Fred end

An All-Star Weekend encounter concludes one man's lifelong sports grudge

by Jason Gay

As expected, Boston's All-Star Weekend provided local folks with a lifetime's worth of memories. Area scalpers realized the childlike thrill of charging corporate plutocrats $2000 for obstructed-view tickets. Green Line riders discovered that more than 398 drunken out-of-towners can cram themselves into a single subway car. And me, I was finally able to close the book on a childhood baseball nightmare.

Here's the story: back in the late 1970s, when I was a tyke, my favorite Red Sox player was Fred Lynn, the center fielder best known for his 1975 feat of winning the American League's Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards in the same season. I was such a Fred Lynn fan that, one night, I dragged my mom to Filene's because my hero was going to be there, signing autographs. When I got there, I must have waited two hours in line. And I was barely 10 feet away from the table where Lynn was signing when a store attendant announced that, sorry, Fred was leaving.

It got worse. As a consolation prize, the store attendant started handing out pre-signed glossy photographs of Fred Lynn, but I was so little that I got trampled in the rush. When all the glossy photos were consumed, the attendant handed out xeroxes of the glossy photo, and, after two hours of standing in line, that's exactly what I got -- a gray photocopy of Fred Lynn's autographed photo. Even at eight years old, I knew what that was: a piece of crap.

From then on, I had a special distaste for Fred Lynn. It was the kind of irrational, deeply personal schadenfreude that only children and the dorkiest of sports fans can sustain. When Lynn was traded to the California Angels and Beantown fans moaned, I cheered. When Lynn's once-limber body became hobbled by injuries and he fell from his usual All-Star status, I smirked. When he closed out his career as a pinch hitter with the San Diego Padres, I chuckled. And lately, when his name slid further and further down in baseball's annual Hall of Fame balloting, I smiled.

But last week, I was reading the paper and saw that, as part of the All-Star jamboree, none other than former Red Sox All-Star Fred Lynn was going to be signing autographs -- at Filene's in Downtown Crossing, of all places. And you know what I started thinking, don't you? Closure, baby.

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Two days later, I'm on the Green Line heading for Park Street. I'm thinking of what I'll say to Fred Lynn when I finally meet him after 20-plus years of festering resentment. So far, I've whittled it down to three options:

a) Fred Lynn, you suck
b) Fred Lynn, you suck monkey ass
c) thank you

To be honest, only a) and b) seem worthwhile. The bitterness is still strong. As I sit on the train, I become hopeful that the Fred Lynn I'll find at Filene's in 1999 is no longer the handsome, lean wonderboy of the 1970s but a bald, beer-gutted has-been with bad teeth, a gimp leg, and a toupee. Wouldn't it be great, I think, if no one shows up at his lousy All-Star Weekend autograph appearance except for me?

Fat chance. When I arrive at Filene's at noon sharp, it's a full-fledged Fred Lynn lovefest. There are dozens of men in their 30s and 40s, some wearing those God-awful polyester jerseys the Sox wore in the 1970s. There are women clutching faded portraits of fabled Freddy, and plenty of kids who seem genuinely excited about meeting a player they never saw play. The line for Lynn's autograph weaves from men's designer shirts to pants to underwear to cologne. There must be 150 people here already; the first ones in line, I'm told, arrived at 9:30 a.m.

And there's Fred Lynn. He's dressed in an orange polo shirt, linen pants, and leather sandals, and his slightly-graying-but-still-thick (sigh) black hair is covered by a khaki-colored All-Star Game cap. He's standing in front of a table of designer ties next to an attractive auburn-haired woman who I guess must be some person of importance in Fred Lynn's life. Fred Lynn himself is tanner than a charter-fishing-boat captain, and his frame is trim and sinewy. He's pretty small compared to today's ballplayers (next to Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa, Lynn would look like Mini-Me), but he appears lean, fit, and athletic, like he could still go out and play two. This is extremely disappointing.

Lynn is introduced by a local sports-radio guy, who gives a quick primer on the former star's accomplishments and explains how fortunate he feels to be here with Fred Lynn, and how we, too, should feel fortunate about being here with Fred Lynn, and generally blathers on about Fred Lynn to the point where everyone, including Fred Lynn, seems to want him to shut up. The radio guy asks Lynn a few questions, and Lynn, who is now in his mid 40s and a baseball analyst for ESPN, is pleasant and forgivingly brief. "He looks so young," an elderly man next to me says. "He's got to be, what, 60 years old?"

I take my place in the autograph line, back by the Ralph Lauren Polo and Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male displays. As I wait, I think about what I should ask Fred Lynn to sign (presuming, of course, that I get his John Hancock this time). Scanning the store, I wonder if I should ask him to sign a pair of Dockers wrinkle-free shorts. What I'd really like him to sign, though, is that crappy xeroxed Fred Lynn photo, but I think my mother threw that out along with my Mark McGwire and Roger Clemens rookie cards a long time ago.

After about 45 minutes of waiting, it's my turn. When I get up to the table, I say, "Hello, my name is Jason, and this is a big thrill for me," and Fred Lynn gives me this politely expectant look that says he's the kind of guy who gets told all the time that it's a thrill to meet him, and you just know he thinks that what I'm going to say next is, " . . . because I was there when you hit two home runs versus so-and-so" or "because I saw you crash into the center-field fence in so-and-so," but instead I say, " . . . because 20 years ago when I was a little kid I went to get your autograph at Filene's and waited a long time but then you left and I didn't get it and I was bummed." And as the words leave my mouth, I feel both exhilarated and more pathetic than I ever have in my life.

When I finish, Fred Lynn looks at me a bit blankly. For a moment I think the security guard over my right shoulder might haul me away. But Fred Lynn pauses for a second and says, "So this must be . . . redemption?"

And that's exactly what it is -- redemption. Redemption of the pettiest of sports grudges and a childhood experience gone wrong. And now by my desk at work is a signed photo of Fred Lynn standing at home plate in his Red Sox uniform. It reads, "To Jason, Thanks for waiting. Fred Lynn, #19."

Jason Gay can be reached at jgay[a]phx.com.