The Charlie Encounter

 

Sean is barely visible as smoke billows from the
final Fireworks Friday at Dutchess Stadium.

He came up the stairs as I was calling the action. Dressed in a Yankees T-shirt and shorts, he blurted out words.

"Will you sign my glove?" he asked.

Now, you should know that I'm used to people approaching me and thinking I'm the public address announcer or the information desk or anything but the radio/TV broadcaster. So, my first thought was he wanted Rick Zolzer to sign it.

Justifiably, as "The Zolz" is the "voice" of Dutchess Stadium. Many get confused, thinking that I'm often him. You don't hear my voice in the stadium otherwise.

That's sad because we used to play the broadcast audio down in the plaza and near the concessions. You can't see the field from down there. So it would be cool to have my call play so fans can know what's going on. I always liked it because the Yankees did the same thing. But, I digress.

So here he was, asking for an autograph. My mind raced. I watched Sean's reaction in this split-second as I continued to call the game.

I turned the mic off and made sure he knew I was only the radio broadcaster. He was positive that he wanted me to sign his glove. I asked him to wait a moment as I continued to call the game. Anthony Volpe was at the plate.

"One ball, one strike," I said with a smile in my voice. "My son is excited right now; smiling because someone wants me to give them an autograph."

I've signed a few. No, really. A few. I remember one in Lowell, MA in 2008 and it was similar. I was on the field, walking past some fans when a group asked if I would sign for them. I told them who I was -- "The number TWO broadcaster for Hudson Valley" -- and one girl insisted I still sign her hat.

There have been a few others. Five times. Maybe.

And now this, all happening live on the air.

"One ball, one strike, three on the left side. Pitch on the way...a check-swing...low and outside...and it's two and one on Anthony Volpe."

I was now leaning on the edge of the booth, hovering over the top row of fans. The funny thing is I had sometimes thought about moving the table in front of me so that I could lean out the window and have a better peripheral view but this was not the moment for that discussion. Besides, my mind was racing.

"It will be a two-one pitch."

What do I do? This shouldn't be that difficult and, yet, it was. I felt so weird.

Volpe fouled a pitch off. I knew it was time.

"Where do you want me to sign it?"

He indicated a spot and, with a ball-point pen (I pondered if there was a Sharpie nearby), I gently scribbled my name on the leather. I thought about if I should add something else like "Renegades Radio" or "Let's go Gades," because, honestly, he might even wonder whose signature that was by tomorrow.

You see, I don't think all that much of who or what I am. Oh, I'm blessed to have a cool job -- I know that. I'm blessed to do what I have done. But, in the grand scheme of things, in a ballpark full of celebrities, I'm not a big deal.

I realize there is a ton of narcissism in my business but I still am bowled over by the wonder of what I do. I marvel at the highlights that run in the stadium with my voice on it. I'm amazed at the audio that is put on social media. I'm overwhelmed by the Jomboy attention. I'm blown away at the number of people who know me or recognize my voice.

My picture and videos featuring me show up on the scoreboard. There's an ad that rotates in for Z93 and me calling the play-by-play. This is all beyond incredible.

But, at the end of the day? I'm Sean's dad. I'm Rascal's human. I'm everyone's friend and confidant.

Yet, somehow, this young man wanted my autograph.

"There you go," I said as I finished signing.

"Thank you," he said.

"Thank YOU," I responded as he began to bounce down the stairs.

"That was pretty cool," I said on the air.

But something bothered me. Nobody got it on camera. No one took a picture. There was, after all, still a game to be played as "If You're Happy and You Know It" played on the PA system. So, thinking fast, I wanted to know who my new "fan" was.

I say "fan" because I'm still expecting the coda of the story to be that he thought I was the voice he heard in the stadium.

"By the way, what's your name?" I asked.

"Charlie," he beamed.

I've never been jaded. Not once. The minute I lose sight of that I'll just be another one of the broadcasters that I don't like. This business is humbling. For every Charlie or anyone else, there are others who can't wait to beat you down.

They send emails to the team saying, "He makes a lot of mistakes," without realizing they made a mistake in their very own email.

You can't please everyone and, overall, I've laughed at the haters and always process the criticism, recognizing I'm miles ahead of you in that criticism. I'm my own biggest critic.

But, on a night when I pleased another viewer/listener by giving their niece a birthday shoutout, I had Charlie, asking for an autograph on a glove that will likely fade.

One that he'll eventually wonder who and what that was and why the heck is some random name on his glove.

One that I'll always remember.

No, Charlie. Don't thank me.

Thank you.