The young couple was sick of the interference. All afternoon, while they tried to enjoy the first Opening Day at Camden Yards from their right-field seats, media foot-traffic was obscuring their view of the diamond.
The fuss became unbearable in the top of the seventh when Gov. William Donald Schaefer walked through the aisle and plopped himself down next to the boy at the end of the row. The woman couldn't bear it any longer. Balancing on her husband's shoulders, she spotted a boy chatting with the governor. "Who is that kid?" she finally asked out of frustration.
The kid was me, Oriole-obsessed Ben Harrington, 10 years ago, at the tail end of the most exciting and crazy week of my life. In seven days, I had gone from being an anonymous Annapolis kid to the famous 10-year-old kid who wrote a bold, cute letter resulting in two game tickets compliments of Governor Schaefer. My wild ride included photographs and stories in The Sun andThe Capital, local television interviews, an interview on ABC's Good Morning America, and a continuing friendship with the former governor.
I had my 15 minutes of fame. Then, I became the rarer breed of celebrity - I got another 15 minutes of fame when I returned last month to Camden Yards. A decade earlier, some 44,000 fans packed the park for the game. At the game I attended in late May, some 24,000 fans showed. A decade earlier, I had taken my mother to the game. Last month, I took my girlfriend.
How things do change.
I heard it on the radio riding home from school in 1992. The governor, the radio announced, would be unable to attend Opening Day due to a legislative tie-up. My mother jokingly encouraged me to pursue what I called the "wasted tickets." I wrote the governor offering my services as a worthy Opening Day substitute. I appealed to his reputation as "a very generous man," and pledged my loyalty to the home team. Without letting anyone in my family read my letter - this business was between Schaefer and me - I sent the letter in an envelope marked "Urgent and Personal."
My plan made perfect sense. He couldn't go to the game. I could. My parents were less than optimistic. My mother was resigned to talking me through my pending disappointment. But on April 1, 1992, she received a telephone call from a press secretary for Governor Schaefer. An April Fool's prank, my mother thought.
"Cut it out," she said to an actual press secretary.
I was in the fifth grade at Indian Creek School in Crownsville. When school let out the next day, I picked up my little sister, Molly, from her second-grade hallway. "Look, Benny!" she said. "There's famous people here!" News trucks had pulled up against the curb of the school's parking lot. A lady in a suit with a microphone appeared.
"Ben," the TV reporter said. "Tell us about what you did."
"What?" I said.
"Tell us about the letter you wrote."
For a few desperate moments, I thought I was in the deepest kind of trouble. The reporter then mentioned Opening Day and my letter. The circus had come to town - my town of Annapolis. And I was the main event.
The breaking story changed my world. Everybody I knew (and didn't know) at school asked me about going to the game. The class bully was happy to play a board game with me as we attempted to ignore a TV camera set up in the corner of our classroom. My sister Molly - best friend and fiercest rival - revealed to one reporter: "I used to hate Ben, but now I think he's great!"
On game day, April 6, a limousine courtesy of The Capital picked me and my mother up from school. (My mom, Maureen Harrington, had won a coin flip with my dad.) My 300-plus schoolmates lined up on the front walk so the limo could pass by them. What am I doing in here with all these kids out there? I finally poked my head out of limo's sunroof and waved. The crowd went crazy.
New Oriole Park was stunning. We wandered over to the bullpen and watched the pitchers warm up. Oriole catcher Rick Dempsey heeded my plea for an autograph. "Give you an autograph? Haven't you gotten enough stuff already?" Dempsey said, jokingly.
Our seats were front-row, right-center field, and they were better than anything I'd experienced at Memorial Stadium. As it turned out, Governor Schaefer attended the game, and I got my picture taken with him.
The Orioles played their part. They shut out the Cleveland Indians 2-0. Rick Sutcliffe was the winning pitcher and 44,568 was the paid attendance.
I got in free, of course.
Once the first game was in the books, my fame faded but my Opening Day story clung to me. The governor and I maintained a friendship until he left office three years later.
He gave my family use of his field-side box for one game every summer. We continued to exchange letters. He invited me to his retirement party in 1995. And now despite our contrasting political views, his kindness and good cheer will always set the mark by which I judge the character of people in his profession.
My "Urgent and Personal" letter indeed had a shelf life. On my first day of high school, I fidgeted as my history teacher took 20 minutes in class to tell my well-traveled story. I went through my "Yeah, it was really great" routine while my new classmates watched me force my smile.
Later, when I applied at colleges, I wrote an essay on my Opening Day day. The essay helped me get into Middlebury College in Vermont, where I'm an English major.
On another critical front, it's also been an effective story to drop on a first date, if the conversation lags. I told it to my girlfriend, Rachel McConlogue, on our first date when I felt the pressure to impress. It worked.
She sat with me in our club seats along the first-base side on May 29 when we watched the Orioles play the Oakland A's. No limousine ride this time. I drove my black Chevy Blazer. No big crowd this time - something like 24,000 fans. But I didn't have to pay for the tickets this time either; The Sun asked me to go to a game and write about it and my earlier experience. This time, I dressed in preppy J. Crew duds for the game and photo shoot, instead of the Orioles cap and jersey I wore a decade ago.
It was a sweet, bittersweet feeling at Oriole Park in 2002. Yes, the park still felt magical, and the night was warm and breezy. Jeff Conine hit two home runs, and Sidney Ponson pitched well, and yes, the Orioles won big for my return engagement.
But where was everybody else? The upper decks seemed deserted, with room for everyone in the lower levels alone. It would be enough to break a 10-year-old kid's heart.
At 20, it broke mine.
Sun staff writer Rob Hiaasen contributed to this article.