Growing up in rural Northeast Missouri, it came as a special birthday gift from my parents in September of 1973 that they were going to take a friend and I to two Cardinal games to celebrate my 11th birthday. The real treat was that we stayed at the Stoufer Riverfront Inn, the same place the visiting players stayed while in St. Louis.
Upon arrival, Tad and I quickly unpacked our baseball cards and headed to the lobby of the hotel to find as many big-leaguers as we could to ask for autographs. Our luck was very good over the course of the weekend, getting about 15 of the Padres to sign. But the ones that stood out were Cito Gaston and his travel room mate.
We knew it was Clarence Gaston, he looked just like the Topps card in our collections. But the first time we approached him and the extremely tall guy who seemed to be always by his side, he gentleman signed the card "Cito". Confused, we aproached the two again Saturday night after the game. Again, the gentleman took the card and signed it "Cito". The back and the front of the card said his name should be Clarence. Who was this guy Cito?
Finally, late Sunday morning, as the players were checking out of the hotel, and carrying their bags across the garage to Busch Stadium, Tad and I approached him again, to see if we could get Clarence Gaston's autograph. The tall younger guy with him stopped us and asked "Why are you guys after Mr. Gaston again? He's already signed twice for you?" We responded that the signature we had gotten didn't match the name printed on the card, and we were trying to find Clarence Gaston, not Cito. "Cito is his chosen name, it's what he prefers to be called" the younger man told us. 'Are you a player too?" we asked. "Yeah, I'm here for awhile, anyway." he replied. Quickly, we looked through our '73 cards but couldn't find a match. "Oh, there isn't a card of me," he said. "Do yo still want my autograph?" "Well, O.K." I said.
It's not quite 30 years later, but hanging on my office wall is a cut page from an autograph book with a simple black ball-point signature of one of the greatest hitters, and fielders ever, given to a pesky 11 year old on his birthday in 1973. And just in case I forgot to tell you all those years ago, thanks Mr. Winfield, for the autograph.
» Ed McCollum lives with his baseball- hating wife and baseball-loving son in Lincoln, NE. Thirty years later, he still persues autographs from Big-Leaguers whenever he can.
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Copyright © 2003 by Ed McCollum. Posted September 15, 2003.
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