The Autograph I Didn't Take

When Darryl Strawberry came to a Somerset Patriots game last season, I did not get his autograph.

That sentence would have sounded ridiculous to the version of me who grew up in the 1980s. I was not merely a Mets fan in the casual sense. I had all the cards. I knew the statistics that mattered to me. I had the posters, the red signature glove, the whole accumulation of small objects that said, without anybody needing to explain it, that Darryl Strawberry was not just a player I liked. He was the player. The big, elegant, impossible-looking center of the Mets universe at the exact moment when the team felt like it belonged to everyone who had ever been underestimated, annoyed, or told to wait their turn.

The 1986 Mets were not quiet about anything. They were talented enough to be frightening, dramatic enough to become folklore, and imperfect enough to make the whole thing feel alive. The World Series did not arrive as a tidy sports memory. It arrived with late nights, grown-ups talking too loudly in living rooms, radios playing somewhere nearby, and that strange sense children have when they know the adults are emotionally invested in something but do not fully understand why. I remember the baseball, of course, but I also remember the atmosphere around it. The season seemed to have its own electricity. Darryl Strawberry was part of that electricity. He looked enormous on television, not only because he was physically imposing, but because childhood has a way of making certain people feel too large for ordinary life. You do not imagine them buying groceries, getting tired, or sitting in traffic. You imagine them hitting baseballs into another zip code.

That is what heroes are when you are young. They are not people in the full sense. They are evidence that a thing can happen. They make your own small world feel connected to something louder and more glamorous. A baseball card is not cardboard; it is a piece of access. A poster is not decoration; it is a declaration. You collect enough of those little objects and you begin to believe you possess a small share of the story. I did not know Darryl Strawberry. I knew the version of him that arrived through Mets broadcasts, trading cards, sports pages, and the kind of neighborhood conversation where everyone was certain they would have made a different managerial decision from the couch.

Then time does what time always does. It keeps moving while the heroes stay frozen in the years when you first needed them. You grow up. You learn that athletes have lives that do not begin when the game starts and end after the postgame interview. You learn that fame can be punishing, that talent does not protect anybody from pain, and that public stories can flatten people into a few chapters they have spent years trying to outlive. Strawberry has lived more of his life in public than most people should ever have to. He has endured difficult chapters that were watched, judged, replayed, and reduced into headlines by people who did not have to carry any of them. Over time, he has also spoken openly about faith, recovery, and the work of becoming something more than the worst thing people remember about you. That matters. It should matter.

It also changed the idea of meeting him.

When he appeared at the Patriots game, the opportunity was sitting right there in the kind of setting that makes minor league baseball feel slightly magical. At a big stadium, a childhood hero remains protected by distance, security, suites, layers of access, and the general machinery of celebrity. At a Patriots game, someone who shaped your entire childhood can be standing a few yards away, signing things while families work out whether they have enough time before the next inning. The impossible becomes local. The legend is suddenly part of the evening's schedule, somewhere between the first pitch, the mascot, and the snack run.

I knew I could have waited. The line was not the issue. I have stood in longer lines for less meaningful things, and I am not above a good baseball line when the prize at the end is a memory. The issue was not inconvenience. It was what I wanted the interaction to do for me.

For years, the imagined autograph had been simple. I would meet Darryl Strawberry. I would say something intelligent but not overly rehearsed. He would sign a ball, a card, maybe one of the old things I had kept. I would go home with proof that the player I cared about as a kid had crossed into my adult life for a few seconds. That is the version of the story we are taught to want. The meeting becomes the capstone. The hero becomes real. The fan gets to tell people, "I met him."

But standing there at the ballpark, I realized I did not actually want a capstone. I wanted to preserve the foundation.

The memory I had of Strawberry was not incomplete because it lacked a signature. It already had a signature. It was written in the way the 1986 Mets felt. I did not need a new scene to validate those old scenes. In fact, I worried that I was asking a current, fully human person to perform a small service for a version of myself who had been waiting in 1987 with a marker in his hand.

That is an unfair job to give anybody, especially somebody who has been asked to carry the weight of public expectation for decades. The line at an autograph appearance is made of people bringing their own private history to one person. Some want a signature. Some want a photo. Some want a few seconds of eye contact that confirms the person they admired was kind, present, or still somehow theirs. There is nothing wrong with that. It is one of the gentler rituals in sports. But it is also a strange arrangement when you stop to think about it. A person is asked, over and over, to meet the emotional needs of people who remember him at different ages.

