THE L.A. OPEN : The Name’s O’Grady--and It Is Not for Sale at Any Price

“A Sports Fan’s Dream,” reads the ad in The Times sports section. What is a sports fan’s dream? This particular version is a baseball card show, with special guest stars Reggie Jackson, charging $9 an autograph, and Nolan Ryan and Tom Seaver, each getting $8 an autograph.

Sports fan’s dream? Not this sports fan. Personally, I hardly ever dream of collecting a famous player’s autograph.

Even as a kid, if I ever dreamed this dream, in my dream I’m sure the famous player never scribbled his name and asked me, “Cash or charge?” I would have remembered.

But it has come to this, ballplayers selling their autographs. The way it works is a promoter stages a card or hobby show, and hires a famous ballplayer to drop by and sign autographs, for a fee.

At this particular show the promoter will sell 2,000 Reggie tickets at $9 each. Each ticket is numbered. You wait your turn, then when your number is called you step up and get your autograph.

Your $9 goes to the promoter, who will pay Reggie $25,000 to spend four hours signing the 2,000 autographs.

Possibly because their names are shorter, Ryan and Seaver will be paid less, but please don’t tell them.

You, the fan, must supply your own signing material--a ball, bat, baseball card, or 8 x 10 photo of the star. The photos will be on sale at the show for about $2.

Sound a little cold? Not quite like the old-fashioned autograph experience? The one where you dog the star outside the clubhouse, he signs your program and tousles your hair?

This personal contact, however brief and superficial, was the thing that made the signature worth something, even if it was illegible.

For one tiny moment, you were close to Mr. Hero. He stopped to sign your program. In a small way, he was telling you thanks for your part in making him rich and famous, and you were paying your respects.

But this new concept of selling autographs, this is business. Most of the autograph hounds at these shows are collectors, or investors. Speculators, actually. To them, the signatures are as sentimental as pork belly futures.

It’s like the old Woody Allen line. Allen lovingly fingers his pocket watch, saying fondly, “My father . . . on his deathbed . . . sold me this watch.”

This is not to impugn the character or integrity of the athletes who sell their signatures. Jackson, for instance, spends more time visiting kids in hospitals, secretly and for no fee, than he spends signing autographs for money. And Ryan is probably the nicest, straightest shooting guy in sports, and another charity workhorse.

Besides, these guys, I’m pretty sure, give out tons of free autographs to kids who dog them outside clubhouses.

So why begrudge them the opportunity to earn an honest extra buck, or an extra 25,000?

Still, it seems like some things should not be for sale. Remember the famous Coca-Cola TV commercial, where Mean Joe Greene tosses the little kid his jersey? It wouldn’t have been quite as touching if Joe had said, “Here kid. For you, 10 bucks.”

I don’t want to come off too pontifical here. If these card show promoters want me to come down Saturday and sign a few autographs, I’ll work a lot cheaper than Reggie. I’m also looking for a shoe contract.

It’s not as if these ballplayers are selling drugs, or government secrets. Endorsements and things like autograph signings are a way of life.

Joe DiMaggio is now Mr. Coffee. It would be nice if he were still known as the Yankee Clipper, but Joe has made a lot more money selling coffee than he ever made snagging fly balls, and who am I deny this great sports figure a comfortable life?

I’m just glad Babe Ruth isn’t around these days to endorse Tums or Lite beer.

Every athlete sells something. Or so it seems. I only know of one exception.

His name is Mac O’Grady. He is a golfer. He won the MONY Tournament of Champions last month, and is playing in the L.A. Open this week.

Mac is highly visible, controversial, and marketable. He could run his fame into a lot of endorsement money, but he is flaky as French pastry. And he is not for sale.

“I take no money from nobody,” O’Grady says flatly. “I’ve been that way for four years (his time on the Tour), and if I won the U.S. Open tomorrow, I still wouldn’t do it.

“I’ve got no delusions about trying to be America’s corporate sweetheart and getting burned out three years down the road. I love being my own guy. And I don’t like the professionalism. Tolstoy wrote about it. You go in there and everything is so contrived.”

So Mac makes no guest appearances, endorses no products, pastes no corporate logos on his golf bag. When he wins money in a pro-am event, he immediately forks it over to charity.

O’Grady says a friend who works for a major fast-food corporation told Mac the company would name a hamburger after him if he signed on. “Forget it,” O’Grady says. “I’m not eating that junk, and I don’t care how much money you offer me. And I’m not drinking Pepsis or Cokes or anything else. OK, fine, I’m self-righteous and I’m idealistic, but I’m not going to lower my standards. I just don’t want to be polluted by commercialism.

“How much money do you need?”

I assumed that was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer it.

O’Grady’s crusade against commercialism isn’t likely to be joined by many, and maybe it won’t have much impact on the world. But this sports fan will sleep just a little better knowing he’ll never turn on the TV and see his favorite golfer smiling and saying, “They call me Mac O’Chapstick.”

By the way, at the card show Saturday, they will honor Visa and MasterCard.