Thanksgiving of 1992. My girlfriend and I were traveling with two friends from LA to San Antonio to visit her parents. We flew Southwest, which at the time, had a few rows of seats that faced each other, so families could sit together. The four of us found one of these sections, and sat there with one other guy. Well, at one point on the flight, my buddy said something really idiotic, and so I blurted out, "Oh, shut the f*#k up". Well, at that precise moment, the pilot cut the engines back, and so that word kind of reverberated around the cabin and I noticed that the ten year old boy with the family across the aisle whipped his head around faster than an owl tracking a mouse. I felt like a heel, but didn't say anything more except mouthing "sorry" to the kid. About 20 minutes later, the guy who was in the row with us said to me, "If you were one of the richest players in baseball, would you fly Southwest?" I asked what he meant, and he just pointed to the father of the family, who was sitting in the seat to my right, just two feet away across the aisle. Orel Hershiser. Needless to say, I struck up a conversation with him, and we chatted for a little while. He ended up signing an autograph for the guy in our row. Took about five minutes to craft the autograph. I've never seen a player take so much time to write his name on a piece of paper. He put a lot of care into it, and it was rather iconic looking. I didn't ask him for one, simply because he was with his family and I felt bad enough about the F-bomb I had dropped earlier.