I had this vision of walking up to him, trying to get his attention as he busily supervised the practice. I'd start to talk in a kind of quiet voice and then there'd be a silence--no grimaces, no flying elbows, no squeaking sneakers, no dripping sweat--silence. Just all these basketball players looking at me while I asked Tom Sanders for his autograph. And then bang--everyone on the floor laughing, holding their sides to stop from dying.

This approach had its weak points.

"Ah, no thanks. I'll come back some other time, when he's in his office, alone...that is, uh, alone. Wouldn't want to intrude." And smiling I backed my way out of the I.A.B.

THE NEXT time I came back in the morning when all basketball players are busy studying and coaches are X-ing and O-ing definitive plays. In their offices. Alone.

I ducked into the I.A.B., filed a nod of recognition from the janitor, turned the corner, and walked straight down the corridor to Sanders's office. I was unsettled. His door was closed. It occurred to me that maybe coaches don't like to be disturbed when they're making definitive plays. Maybe they get bitchy.

I pondered, I hestitated, and...hell, I knocked...No answer. I knocked again and still no answer. This relaxed me. I knocked again nine or ten times just to make sure no one was in there hiding under a desk or something. Still no answer. I felt better. After all, the kid couldn't blame me if Tom Sanders wasn't there.

But ultimately I am a man of conscience. Slow conscience. Two weeks later I headed back to the I.A.B. I walked out of the gray afternoon and into the building--ignoring the janitor, turning the corner, and heading straight down the corridor for the crucial door.

It was open and Jesus Christ there he was. He didn't look as scary without Bill Russell beside him. He didn't look as scary with a polo shirt, sweater and glasses. He didn't look as scary sitting down.

But I was still pretty clammy. I panicked--Was it Tom? Satch? Tom "Satch" Sanders? Mr. Tom "Satch" Sanders, sir?

"Ah, hello...there. I'm a student here and I...ah, promised this kid from my hometown an autograph, ah, your autograph...and I ah, was wondering..."

He smiled. "How're you doing," he asked.

Jesus Christ, what does that have to do with anything, was the only thing I could think. However I managed an "I'm fine" as I pulled a sheet of folded (and by now slightly brown-from-age) paper from my pocket.

"His name is Roy Mastico."

Sanders penned a large "Tom 'Satch' Sanders" together with some best wishes. I thanked him. There was a pregnant pause, and I felt pressured to deliver:

"Ummmm...how's the basketball team look this year Coach?"

Creative.

I don't really remember how the basketball team is going to look this year. When Sanders stopped talking I thanked him and left.

I walked down the corridor, around the corner, past the janitor and out of the I.A.B. I was proud of myself. Ultimately I had handled the whole thing pretty smoothly--except I wished I had brought a second piece of paper with me.