the steve garvey affair
by Tod Goldberg
I am a baseball fanatic. What this means, in the most pragmatic sense, is that when I see real, live baseball players (especially first basemen for some odd reason) in a setting different from the playing field, I become a stalker and am often forcibly restrained by friends, civilians, and in one notable instance, Kato Kaelin – an incident that has become unfavorably known as The Steve Garvey Affair. This is my story.
My wife and I and another couple are enjoying a quiet $500 dinner at Trader Vic’s in Los Angeles when the entire OJ Simpson trial team and entourage arrive for a post trial day party and drink-fest. (Okay, the dinner wasn’t really $500 because at the time I didn’t even have fifty bucks in my bank account, but we were enjoying several tasty appetizers and I believe I was drinking an imported beer.) The litany of stars who arrived was long, many of them were ex-this or ex-that, most notably ex-guest star on the vaunted “Love Boat”/ “Fantasy Island”/ “Battle of the Network Stars” triumvirate but since we were jaded Los Angelinos, none of this impressed us much. That is, until Steve Garvey walked in, his hair perfect, the woman beside him gorgeous, his forearms still huge.
“Jesus,” I said. “That’s Steve Garvey.”
My wife craned her head. “Yep,” she said.
“I gotta go over there and shake his hand. He was one of my heroes when I was a kid. I mean, he’s a Dodger and I liked him, which is insane since everyone knows I hate the Dodgers and love the A’s and, I mean, I was bummed when he went to the Padres because, yeah, he looked wrong in yellow and brown and…”
My wife put a hand up to stop me. “You’re babbling. And you’re not going over there. Let the man enjoy his drink and meal.”
“Right,” I said, composing myself. “Right.”
The night wore on and our conversation veered towards whatever it is couples talk about when they are in their mid-twenties and embarking on that part of life generally filled with messy break-ups, unfulfilled employment dreams and difficult tax returns when I saw Steve Garvey excuse himself from his table to visit the restroom. I made my break.
“Gotta pee,” I told my wife, who then gave me the “we’re-in-public-why-did-you-say-pee” glare and I made my way to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but knew that, without a doubt, I was going to see Steve Garvey up close and maybe share a word with him.
Sadly, when I got into the restroom, Garv was clearly in a stall. I knew this because the other person in the urinal line said to me “Hey, I just saw Steve Fucking Garvey walk into a stall to take a crap. Can you believe it? Steve Garvey taking a crap!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Even the great ones have to go.”
“So true,” the guy said, shook off, and left without washing his hands.
 photo by Michele McCarthy |
I finished my business and decided to wait outside the bathroom, where I’d act surprised to see Mr. Baseball, congratulate him on a brilliant career and maybe invite him over to our table, back to our house, and into our guestroom for ever and ever, amen. So I waited. And waited and waited. Then, much to my surprise, Kato Kaelin walked past me and headed to the bathroom as well. Kato Kaelin and Steve Garvey in the same restroom is the kind of cosmic occurrence folks at places like The Globe and National Enquirer have to conjure up in their collective brain trusts and here I was witnessing it in present tense. Granted, it wasn’t as epic as the time I saw Parker Stevenson and Shaun Cassidy in the same restaurant, but one man can only ask for so much serendipity.
A few moments later, Garvey and Kaelin walked out of the bathroom together in mid-sentence. I heard the words “glove” and “Bronco” and “on-base percentage” and…okay, I didn’t hear any of those words, but I heard Kato say “excuse us,” when they nearly bumped right into me. I blurted out, “You’re Steve Garvey,” because, well, that’s what I said and moved in to shake the man’s hand.
“Easy champ,” Kato said and pushed me aside, thus allowing Steve to move past me and back to his table without interference or fear of kidnapping.
I’d see Steve Garvey two other times in my life – once trying on shoes at Bloomingdales and once buying some flowers from a florist next door to my grocery store – and each time he had a look on his face (granted, this look was formed as I approached all smiley and maniacal) that indicated he’d rather not engage in conversation with me. But that night was the end of the fatal attraction, especially after Kato kept telling a story to his group of friends that was punctuated by a thumb thrust in my direction and then uproarious laughter, as if me trying to bum rush Steve Garvey was in some way more funny than the mere fact that Kato Kaelin was, is, Kato Kaelin.
So my life has gone on. I’ve met Mark McGwire and comported myself well. I’ve won not one but two fantasy baseball leagues, I currently own a framed card set of the all-Genitalia baseball team (Rusty Kuntz, Dick Pole, Randy Bush, Danny Cox) and my wife lets me watch at least three games a week during the season, but somewhere, deep inside, right near the gob of old Topps cardboard bubblegum, rests an unrequited anger towards Steve Garvey that can only be satiated by him sending me a signed ball, a signed jersey, a signed bat and a fuzzy lock of Kato Kaelin’s hair. At your leisure, Steve, at your leisure.