Saturday Diary / Me and my good friend Buster the ball player

Saturday, June 26, 2010
By Anthony Fenech, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Do you remember me?"

On a list of questions that a professional journalist shouldn't ask a professional athlete, "Do you remember me?" falls somewhere above "Can you sign my notepad?" and somewhere below "Can I borrow a dollar?"

•

Two months ago, Buster Posey of the San Francisco Giants and I were in the bowels of Cashman Field in Las Vegas. He was in the minor leagues with the Triple-A Fresno Grizzlies and I was a reporting intern at the Las Vegas Sun.

We're both 22, and we're both learning on the job.

"So ... what ..." I began, near the end of the interview. "I mean, actually, I don't have another question, but I feel like I should ask another one. Have you been to Vegas before?"

"I came here last year," he said, "Last September when I was called up, so I didn't see too much of the town, was just over at the Golden Nugget."

Then he stopped himself.

"Wait. I don't know if you want to say Golden Nugget or not, you might have to think of something else."

I agreed. We laughed. Accidental commercial endorsement and all that.

But I did have another question on that hot, dry April afternoon, one that went unasked in the name of professionalism -- as if a conversation between a guy in a backwards baseball cap and baggy jeans and a guy in a straight baseball cap and cut-off shorts would have anything to do with professionalism.

"Should I pick you up on my fantasy team?"

Well ... the interview came and went, he hit the ball, I wrote the story, somebody picked him up on a fantasy team and I was left with Jason Kendall as my catcher.

•

Earlier this month, on June 4, Buster Posey and I crossed paths once again, and this time, I was determined to ask the borderline awkward question I didn't ask the first time.

The week before, Posey had traded in his Triple-A duds for a real-deal major-league uniform and, after hitting a shade under .475 in his first five games with the Giants, came to Pittsburgh for a weekend series against the Pirates.

Now reporting for the Post-Gazette, I stood inside the entrance of the visitor's dugout at PNC Park that Friday afternoon, awkwardly acknowledging the passing big-league players with eye contact and head nods, all the while wondering, would Buster Posey remember me?

Two-time Cy Young Award-winning pitcher Tim Lincecum walked by, looking ripped. One-time Cy Young Award-winning pitcher Barry Zito stood by, looking normal -- despite his $126 million contract.

Then there's Buster Posey. And me.

Posey works as a baseball player and gets paid in dollars, millions of them. I work as a reporter and get paid in academic credits, three of them.

But he's still got his baby fat. And I've still got some acne.

He's still a young catcher-turned-first-baseman learning on the job. I'm still a young sports-reporter-turned-news-reporter learning on the job.

•

From his locker in the back corner of the clubhouse, Buster Posey bounces toward the front to check out the batting practice lineup on the wall behind me.

I approach and extend a hand.

"What's up, man?" I say, more than ask.

"Hey," he answers, with an absent look on his face, shaking my hand.

He doesn't remember me. Can't.

"Do you remember me?" I ask.

He pauses. Stares blankly. Definitely doesn't remember me.

"I talked to you in Vegas," I continue, "Earlier this year when ..."

He cracks half a smile.

"Oh yeah," he says. "Yeah, I thought I saw you before."

We talk for a few minutes -- about his call-up, the big leagues, playing first base. I ask the obligatory follow-up questions, even though I already had the answer to the one question I really wanted to ask.

Yes, Buster Posey did remember me.

Kind of.