With the passing of Bob Feller, I'd like to share a story about the time I met the Cleveland great. It was during the 1997 All-Star game festivities and I was lucky enough, thanks to my father the mud salesman and his connections with the Mud People, to be in attendance for the game and all of the other silliness that surrounds the mid-summer classic.
On the night before the game MLB was honoring some of the greatest living Indians, and Feller was the main attraction. After searching desperately for Paul O'Neill so I could cut off a lock of his curly hair and keep it in my freezer, I wound up in the lobby of the ballroom and there was Feller.
And clumbering (made-up word).
17-year old Derwood: "Hi, Mr. Feller!"
Feller: "Frgwershelsky! Shahanafre, klrghghghgh."
Derwood: "Mr. Feller, would you mind signing this baseball?"
Derwood: "Mr. Feller?"
And then he was gone, presumably to board his spaceship. It would've ruined the whole night except I finally got someone to introduce me to Pat Tabler at the shrimp cocktail station.