Brushes with sports celebrities
by The INsite Staff

Tim McCarver
There seems to be a growing number of Tim McCarver bashers out there, but I can’t count myself among them. Even if he did get under my skin, he’ll always have a place in my heart for the time my drunken female friend spilled a glass of red wine on his white dress shirt inside Vox on Boylston Street. Not only did McCarver laugh it off, he sensed something in my friend’s stumbles and flirtatious ways. He likely had visions of her blue dress on the floor of his room at the Marriott, for Timmy boy put on some serious moves in an effort to turn that stained shirt into a roll in the hay. Unfortunately, my friend stumbled into a cab minutes later. McCarver was left to talk baseball with yours truly, which isn’t as exciting as a one-night stand with a bombed blonde. – Tony Lee

Mike Lowell
Like most 33-year-old writers, I generate income from doing something other than writing. Since 2003 I’ve served at the Full Moon restaurant in Cambridge, which specializes in family dining. It’s a real restaurant – not some swanky Back Bay joint where you might expect to find the jocks, the actors, and the wealthy Europeans. We get celebrities every now and then – I could tell you stories about Affleck and Garner, or former gubernatorial candidate Robert Reich – but for the most part, our clientele is anonymous working adults and their offspring.

So imagine my surprise when Red Sox third basemen Mike Lowell showed up not long ago. First impression: Dude is tall. He’s listed as 6-3 and that’s accurate. More importantly: Dude is courteous. Not an ounce of attitude. He is the anti prima donna. You can see, instantly, why his teammates love him and why he chose to stay in Boston for less money. I led him and his family (wife Bertica, their son and daughter) to a table and he thanked me when I set down the menus. That may seem like a small thing, but ask anyone who’s waited tables and they’ll reveal: “Thank you” does not come often. Same thing when I took his order: He said please, he grinned, and he quickly translated his kids’ hungry moans into menu items. During the meal a few pre-teen boys asked him for autographs. He smiled and complied without hesitation. He seemed flattered, rather than chagrined that, even in Cambridge, a fawning public could make inroads into his privacy.

I was taking orders at a nearby table when another autograph-seeker approached Lowell. My customers – who did not recognize Lowell but noticed his young-male magnetism – asked who he was. “He’s a baseball player,” I said, loud enough so Lowell could hear me minimizing his credentials. Of course I knew he was not just a baseball player, but a four-time all-star and the MVP of the 2007 World Series. But he was a patron, first and foremost, and I felt responsible for giving him a low-key dining experience. Yet no sooner had the words left my mouth than I worried – I actually worried – about whether my words had hurt his feelings. I looked back at him and he winked. And I was the happiest 33-year-old boy on the planet. –Ilan Mochari

David Cone
After his one season in Boston and before he attempted a comeback with the Mets, Cone made a series of visits to the bleachers at Fenway and Yankee Stadium, mingling with the commoners of the great rivalry.

A man who developed a reputation for playing hard on and off the field, Cone was sitting three seats from me drinking copious amounts of beer – none of which he needed to pay for – during a Sox-Yanks tilt at Fenway in 2002. After a few innings I actually began to feel bad for him. Between autograph requests and handshakes – more than a few from my crew – he barely had a second for himself. We figured we would back off a bit and let him enjoy the game. But a friend sitting behind home plate that night caught wind of Cone’s presence and called my cell to ask about it, at which point we pretended to pass the phone to Cone for a quick chat with my unsuspecting friend. Alas, it was only me pretending to be a two-time 20-game winner, saying hello in a twang that must have just passed for a Kansas City native.

My buddy still talks proudly about the day he talked to David Cone during a Sox-Yanks game. It’ll go to his grave, unless he sees this. – Tony Lee

Tedy Bruschi
I’d like to think that I can keep my cool in the face of celebrity. I didn’t do anything embarrassing when my friends and I ate lunch right next to Theo Epstein that one time. I thanked Trot Nixon quite nicely when I met him. So when I heard Tedy Bruschi was doing a signing for his book Never Give Up at the Brookline Booksmith, I figured I could keep it together, maybe say something charming and witty that would make him want to adopt me.

Mostly I just wanted to hug him. Bruschi was my first favorite Patriot. I came late to football and took the same approach to picking my favorite Patriot as I did when I was eight years old and decided Sid Bream was my favorite baseball player: I went with my gut. (Okay, Bream’s mustache was a factor too.) And then I learned the Legend of Bruschi. And after the Super Bowls and his amazing comeback, I just wanted to give him a hug. The info from the Booksmith stated Bruschi wouldn’t be signing footballs, jerseys, or babies – just books. But they didn’t say anything about hugging. I had my roommate in stitches for the weeks leading up the signing, showing her how fast I could do it: In, out, bam – like a ninja!

I waited patiently in line the day of the signing, clutching the hard-cover memoir to my “Full Tilt, Full Time” t-shirt. My roommate went before me and chatted eloquently with Bruschi about their Arizona connection, and how the book was for her mother. Our mutual friend told him to have a great season – and he smiled that vintage Bruschi smile.

And then it was my turn. And thing is, I just froze. Like a small child. His 24-year-old lady bodyguards did not look like they would tolerate a ninja hug. All cleverness escaped me. Bruschi grinned and signed my book and finally I squeaked out: “ThanksforbeingaPatriot!”

Coolness, thy name is Amy. –Amy Rossi

Robert Parish
If you have to meet an NBA center, taking an elbow in the back of the head is rather apt. Such was my meeting with the great Celtic, Robert “The Chief” Parish. We met in a concession area at Fenway Park, of all places.

It was a hot and humid night. I had planned to meet an old friend who was also at this game. We agreed to meet after the third inning at a food stand, just to say ‘Hi.’ This was in the days before cell phones – so we simply banked on each other showing up. Either my friend never made it to the game or went to another concession stand, for I never saw him. But just as I was about to give up and head back to my seat, I was clubbed in the back of the head. I turned quickly to see what it was – and perhaps start something with a lowly Sox fan. I certainly didn’t expect to find myself face-to-face with an exposed bellybutton, perched just above a skimpy pair of turquoise shorts. As I looked up, I saw he was wearing a black tank top…and looking further up, I found my gaze was fixed upon The Chief himself.

He was surrounded by an entourage that reeked of marijuana. I, of course, was dumbstruck. Parish, with a devilish grin on his face, uttered, “Sorry, little man,” and sauntered off. For obvious reasons, I can’t recall one pitch of the game that night. – Tony Lee