game with their Dad. At one point, his younger daughter, referring to the pitcher, says: “Daddy? Can you tell the manager to take him out and put somebody else in?” He laughs and says no, Daddy can’t do that. It is nice to see this interplay between father and daughter. Also nice to see that he leaves the calls to the manager and lets his daughter know that is the right thing to do. I am slightly antsy waiting for just the right moment to interrupt him. I do not want to seem pushy. Alan tells me to wait; let “Rick” tell me when it is okay to have the picture taken. I marvel that he is on a first name basis with Mr. Cerone since they’ve never met. I tell him this; he says I’m way too formal. I stick my tongue out at him. It seems that Alan is the only one not willing to disturb Rick Cerone, however. From the sixth inning on he is besieged by a regular conga line of people who want his autograph. A lot of them come with their kids figuring he won’t say no to children. There is even one woman, who, how can I say this delicately, has imbibed a tad much. She goes up to him three different times, blocks his view of the field, breathlessly calls him “Rick” and talks for fifteen minutes each time! Even so he is a gentleman to her and very polite. Yay, Rick! The man keeps impressing me. In the ninth inning, as the conga line slows down I decide to make my “move.” It is the end of the ninth when I get up and very, very nicely, ask if I can get that picture at the end of the game. My husband is slightly mortified because I didn’t wait for “Rick” to tell me it was time now to take the picture. Rick Cerone turns, (there’s that great smile again ), and says okay, sure. At the end of the game Alan and Hobbes go stand with Rick Cerone, introducing themselves as well as Pauline and me, and all three men pose for one of the nicest shots I have ever taken. He is very urbane and talks with them for a good ten minutes about baseball, tonight’s game, answering questions about his own career. When he hears Eldo’s name he tells them his middle name is Aldo, very similar, he says with a smile. He doesn’t rush them and the three of them talk as if they were friends who grew up in the same neighborhood. I am thrilled at how he puts them at ease. Not all celebrities are as nice. Some really don’t want to be bothered and some act as if they are making a big sacrifice just to talk to a fan. Rick Cerone is the best type of celebrity. He sits in the stands and makes everyone who approaches him feel welcome. He said I could get a picture and he didn’t let me down. He made his fans feel welcome and that is important. The fact that he wants to give something back to the community where he grew up says a lot about the man. As we turn to leave I look back at him, standing there and talking to his daughters. I smile and he smiles back. “Take care,” he says to us. “Thanks Mr. Cerone!” I say. “Call me Rick,” he says. “Okay. Good-night, Rick!” Hey, I can be on a first name basis too, especially with a first-class celebrity like Rick Cerone. ------------ About the author Kristen Houghton: Working on a book of short stories, I write a column, "The Writer's Block" on observations of everyday life and a column for educators called iTeach! Email: Krisnalan@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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