One summer day back in the mid-1960s, my older brother and I were at a baseball game in Cincinnati, in a ballpark that no longer exists.

My mother had driven the three of us so that I could see Willie Mays play.

I had a pristine, white baseball on which I had a few autographs. (Still have it.) My brother was going to leave our box seats and head up to a concession stand. He took the ball, in case he saw someone who should sign it. Sounds crazy. But our thinking at the time must have been "You never know."

When he came back he was embarrassed to report that he had gotten an autograph all right. Problem is, it was not someone either of us had heard of.

People had been clustered around this man in a suit and my brother thought the center of attention might have been Jackie Robinson.

Instead, the signature read "Joe Black."

As I recall, I was less than gracious.

Joe Black later came down to the rail by the playing field and I saw him. Some of the Reds and Giants walked over and greeted him. That was my first glimmering that he must have been somebody once upon a time.

Reading about him after that summer day in Ohio made clear that he had been a fine player who had been a really good man.

When my brother was still alive, I occasionally reminded him of the time he thought he saw Jackie Robinson. And how I gave him so much grief about his error. 

There are the signatures of some star players on that ball. But over the years, Joe Black's became my favorite autograph.

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