I was nine years old the first time I ever visited New York City. My mother promised me that if I accompanied her on a trip to Connecticut to visit our relatives, she would in turn take me to the big city for the day. I told her I would only go if we could eat at Mickey Mantle's restaurant while we were in the city. I had heard that the Mick himself occasionally dropped in on his restaurant to sign autographs for his fans. Being nine and in love with baseball, the long-shot chance to meet my idol was well worth a week spent with my cousins.

After five days of fighting with my cousins, my mother and I set off for NYC, and Mickey Mantle's. I made sure to wear my Yankees hat, even though I was a Twins fan, because I knew that would impress Mickey. I carried a baseball with me all the way from Minnesota so that I would have something for Mickey to sign. When the train stopped I wanted to go straight to the restaurant, but my mother said no. "We'll go there for lunch, there is so much I want you to see," she said.

"Why can't we eat lunch now and then see everything else?" I asked. "Because it's nine in the morning," my mom replied.

Instead of going straight to the restaurant I received the news that I would have to put off my date with the Mick and go to a number of places I dreaded and look at a bunch of crap I didn't want to see. Oh, and it was pouring rain. I'm sure the Statue of Liberty is tremendous, but it's hard to really see it when you spend the whole time fighting small and swift Japanese tourists over the last $3.00 umbrella on Liberty Island.

Six soaking wet hours later, with my stomach rumbling and my opinion of NYC rapidly dwindling, we finally set off for Mantle's. Being that it was now 3:00 and the lunch rush was over, I figured that there was no possible way the Mick would still be there. My first trip to NYC would be completely ruined.

The restaurant was nearly empty. There was a young couple seated by the window and two older gentlemen seated towards the back. As the hostess led us to our table, I asked her if there was any chance that The Mick would show up.

"You're in luck, he's sitting at the back table right now." My heart jumped. Not only was Mickey Mantle eating there, but the place was empty. He would have all sorts of time to talk to me. Once he saw that I was wearing a Yankees hat, he would probably ask me to sit down and talk with him. He might even give me some of the Yankees memorabilia lining the walls. I need to play it cool, I thought to myself, so he would be sure to like me. I sat down and began to plan my approach.

After working up the courage I left the comfort of my mother and set off towards the back

table

table. As I got closer I began to freeze. What if I made an ass of myself? What if Mickey Mantle did't like me? Would he still sign my baseball? As these thoughts were screaming in my head I noticed that I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking and I bumped right into Mickey's table.

The first thing I noticed was a strong odor coming from Mickey and his compatriot that I could not identify at the time. (After four years at college I can now, with confidence, say that it was the heavy smell of whiskey emitting from the two gentlemen.)

I stood there for what seemed like an hour before I finally gained my composure and blurted out, "Mr. Mantle I'm a huge fan of yours and I was wondering if I could have your autograph?"

I held out my baseball for Mickey to sign. He glanced at the ball and reached across the table towards a heaping pile of postcards.

"What's your name?" he said without looking at me. "Ben," I said.

With a flick of his wrist he wrote "To Ben, Mickey Mantle" across his picture on the postcard and handed it to me, not once looking up from the table. "Thank you," I said.

As I walked away I realized that I had blown it. For some reason Mickey Mantle hadn't liked me. He barely even acknowledged I was there. I was devastated.

I sat down across from my mom. She asked to see the autograph. "You really should go get one for your brother," she said.
A light clicked in my head. If I asked him for another autograph he would realize what a great fan of his I was and then he would ask me to sit down, or at the very least look at me.

With greater confidence I strode back to Mickey's table. This time would be better. "You again?" Mickey said as I approached the table. I was surprised he knew it was me seeing that once again, he hadn't looked at me.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, Mr. Mantle, my brother is a really big fan of yours, just like me. Could you sign a card for him?"

"What's his name?" he said, reaching towards the stack at the end of the table. "Al," I said. He signed the card for my brother and handed it back to me.

As I attempted to thank him and draw him into conversation he looked up at me and said, "That's the last one kid. Get the fuck out of here." At least he finally looked at me.