Usually, I'm the type who remembers dates (and I don't mean the kind with women; I never had that many.) Case in point, I recall my grandma and mom got caught in a flash flood on September 22, 1993, and the previous two times I've vomited were October 14, 1994 and September 26, 2004.
The reason I mention this is that one of the coolest things that ever happened to me was actually one of the very things that I can't recall what day it was.
It was a weeknight during the summer in St. Louis, probably four or five years ago, and I had just finished getting a haircut at Hair Saloon for Men, a fine establishment. They offer you beer or soda when you arrive, and there are also complimentary shoeshines available. (I must admit, though, here in Kansas City I frequent Sports Clips, which is also a great place. I might even prefer it over Hair Saloon. True, Hair Saloon felt a bit classier {Sports Clips has more of a "Great Clips" feel to it}, but they have sports on TVs everywhere in the place and you can get the "MVP," which is the best haircut they offer, for $20, and it includes haircut, massaging shampoo, steaming face towel, leave-in conditioner, and a shoulder and neck massage {though it's with one of those rubber-knobbed things you always see people screwing around with at Brookstone, but still}. It's a solid, but affordable place.)
Anyway, the haircut wasn't the cool part of the story. I was departing the Saloon and approaching my car when an elderly voice asked me if I could help him put his wife's wheelchair into the trunk of their car. I'm a generally nice guy, so I said I would give him a hand. I looked at the man as I approached the wheelchair. It took me about half a second to realize who he was.
Though he was pushing 80, I knew it was Stan Musial, one of the greatest baseball players of all-time. (I guess if you aren't a sports fan, this might not be a big deal, but insert your favorite rap artist or architect into the story, and you'd get the idea). I literally have a hazy recollection of the next 30 seconds. I was in this shocked state because I was helping Stan Musial with his wife's wheelchair. I put it into the back of his Caddy and was prepared to go on my way.
Then Stan said to me, "Thanks, son; here you go." He had reached into a cardboard box in his trunk and tossed me an autographed baseball. (I guess he kept a boxful for every possible occasion, including the "thanks for putting my wife's wheelchair in the trunk after we ate dinner at this fancy restaurant" occasion). I said, "Thanks," and that was pretty much the only word I got out during the whole conversation.
Honestly, I don't care much for the autographed ball. I'm looking at it on the shelf as I write this, and the signature starting to fade. I'm sure it might be worth something if it were in better shape, but I don't think I'd ever sell it anyway. I appreciate the great story I can tell from time to time much more than any souvenir. Those two or three phone calls I made to the people I knew who would REALLY appreciate my run-in with Stan the Man right after it happened was the most fun I had had in a long time.
Here's a few Stan links, if you aren't too familiar with the guy.
Stan Musial at Wikipedia
his official site
his entry at baseballlibrary.com
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