Signed, Sealed, Delivered...Finally

The new York Times

July 17, 2008

By Doug Glanville

It was a joy to walk down memory lane…..

my alarm clock did not ring, nor did an alert beep from my cell phone text messaging system. Nevertheless, I knew it was time.

I’m a new father, and my freshly acquired nesting instinct told me that I finally had to address the basement closet full of dust-collecting memorabilia.

Previous attempts had failed, as thoughts of team yearbooks falling on my head discouraged all sense of motivation. But this new phase of my life pushed me over the top; necessity finally met readiness.

At least I knew what was in there. Old newspaper clippings, game balls from little league, every uniform I had ever worn, all adorned the slate-floored closet space. But the real treasure was unopened mail from when I couldn’t muster the energy to read every fan letter. Here lay the result of that exhaustion (with a twinge of laziness), in paper form.

If I were to put a number on it, I’d say that I probably signed 90 percent of my fan mail over the course of my career, and the remaining 10 percent I had saved over time at the end of each season. Even though I knew there would be moments like this when that 10 percent would be laughing in my face.

Still, most important was the sudden need for space to accommodate stroller accessories and broken bottle warmers. And all that stood in my way was fan mail from as far back as 1994.
Now that I think about it, maybe 10 percent was a low estimate.

So I went on the attack. I ripped boxes out of this paper graveyard and began opening mail at a frenetic pace. I had planned to open all the letters and then decide in each case what to do next. Answering them all was a possibility, but I reserved the right to toss some in the trash since, after all, a number of these letters were 15 years old. Also, I was on the clock: bulk packages from our Babies R Us registry were about to demand the extra closet space.

But I softened my stance when I thought about the 8-year-old fan happily receiving a letter from a player he once took the time to write to and request an autograph (such requests often involved baseball cards tucked inside self-addressed, stamped envelopes).

Then it sunk in.

That 8-year-old kid presumably graduated from college last year and in any case has probably moved five times since he wrote me. Besides, updating the postage from 1994 would force me to take out a second mortgage.

But I decided to continue, so that everyone who had taken the time to write would know, at least in spirit, that I read every single letter that was sent to me. Maybe the morning I mailed the mountain of replies, a smile would cross the collective face of my fan base.

The fun part was being able to paint a picture of my entire career through the eyes of others. People remembered the most subtle moments.

There was the story of a man who was wearing a halo following an automobile accident. I threw a ball to him before the game in an effort to lift his spirits, and after overshooting him I went back and threw him another baseball, this one landing softly in his hands. His wife took the time to write me a thank you letter.

There was the 9-year-old who told me to make sure I signed his baseball card by hand, demanding that I “write it [my]self — don’t stamp it.”

There was my self-appointed “Jewish mother,” who was upset that the Phillies weren’t selling jerseys with my name on the back. Not only did she write me, but she photocopied her letter and sent it to the Phillies front office. My jerseys eventually did end up in the gift stores, despite the fact that the photocopy of her letter intended for the front office ended up in my spam mail closet. (Shhh.... don’t tell her.)

For the most part, the mail was a wonderful collection of positive energy. Kids were inspired, teachers requested signed cards to reward students (sorry so late!), fans sent thank you notes for when I took just a split second to shake a hand or smile back. It was a joy to know how much doing what I loved to do really mattered to people, and to see it in written form.
I also shocked a few people by picking up the phone and calling them. One was a college teammate who wrote me during the Chicago Cubs playoffs in 2003. His wife answered, and she knew right away that I was calling because of his letter. Her husband, Tod Sweeney, a.k.a. “Sween Dog,” had always said in college that he would become a doctor and move back to Colorado, which he called his only true home. The business card enclosed in the envelope confirmed that he had done both.

Not all of the mail could be classified as “fan mail” per se. I served on the executive subcommittee of the players association, which was not a fan favorite in the near-strike year of 2002. One fan wrote a “plea” to save the baseball players with a mock fundraising campaign to help supplement our “exorbitant” salaries by donation. It was actually very creative and well researched.

There was also a missed opportunity: a grassroots organizer at my alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, wanted the O.K. to start the Doug Glanville Fan Club. Since I was ten years late in getting back to him, I guess I can give him the nod if he wants to start a post-career fan Facebook page.

One of my favorites was a guy from Ohio who was on disability and in jeopardy of defaulting on his mortgage. So he took the time to mail me his payoff letter with an address where I could donate money to his fundraising drive.

It was a joy to walk down memory lane arm in arm with the stories inside my fan mail. I had managed to save mail representing all 50 states, Guam, France, Japan, Canada, Bulgaria and Puerto Rico. As I cleared it all out, I saved a few of the letters so that, one day, my son could enjoy the stories and the gracious efforts of people who used to watch his dad play ball.
In some ways, this closes a big chapter in my life. After all, there will be no more fan mail, at least not because of a moment we shared on the baseball field that moved someone to write me. All of my uniforms are now neatly hanging in the closet (or in the nursery), never to be used again.

I hope a least some of my belated replies reach their intended recipients — from the collector in Brookings, S.D., to the woman in Tokyo who loves pink envelopes.

Either way, this is my small attempt to finish what I had started and give a little bit back, post-career. I hope the three weeks I have spent getting Sharpie marks and paper cuts on my hands and cleaning the post office out of 3- to 9-cent stamps will be worth it to the few who will receive back their self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Even if it is 15 years later.

And if they stumble ac article, I want to let them know that, despite the delay, I have always been thinking about them with gratitude. A small thanks for 15 years of letters inspired by playing this fan-friendly game while crisscrossing the United States, Canada and Puerto Rico. It was a quite a run.... and a heckuva paper trail.

New York Times 07/17/2008
http://topics.nytimes.com/topics/reference/timestopics/people/g/doug_gla...