Dennis Blunden & The Say Hey Kid

The first time I saw someone famous I felt a rush like I’d never experienced.  My heart beat faster, my temperature rose.  This could have been because I was in the same room as one of my heroes, but it was only the actor who played Dennis Blunden, the heavy math whiz on the 80’s high school sitcom Head of The Class.  My feeling of elatedness could be explained by being only about 10 or 11, except for the fact that the giddiness, staring then looking away, and speaking in a hushed voice were characteristics shared by both of my parents.

Is that Dennis Blunden?

I think.  Yes that’s him!

His real name is Dan something.

What’s he doing here?

Quiet, he’s just trying to eat some food.

What’s he eating?

Who’s that girl?

He looks so much better than on the show.

Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s Dennis Blunden.

Do you think he hears us?

Quiet!  Let’s not ruin his date.

Smiles stretched across our faces, except for my younger brother, who just stared, wide-eyed and open mouthed, at a man he had only seen shrunken within the square screen of our television.  He was too young to be excited like we were, to feel the power of being close to someone famous, to worry about them seeing you looking.  He was trapped in the initial feeling of awe, as if he had just seen a dog talk or a piece of paper stand up and walk away.  His awe made me even more aware of the fact that my parents and I were acting almost exactly the same, as if there were only 2 stages to seeing celebrities: Complete Awe, and Teenage Girl Gossiping.  If you have never imagined your parents as teenage girls, it is a strange experience.  Now throw yourself in the mix and imagine you’re sitting across from Dave Coulier or Jaleel White.

Celebrity sightings seemed to come more often when the family was together.  Maybe we created some kind of gravitational pull hitherto unknown in the universe.  Except for the fact that we almost never saw anyone famous.  We lived in San Francisco, not Hollywood, and we ate at nearby restaurants, not the hip ones in Chinatown or Northbeach.  The fact that we ever saw anyone famous was kind of amazing.

Our next big celebrity sighting was Willie Mays.  If you don’t know the first thing about baseball, he’s up there with Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth.  If you don’t know them then I’ll say he’s up there with the best of the best.  Abrahams and Zucker, or Lennon and MacCartney or Lonely Island and Turquoise Jeep.  There, now that my plugs for a google search are out of the way I’ll get back to the story.

Willie Mays was an all around great hitter and fielder, who once caught a ball while running in the other direction.  He played for the Giants in New York, and came with them for the move to San Francisco late in his career.  Candlestick Park is a huge, pitcher-friendly place, and many speculated that Mays would have broke Aaron’s homerun record had the Giants stayed in New York.  Even if he did, Barry “The Cream The Clear” Bonds broke all of their records, as well as my faith in baseball.

Anyway, so the family and some friends are at a game at Candlestick in the 90’s.  We aren’t sitting with the rest of the crowd, braving the bitter cold, as we normally would have.  Instead we have box seats.  Between the upper and lower decks of most sports stadiums, is a row of square rooms.  Facing the field, instead of a wall, is a large window.  Also, between some of the boxes are windows instead of walls.  I’m not sure why this is.  Maybe so that one group of rich people can wave to another, or after a homerun they can do an air high five, from opposite sides of the glass, like when a prisoner’s wife visits him in jail.

I don’t remember much of that game.  I don’t remember who won.  I do remember opening the small part of the window that did open, and yelling “Daaaaarryl” to Darryl Strawberry.  The other thing I remember was that in the middle of the game, my Dad taps me on the shoulder.

“Illy Ays,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, as if people were listening.

“What?”

“Ex Or.  Illy Ays.”  Then he gestured with his eyes, a movement so small I barely saw it.  I leaned forward and looked through the glass.  Next door to, amid a large group of Giants fans watching the game, was the Greatest Giant to ever live.  I felt my pulse quicken and I looked up at my father, who had an excitement in his eye I had never seen before.

“Don’t stare,” he said, suddenly recovering his consonants.  I immediately thought of my brother, the starer.  Would he run up to the glass so close he fogged it up.  Would Willie Mays roll his eyes and look at me as if to say “What a couple of stupid brothers?”  I couldn’t let that happen.

I turned back toward the game.  “Ike.  On’t are.”

“What?” he turned toward me.

“Ook at a  ase all ame!  On’t ook at me!”  I accidently said me.

“What?”

“I ed…”

“What, you’re an idiot?  Okay, Dan.”  He was the only little brother in the world who also picked on me.  I turned toward him.

“Listen asshole, Willie Mays is over there and I won’t let you mess this up for me.”

“Where?”  He stood up, ran up to the glass facing the field and started looking everywhere.  “Is he sitting down there?  Is he buying a malt?  Does he get a real spoon instead of the little flat piece of wood?  Is he playing left field?”

The hitter hit a foul ball.  I jumped and cheered for it as if it were a homerun, then pulled my brother back to his seat.  I leaned close to his ear.  “Don’t look!  He’s next door.  Don’t look!  Willie Mays is right next…”  He was already looking.  I didn’t look to see if Willie was looking, because then I would seem to be connected to my brother, the strarer, and he’s hate us both.  I kept looking straight ahead while attempting to kick my brother sideways.  “Games’ up front, buddy.  Games’ up front.”

Mike turned and faced front.  Amazingly, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.  “It’s Willie Mays!” he whispered excitedly.

“I know!” I whispered happily back, the two of us sharing in the excitement for the first time.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” I replied

“Listen up.”  My father’s voice was barely a whisper, and his was leaning into his pack at his feet.  He picked up a pair of binoculars and pretended to clean the lenses.  “Here’s what you do.  You discreetly watch and when he leaves, probably a little before the game ends, you go out and politely ask for an autograph.”  My father returned the binos to the backpack and looked at us.  “7^th Inning Stretch!” he yelled, then winked.

We had our tickets ready.  We had our pens.  We waited.  When the moment came, when Willie and his old black man bodyguard stood up and went towards the back door, we were ready.  We looked at each other, nodded to our father, and went unto the breach.  By the time we came out of our box, they were already standing at the handicap-only elevator, and looking back and forth.

“Mr. Mays, Mr. Mays!”  We repeated, as instructed.  I don’t have an image of them as we approached, but I have a strange memory of looking to the side to see my brother, bobbing and weaving, standing tall and scrunching down, dodging imaginary bodyguards, calling “Mr. Mays, Mr. Mays!”

His older bodyguard stood a little in front, but he didn’t block us.  Mike handed Mr. Mays his ticket.  As Willie signed it the elevator arrived.  I offered my ticket.  “Mr. Mays has signed enough for today.”  And then they vanished into the handicapped elevator.  “Mr. Mays has signed enough for today,” as if he had been sitting there for hours, accommodating hundreds of people, and not just my little brother.  A sinking feeling filled my guts.  I looked and Mike and forced a smile.  He looked at me with such pity that I felt a little better.  It took years for me to get over missing that autograph by a hairsbreadth, but now my brother’s signed ticket doesn’t mean a whole lot to either of us, except a memento of one of our adventures together.