I was driving home from work, stopped by a train, and was glancing through my e-mails. I saw the subject: "Ernie died!!!!"
Ernie? Ernie who?
And then I knew.
I've written before about the culture of us autographers (http://baseballgirl23.blogspot.com/2013/08/my-secret-shame_7.html). We're a strange bunch. We see each other 6 months of the year, and we form alliances, much like you'd see on Survivor, and also, much like Survivor, we betray those alliances when we get a better offer. Graphing is all about us, how much we can get and who we can get. We hate when a guy signs for just one of us, unless we are the one, and then we gloat.
But really, I am not hardcore. I don't care enough. I pout when someone I really like passes me up. But I don't lose sleep over missing someone, even a big name. The guys I usually want the most are ex-Cubs or ex-Twins or someone I want to meet because he has a great beard. I don't care about the big names because I will never sell anything and because I have no one to brag to except the guys I graph with, and, really, they won't let me brag.
Most of the guys who do this don't like me. They humor me because they know I'll help them identify the players and bring the Twins players over and because sometimes the players only come over because they see the oddity of a woman standing amidst the grown men. But they talk about me behind my back and make fun of the way I squeal with delight and excitement when I see the players. Usually, unless I see one of my friends, I try to stay invisible, hiding behind the legs of Billy Williams, trying to see if a cab is coming.
There used to be another woman who came out with her autographs. Sheila was much older in an ambiguous way. Sometimes I thought she was 50. Sometimes I thought she was 90. She was unorganized but passionate. Sometimes she would limp up to a player, only to spill all of her cards out in a spectacular mess. But she knew almost every player and would trot after them in a way that was so pathetic that the players would often think twice about passing her up, double back, and sign for her. She talked and talked and talked, often to herself, sometimes to other people. She looked unshowered, unkempt. I don't think I ever spoke to her. Not because I'm snobby about that stuff, but because, with the exception of two people, I don't trust any of these guys. I didn't know if her homeless look was just a schtick or if she really was mentally ill. I didn't want to form an alliance with her.
About a year ago, at Cubs Convention, I heard Sheila died. She was a cashier at a grocery store, and she just dropped dead. It was shocking, but I suppose it shouldn't have been. She didn't look healthy ever. My friends teased me. "That's going to be you," they would say, and I laughed on the outside, but on the inside I was terrified. What if that was me? What if my death became the punch line for a group of graphers who had always made fun of me anyway? What if that was all I left behind?
I later heard about people buying cards from her "estate." It made my skin crawl, to think of strangers (or, maybe worse, those I'd stood collecting with) picking over my treasures, talking one of my siblings down in price.
The first time I saw Ernie, I was appalled. I know, I know, that's horrible, but I was trying to be invisible--remember? He was somehow both large and small at the same time, with just a few teeth, moving with a liquid slowness, the way a slug moves on the bottom of an aquarium. He talked loudly and incoherently, sharing stories of both success and rejection with the other old timers. His clothes were torn and stained and ill-fitting. I assumed he was homeless, or nearly so.
I saw him a lot, almost every time I was out. He was usually clutching just one baseball wrapped in a baggie and a blue pen. He didn't drive, just took the train to Wrigley or to the Cell, and usually sat outside the park waiting for the big names. He didn't care so much about all the little guys. There's a guy in Chicago, one of the biggest autograph dealers in the country, and he'd give Ernie 10-20 bucks if he bagged a big name. I didn't like that either, but then I started to think that the guy must be pretty hard up to stand outside all day for the possibility of 10-20 bucks.
He could be pretty aggressive, too. When a big name, like Jeter or McGwire, came by, he would press his way to the front. I think sometimes people stopped for him because they felt bad for him, but sometimes it was just his sheer wily nature, the way he would slip his baseball in deftly between two other people and get the autograph. One time he pressed up against my back to get Yu Darvish. I was so mad that I was seeing red. I didn't want this gross guy pressing up against me just to get a stupid autograph.
But when the crowd went down, he came up to me. "Hey, Alex," he said, and I was surprised he knew my name. "Did you get him?" He didn't ask in a mean way, or like he was annoyed. He seemed to genuinely care.
"Yes," I said, apprehensively, trying to figure out why he wanted to know.
"Oh, well, that's just great for you!" he said, and not sarcastically. Sincerely. "I missed him, but I guess I'll get him next time.'
After that, we were fast friends. For the next few years, he always greeted me at the park, always asked me before he asked any of the guys if I needed help getting an autograph. He always seemed glad to see me, not like he was annoyed that there was one more person out there to ruin his chances of success. He came to the park nearly every day. Some days, he just didn't look well, and he would find a place to sit in the shade, but usually he looked the way he always looked and stood around with us, angling for the best spot. Sometimes his adult son would come to the park and they would work together. They were nice people, really just nice to everyone.
I got used to seeing him, which is why it was so sad that he sat out the entire 2015 season after getting knee surgery. We all missed him and talked about him, saying he was on the DL for the season. We saw his wife, who was a vendor at Sox Park, and asked for updates.
"Oh, he's just so stubborn. Won't do his physical therapy." She told us he was always cranky because he was cooped up in the house. She spoke about saving her tips to buy him something, but I don't remember what. I knew they didn't have a lot of money.
His son came out to a lot of games as well, and we asked about Ernie. "Oh, you know Dad. He's always grilling me about who I got and telling me I should've gone for the big guys. I tell him, get better and come out there with me then."
Even though Ernie was gone, he was always with us. We talked and told stories. like the time Ernie was too lazy to walk inside the bar to use the bathroom and subsequently was fined for public urination. I think he talked his way out of it, but everyone told the story differently. We talked about the way he weasled in for autographs. We talked about how strange it was that he wasn't there.
I knew he had bad knees. I didn't know he had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, but that's what took him.
My heart hurts. He was a good guy. No, I don't know much about his personal life, but he was part of my autograph family. He was the patriarch, or at least the weird uncle that everyone likes.
I hope he is not forgotten. But I know he won't be. His legend will live with all of us who graph and who knew him.
I scrolled through my thousands of pictures, and I don't have one single picture of him. I hope I find one and can add it to this post.
This one's for you, Ernie.
“He Is Not Dead"
by James Whitcomb Riley
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.”
