The Chris Moeller Archives

Out in left field, my Lonnie Smith autograph story

During an August weekend in 1988, at the tender age of 13, I endured one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. My old man, my brother, and I were in St. Louis to see the Cardinals play the Braves and Reds on consecutive nights. By the time both ballgames had ended, and I had vigilantly patrolled the stadium and nearby parking garages for the better part of a weekend, I had secured the autographs of Cardinals Ozzie Smith, Joe Magrane, Tony Pena, Steve Lake, Mike Laga (famous for hitting the only ball ever completely out of old Busch Stadium-- it was foul), former Cardinal Ken Oberkfell, Hall-of-Famer Red Schoendienst, and broadcaster Jack Buck. But perhaps the most meaningful "securing," and easily the most scarring, was that of Braves' outfielder Lonnie Smith.

Lonnie Smith, you see, was my first ever "favorite Cardinal." He had been arguably the best hitter on the Cardinals' 1982 World Championship team, a .307 batter for the season who finished second to Atlanta's Dale Murphy in the '82 MVP voting. (He fell on his ass enough in left field, however, that he earned the nickname "Skates.") He was a black man with a mustache and cool sideburns, and I wanted to be a black man with a mustache and cool sideburns. I cannot tell you how many times I scoured the baseball card bin at Kay-Bee Toys at Westdale Mall in Cedar Rapids in the winter of 1985 looking for Lonnie's new Topps-brand card. Kay-Bee carried those see-through chain packs that revealed three different cards in front and three in back. I could still present to you today that complete 1985 Topps-brand set of cards in protective plastic sheets, and I swear to you even now that the Lonnie Smith card, portraying the Cardinal in a corkscrew-looking backswing and revealing his uniform back #27 is the shiniest of all 792 cards that year. But I'll get on with it.

In '84, it was publicly revealed that Lonnie was seeking drug treatment. I took a lot of shit for that from friends, and from my brother, whose baseball hero is banned for life from the game for gambling. But Lonnie's manager, Whitey Herzog, said right away that Lonnie deserved credit for coming forward on his own to seek help. Lonnie returned to the club later in the year and finished with a .321 batting average for the season, his highest as a Cardinal. The next year, he was shipped off to Kansas City, and Whitey said that if the National League had employed the designated hitter, Lonnie would have died a Cardinal, but I still suspect those off-the-field circumstances had caused a public relations headache for the brewery, which owned the club at that time.

By 1988, when Lonnie returned to St. Louis with the Braves, he was still very popular with fans. I spotted him walking between the stadium and a parking garage after that Atlanta ballgame and set my pursuit. I was carrying the scorecard from the game, and that's what the various players had been affixing their signatures to, but you have to know, first, that this autograph endeavor had been a very discouraging process. For all the autographs I was getting, I was being refused or ignored by just as many other baseball luminaries. I was at the peak of my awkward teenage years, and most of the other guys competing with me for autographs were middle-age, heavyset, let's face it, fat individuals. As I followed Lonnie, I soon found myself crowded within a dense pack of jackals a pace or two behind the player, being pushed and elbowed from every direction. Finally, I lost my patience with the bullies. In a fit of desperation and fatigue, I reached forward, and slightly upward, with my right hand, scorecard to fingers...... (Fade out)


(Fade in)

What I remember best now, almost two decades later, is the horrific reaction, his head recoiling in pain, his lungs giving breath to a blood-curdling cry. I had stabbed my hero, Lonnie Smith, in the eye... with one of the sharp corners from my scorecard.

Oh, and the dirty looks I got. The other hounds were fearful my action would cause the All-Star outfielder to stop signing. But he didn't. He was a prince. He signed every item presented before him on his way to a friend's automobile-- the last item being my scorecard after I had cowered dejectedly to the back of the pack.


Anyway, gang, Lonnie is back in the news this week, under rather embarrassing headlines. It turns out I wasn't the only obstacle he was having to contend with during that Wonder Year of 1988. According to today's accounts, he was also trying to keep a lid on "murderous" impulses and a tenuous mental grip on reality. Believing he'd had him blackballed from the game, Lonnie says now he had considered an attempt to murder Braves general manager John Schuerholz.

Eighteen years sober now-- keep on keepin' on, Lonnie. I still love you, man, and am forever in your debt for your generosity and patience. I hope all of your old scars have healed, including the one on your retina I may have caused.

posted by CM @ 9:00 PM