In the mid 90s B and I were on the cusp of starting a rock and roll project that would take us further than we thought it would but not as far as we wanted once we saw what was in reach. We were cobbling together a band, learning cover songs and original songs that sounded like the covers, playing horrible bars in the Islands Long and Staten and glomming onto the actual music industry using whatever contacts we had.
B had a day job that offered some big media industry cred, I had no day job but a conspicuously curated contact list of insiders. A top shelf hanger-on, I could smile and charm my way into and out of just about anything, never ashamed of exhausting my welcome. Between the two of us we half-truthed our way into lots of guest lists and back stages with strings of drink tickets and buckets of beer. For us music had yet to reveal itself as a business; we were mid-stream crossing from gullible fan boys to semi-pro musicians, but mostly we were interested in drinking for free.
One of these times was a pre-show party for The Mavericks, a band we loved, at that time still new and mostly unknown north of Tennessee. Their label was hell bent on breaking them beyond the South, requiring a lot of trips north with parties, trying to influence a lot of so-called influencers like me and B. We’d hung around with the the band and their people before but this one time we were all packed into some midtown bar and there was a big older guy around with them and I was thinking to myself where do I know that guy from, did I work with him somewhere? But before I could figure that out one of the band members said, “hey, do you guys know Phil Niekro?” I was already drunk when his deeply lined, smiling face suddenly morphed and transposed itself back onto the Atlanta Braves baseball card I had as a kid. Phil was introduced as a big fan of country music and a bigger fan of The Mavericks. We sat at a table with the band and their manager, more Wild Turkeys appeared and Phil told stories about spring trainings and big baseball games and he passed his World Series ring around the table. Recognizing a baseball mark when he saw one, Phil encouraged me to go ahead and try on the ring. His famous knuckleball fingers were big and the chunk of jewelry slid over my finger with plenty of room on all sides.
I was pretty drunk but not so hammered that I didn’t remember that he was infamous for being one of those great players who never pitched in the World Series. But that ring was real. I’m pretty sure it was an Atlanta Braves ring from 1995. He said he was a coach in spring training so he got a ring. Everything is hazy so I’m not even sure if that part is true but I do know for certain that I had to pretend to think the ring was great while looking at that big Atlanta Braves A logo on the side of the ring. As a loyal Mets fan whose team sucked I deeply hated the Braves during their 1990s glory days when they were just destroying everyone. I kept that info to myself.
Phil paid for all the drinks and later on I saw him at the show in the crowd bopping along to The Mavs with everyone else. He signed something for me, a bar napkin, scrap of paper, a ticket stub? Something that I kept with me for awhile to prove my story was true.
