Autograph Adventures – Aaron Hernandez

May 4, 2012
Boston, Massachusetts

Inside the GNC store I staked my place in front of an unattended six-foot table wrapped with an electric green and white MusclePharm-branded skirt. A handful of customers milled about, browsing shelves of aggressively marketed pills and powders that promised to make you bigger, faster, stronger, longer. They seemed to be there to shop, oblivious to the evening’s event, a free autograph signing with New England Patriots tight end Aaron Hernandez. He was due in twenty minutes. I was the first—and only—person in line.

To my right a hastily photocopied black and white flyer in a plastic stand sat on a shelf announcing the event. Someone had scribbled out ‘May 4’ and had handwritten “TODAY!”. I looked around at the near empty store. I wasn’t sure the word was getting out. The fine print on the flyer outlined the terms of the signing. An autographed 8×10 was complimentary and required no purchase. But buy any MusclePharm product (except MuscleGel, a low ticket item) and Hernandez would sign any item of your choice. The most inexpensive qualifying product I found was a 300g container of MusclePharm Creatine for $27.99. I would be going home with a free photo.

Three pumped up brand representatives walked through the door and began to unpack heavy stacks of 8x10s and wallpaper-sized posters of Hernandez. Moments later they were greeted by the store manager and for the next several minutes they brainstormed how to increase foot traffic to the signing. The winning idea: a store clerk and one MusclePharm rep would stand on the sidewalk and look for patrons wearing Patriots gear. Once they spotted someone, they would inform that person about the signing.

Speaking as a marketer, this was a shitty idea.

“I think it’s really going to pick up once more people get out of work,” said the manager. “As you can see nobody’s here yet.”

I’m here, I said.

The manager spun his head and pointed a thumb over his shoulder, “Well, we got one person here.”

I suggested to the MusclePharm sales manager—a young man in his twenties who was clearly also a client—that they drag a couple of the mobile product stands out to the sidewalk and tape posters of Hernandez to each side. Then write “FREE Aaron Hernandez signing NOW” across them. That’s a good idea, he said before returning to folding his shirt sleeves precisely around his biceps.

With four minutes to go before Hernandez’s scheduled arrival, the line had now doubled in size—to two people. On the table a rep had laid out black and silver Sharpies, both poor alternatives for an 8×10 with a dark background (the black Sharpie because it’s black, the silver Sharpie because they don’t write well on anything). I slipped a silver SRX from my bag and tested it on a scrap piece of paper. The squiggle shimmered under the fluorescent lights. Perfect.

At 5:28 p.m. a black sedan pulled up outside the store and the football star emerged from the backseat. Hernandez wore a grey and white-striped rugby shirt with a number 10 on the back and I noticed his arm ink—conspicuous on the football field—also covered the tops of his hands. Standing six-foot-two and thick with muscle, Hernandez undoubtedly looked the part. But at the same time, it was a reminder of how…well, normal athletes look in person (the exception being basketball players over six-seven who, admittedly, look superhuman to me). On television they’re bionic, larger than life. They perform amazing feats of strength and athleticism. They are freaks. But standing in front of me, Hernandez is only an inch taller. By comparison, I am ten inches taller than my wife. (Incidentally, when I ask her if being around me gives her the same feeling I get in the grand presence of a seven-footer, she laughs.) Of course, height is just one of many data points by which an elite athlete can be measured. Hernandez also has an extra seventy pounds of muscle that goes a long way toward running over cornerbacks and flying into endzones. On second thought, maybe I should get a container of that creatine.

Hernandez was soft-spoken but friendly as he interacted with the employees and brand reps. He was handed a brand new black Sharpie and began signing the massive posters unfurled on the table. They are screen-printed on high-quality paper which doesn’t hold the ink well and the autographs are nearly invisible. A moment later there is a raucous at the door. A flood of children rush into the store, squeezing two at a time through the metal doorframe. An after-school program had been intercepted by the street team.

A boy about nine years old stopped in his tracks and stared at the table. “Is that really Aaron Hernandez right there?”

I said it was.

“Where does the line start? Here?” he said, pointed to my shoes.

I nodded.

He flashed a huge grin, revealing his braces. Donut powder covered his lips and most of both cheeks. “Yo, how ‘bout you hook a couple kids up?” he said, gesturing to himself and a friend.

“Well, if I hook you up I have to hook all of you up,” I said, shooting a look at his classmates still struggling through the entrance.

“I won’t say anything,” he said, peeling a zipper across his lips.

“I would but my wife doesn’t want me to be home late for dinner.”

Without missing a beat, he countered. “But wouldn’t your wife be proud of you for helping out a couple of kids?”

Valid point, young man.

“Come on, come on, this way!” said their teacher, who was furiously trying to corral thirty kids through the narrow aisles of GNC into something that resembled a line. The boy disappeared behind me into a sea of just about everything you wouldn’t want within arm’s reach of a child.

Hernandez finished signing the posters and I was given the go ahead to approach the table. Bystanders pressed cameras and cell phones up against the storefront glass as if they were shooting a zoo animal. I thanked Aaron for coming and extended my SRX expectantly. After he signed the promotional photo, I handed off my camera and leaned in for a picture. A MusclePharm rep held out his hand and told Aaron to remain seated—presumably to increase efficiency—and I craned myself over the table for the shot.

Outside I ducked into a doorway of a neighboring jewelry store to give my photo a chance to dry beyond the reach of the misty evening. I called my wife and told her I would be home in time to set the table.