I watched the line and understood that everyone in it was carrying a different Darryl Strawberry. There were people old enough to remember the 1986 season in real time. There were younger fans who knew him as a Mets legend first and a human story second. There were parents with kids who may have recognized the name without yet understanding why their father suddenly became fourteen years old again. The line was not just a line. It was a stack of memories waiting for a turn.

I could have joined it. I might have had a perfectly lovely interaction. He might have been gracious, generous, funny, or exactly the person I hoped he would be. I do not believe disappointment was inevitable. The phrase "never meet your heroes" is too neat for real life, and real people deserve better than the suspicion that they will ruin the story simply by showing up. Sometimes meeting a hero is wonderful. Sometimes it gives you a better story than the one you carried in. Sometimes a person exceeds every version you built from the distance.

But there is another possibility that does not get discussed as often: sometimes you do not need to find out.

Sometimes the right decision is not driven by fear of disappointment. It is driven by gratitude for what you already have. I did not want my final memory of Darryl Strawberry to become an adult interaction shaped by heat, a crowd, a marker, a busy schedule, and whatever kind of day either of us happened to be having. I did not want a ten-second exchange to have the power to compete with a childhood full of larger memories. I wanted the 1980s to keep their color. I wanted the player who mattered to me then to stay connected to the feeling of that time, not because I was denying the person he became, but because the memory belonged to a particular version of me.

That distinction matters. Protecting a childhood memory is not the same as refusing to see a hero as human. In fact, it can be a form of respect. It lets the person move through the world without demanding that he continue performing the role you assigned him decades ago. Darryl Strawberry does not owe me a perfect ending to a story I wrote in my bedroom with baseball cards and a Mets poster. He has his own life, his own hard-earned perspective, his own reasons for standing in a ballpark in Somerset and giving time to fans who still want a little piece of that old world. I can appreciate that without asking him to complete anything for me.

The funny thing is that not getting the autograph became its own memory. I remember the ballpark, the possibility, the internal debate, and the quiet decision to leave the line alone. I remember recognizing that the old urge was still there. The kid who had collected everything had not disappeared. He was standing right beside me, still excited, still convinced that this might be the chance. But the adult version of me had a different job. The adult had to decide whether the moment would add something real or simply put a period at the end of a sentence that did not need one.

That is the part of growing up nobody explains very well. You do not always outgrow the things you loved. Sometimes you become their caretaker. You learn how to revisit them without demanding that they stay exactly the same. You learn how to let people have their own lives beyond the roles they played in yours. You learn that nostalgia does not have to mean denial. It can mean knowing which memories are still doing good work and leaving them alone.

Baseball is especially good at teaching this because it is always offering you chances to touch the past. Old players return. Anniversaries arrive. Jerseys are retired. Somebody throws out a first pitch and suddenly a stadium full of adults is trying to explain to their children why a name from another era still matters. The game carries its own archive. It keeps the old stories close enough that you can almost step into them again, but it never lets you forget that the people inside those stories kept aging while you were busy remembering them.

At a Patriots game, that distance gets even smaller. That is the minor league magic of it. The game is close enough to touch. The players are close enough to hear. A former Met can show up on an ordinary night and turn the concourse into a time machine for anyone who grew up watching him. The local setting makes everything feel possible. It also makes the choices more personal. You are not one of sixty thousand people staring at a jumbotron. You are a person at a ballpark deciding whether to walk twenty feet toward an old dream.

I decided not to.

I do not regret it. I do not regret the autograph I did not get, because it was never really about ink. I still have the cards. I still remember the glove. I still remember what it felt like when the Mets were not just a team but a shared language. I still remember the 1986 World Series as a season that seemed to spill out of the television and into the rest of life. Those memories have not been weakened by the passing years. They have become more specific, more private, and somehow more valuable.

Maybe I missed an opportunity. That is always possible. Maybe the interaction would have been warm enough to become another good chapter. But I also avoided making a new memory I did not need. I kept the old one intact, not behind glass, not frozen in denial, but in the place where it has always belonged: among the bright, loud, unedited years of being a Mets kid who believed Darryl Strawberry was one of the biggest people in the world.

That is enough for me because the autograph I always wanted turned out to be the one I did not take.