They’re like, ‘Oh, we found another ball to play with,’ because they can’t read it. They’re looking for the ball, they find it, and it says, ‘T, line, dot dot, H.’ They don’t know who it is. “A kid hits a home run, hits the ball in the weeds - far. “Think about this: 150 years from now, you’re dead and gone, and kids are playing in a field,” Hunter recalled Killebrew saying.
And that translates to, ‘Hey, I’m down by the bullpen signing, I need to get to the dugout, I’ve got five minutes - how can I get through as fast as I can and still make everybody happy?’ ”īut, he added, Killebrew told him a story. “That’s how things start to shorten and shorten and shorten. “As you’re sitting there signing, your thought process is, ‘How do I get out of here as quick as possible?' ” Granderson said. But as a young player, he often found himself with hundreds of items to sign at a time - for memorabilia companies, for his team, for fans.įor a person with a 10-letter last name, it was overwhelming. “Because there’s no chance they can read them.”Ĭurtis Granderson, a veteran Mets outfielder, said he used to write his name neatly. “Fans say, ‘Can you put your number on there?' ” said Javier Lopez, a reliever for the San Francisco Giants. A recognizable signature, let alone an artful one, now seems as quaint as a Sunday doubleheader. But today’s treasures have little of the elegance of those that came before. Baseball fans still clamor for autographs - as keepsakes, commodities or both.
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