Edwin Jackson: The Tiger that got away

Agitated Usher Guy makes sure fans go home unhappy

By Randy Johnson

OAKLAND — I got into this business because I was a sports fan first.

I still am, and I never won’t be.

So when I’m not working — heh heh, “working” — at a game, I am a fan.

Meaning, I put on my team’s hat, I boo, I cheer, I hang out with the masses and try to get arrogant, overpaid guys to sign stuff for my memorabilia collection.

Basically, everything you can’t do in the sterile, boring, sleep-inducing, airtight structure known as the press box.

I strike out way more than I succeed, but it’s the thrill of the chase and the sweet feeling of victory when I bring a signed memento home.

Like in 1996, when I went to a Sacramento Kings game and got Philadelphia 76ers rookie Allen Iverson and second-year star Jerry Stackhouse to sign my program ...

They were the most awesome young duo in the NBA, and suffice it to say I was mesmerized.

My dad still laughs at the image of me huffing and puffing on the cover to help the ink dry as I made my way back to our seats.

Sure, I’m not 14 anymore, and I guess I should do more “grownup” things at baseball games like read a book or check my portfolio on my laptop or yap incessantly on my cell phone.

Oh wait, that’s just Giants fans.

Ouch. Zinger!

Nah, that’s OK, I’d rather do my thing.

So this past Tuesday night, for the second year in a row, I took my cousin and fellow Michigan native Justin to the Oakland A’s-Detroit Tigers showdown in Alameda.

And man, we were ready. We got there about an hour before the game while Detroit was still taking batting practice.

Justin’s three boys — Jake, Toby and Alex, ages 9, 7 and 4 — were decked out in Tigers gear from head to toe, and we made our way down to the area right behind the visiting dugout.

We joined the small throng on hand, and you can wait there until the team finishes up and heads down the tunnel to the clubhouse.

At that point, the ushers shoo you back to your section, but if a player stops and signs, they will wait patiently until he is done.

Now, before last year’s game, Tigers center fielder Curtis Granderson hooked us up, signing our ticket stubs.

He must have mingled with the fans for a good, solid 20 minutes, and we never had any problems with the ushers at all.

He was very friendly and it was a fun experience, especially for my cousin.

We even stored the stubs in my personal pizza box for safekeeping during the game.

When I offered to store my cousin’s ticket in the pizza box, he asked, “Isn’t it all greasy in there?”

“No,” I replied, “I wiped it out with these napkins and laid some extra ones in there. You’re dealing with a professional here.”

Anyhow, flash forward to Tuesday.

The Tigers basically told the fans they would sign after batting practice, and then they stood in small groups in the outfield for a half an hour with their arms folded and looked at us like we were a bunch of morons.

Fair enough.

Then, when BP was over, they all headed toward the dugout.

Various fans cried out to their favorite players — “Miguel! Magglio! Placido! Carlos! Rick!” — to no avail.

I was the “Rick” guy, by the way, as in Detroit rookie pitching sensation Rick Porcello.

(Get ’em while they’re young, I say, because when they get older they tend to forget who actually paid for their Ferraris.)

Some guys waived, some guys didn’t look over at all, but they all snubbed us and retreated into the bowels of the Coliseum.

Even Granderson walked on by, though the Michigander next to me — I can always tell by the accent — said that he signed a lot before Monday’s game.

So, he gets a pass.

Anyway, as I was making my way back to our section, I noticed that Tigers pitcher Edwin Jackson had paused right by the entrance to the tunnel, out of sight of the masses, to sign a few real quick.

So, I bee-lined back across the rows to the side of the tunnel to see if I could snag Jackson’s John Hancock.

This definitely got the attention of one high-strung usher in particular.

Now, some caveats before the rest of the story:

• It was still 35 minutes before the game.

• I was not climbing over or pestering any other fans to attempt this feat. The closest fans were at least two rows away.

• There were a total of about three other people waiting for an autograph, meaning I would be in and out of there in a minute or less.

OK, we continue.

I was reaching over the rail with ball and pen in hand — Jackson’s signature highly imminent — when this particular usher started chirping, ‘Sir! Sir! You need to return to your seats!’

I politely yelled back that I would be out of his hair in less than a minute, and suddenly he detonated and called for Code Blue.

“Security!” he started shouting, pointing at me.

I turned around to see if there actually were any uniformed personnel on their way down, and by the time I turned back around, Jackson kind of looked at me like, “Sorry, man,” and headed off into the aforementioned bowels.

“Fine, I’m going,” I reply to Agitated Usher Guy.

But like all good power-hungry types, he still can’t let it go.

“You obviously don’t understand the rules, sir,” he challenges me, no actual security in sight.

“You obviously don’t know how much I paid for tickets and parking, sir,” I reply — which is ironic, because I got them for free.

I know people, OK?

“It doesn’t matter, sir. Rules are rules,” he lectures me.

(Keep in mind, this is all happening as I am trying to vacate the very area that he has asked me to. The only thing keeping me from leaving is Agitated Usher Guy himself.)

“OK, I’ll tell that to my kids who didn’t get their ball signed,” I say as I vacate the Code Blue zone.

Which is also ironic, because one of my kids was at home with Mommy and the other one hasn’t been born yet.

She’s on the way, though ...

Now, to be fair to Agitated Usher Guy, he probably deals with yay-hoos like me every day during the full 81-game home schedule for the A’s.

He probably doesn’t have a very long fuse for antics like that.

Accordingly, I know I have just set a terrible example for kids with this very column.

So kids, don’t grow up and act like I did Tuesday night.

But do me a favor, if you grow up to be an usher, please relax a little bit and enjoy the sunshine.

Sports Editor Randy Johnson can be reached at rjohnson@napanews.com or 256-2222.

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