01:00 AM EST on Sunday, December 19, 2004

PROVIDENCE -- P.T. Barnum, who said "there's a sucker born every minute," once had an act where two midgets named Tom Thumb and Lavinnia Warren were on display.

This was in Bridgeport, Conn., Barnum's hometown, and as the crowds flocked to see what was billed as the smallest couple in the world, there was only one problem. People simply stopped and stared too long, thus creating long lines.

What to do?

So Barnum, according to the book Chase The Game, put a sign over the couple's head. It said, "See the Egress," with an arrow. The crowd followed the arrow, only to see another sign leading them to the "Egress," then another that said, "Approaching Egress." To one last sign that said, "At last, the Egress."

At which point the people went through a door that led them to the street, "Egress" being from the Latin word for exit.

I was thinking of that yesterday at the Convention Center, at something called "The Sox Spectacular," where a handful of Sox players -- highlighted by Manny Ramirez and Johnny Damon -- were on display.

For a price.

Or how does $175 for a signed ball sound? Or $250 for so-called premium items?

After you pay the $20 entrance fee, of course.

This way to the Egress.

The obvious question is why do men who make millions charge big appearance fees to meet their fans? Why do men with rich and famous lifestyles feel the need to gouge the very fans whose allegiance ultimately pays for their lifestyles?

The simple answer?

Because they can.

The other answer?

Good ol' American commerce, I suppose. What the market will bear.

And there's no question there's a market. By all accounts Red Sox memorabilia is all but jumping off the shelves, as everyone wants to feel a connection to this team that won its first World Series title in 86 years. There's also a huge memorabilia business out there, one that's independent of the Sox winning the World Series. Combine the two and you have the "The Sox Spectacular."

Just don't forget to bring your wallet.

And yet there was something sad about yesterday's show.

Like the woman who said she couldn't afford to get Johnny Damon's autograph for $175 and had to settle for Doug Mirabelli's, which only went for $30.

Like the woman with two little kids in Manny jerseys who had forked over something like $460 for his autograph, and was still waiting at 2:15 even though Manny was supposed to have been there at 1 o'clock.

Like the innumerable people who had to stand behind the cordoned off autograph area, nearly 50 yards away from where the players signed, if they didn't spring for the autograph fee.

For these are the people who make the Red Sox such a phenomenon, the ones who give their hearts to it, make these players the stars they are. It's the fans who made the Sox finally winning a world title such a wonderful story, the ones who are there year after year as the players come and go. The fans, and their long-suffering wait, who became almost as much a part of the story as the players themselves.

And yet yesterday the only thing that seemed to matter was how much? How much for Manny? How much for Damon?

How much?

As if even affection comes with a price tag.

You could see that with Damon's appearance.

He came out to cheers, even if the size of the crowd shortly after 1 o'clock was only a few hundred people, far less than what I'd been led to believe. He sat down to sign, and the people who had bought the autograph ticket started going through the roped-off funnel that led to Damon, like parishioners on their way to Lourdes.

The others stood behind the barricade. They waved. They took pictures. Occasionally, they yelled out to Damon. In the end, though, it all seemed about as intimate as trying to find a date on the Internet.

And when Damon was finally finished, he stood up, waved a few times and disappeared through the curtain.

Couldn't he have walked along the perimeter and shaken some hands? Couldn't he have done something to acknowledge the people not in the autograph area before vanishing through the looking glass?

Guess not.

And maybe it doesn't matter. Certainly it doesn't when you are 12 and you're name is Aaron Granoff and you and your friend are here because you pleaded with your mother to take you.

But then, you're 12.

And I know that no one's putting a gun to anyone's head to pay for an autograph. And I know you can make a case that the players are simply trying to cash in on a business in which someone is always trying to rip off their signatures. But take away Bronson Arroyo and these are the same players who couldn't find the time to come here when the Red Sox brought the World Series trophy to the State House lawn, back when there was no appearance fee.

So when when I left the Convention Center yesterday I wanted to take a shower, anything to wash away the slime of naked commerce. To wash away the sight of overpaid players, who should get down on their knees and kiss the feet of the fans, instead of charging people who adore them too much. And the people who want to give someone who makes $20 million a year $195 for his autograph?

This way to the Egress.