That's Mickey Mantle, putting on his jacket after leaving his car. He's in the player's parking lot, across the street from the Stadium. That door just visible over Mickey's right shoulder is the player's entrance to the Stadium. Notice the iron pipe railings to the right of the door.
OK, let's set the scene. It's late August, 1967, and the Yankees are playing a day game. It's a hot, humid, summer-in-the-city weekday, and my friend Howie and I are bored to tears. So, we decide to walk to the Stadium, about a mile away, wait for the game to end, and get some autographs--you could do that in those days. Mantle had been playing first base, but was pulled in the third to save his legs. We're walking to the Stadium, listening to the game on our transistor radios, when Steve Whitaker--remember him?--homers. I've got a brand-new, snow-white American League baseball with me, and I tell Howie that if I see Whitaker after the game, I'm gonna tell him it's his home run, and have him sign it. (I didn't know back then that game balls are "rubbed up," and are no longer white.)
We get to the Stadium. It's the seventh inning, and absolutely nobody is around the player's entrance. So, I sit down on the iron-pipe railing to the right of the door, my back to the Stadium, facing across 157th Street and the player's lot. Howie takes the same position on the railing to the left of the door. After a few minutes, a guy leaves the Stadium, through the player's door. As he passes me, I can only see him from behind. He's big, blond, wearing a red polo shirt, and the back of his neck is a mile wide. Holy shit--it's Mickey Mantle! By the time I realize who it is, he's across the street, and just entering the parking lot through that door in the chain-link fence you can see above.
I run after him, waving my baseball and pen, screaming "Mickey, Mickey, please--I'll never have this chance again! Please, Mickey,..."
He slams the door in my face, and walks to his car. I run down 157th Street, to the gate where the cars exit and enter, and I'm standing there as he drives out. He stops his car, rolls down his window, takes the ball and pen, and places a beautiful signature on the sweet spot.
I still have that ball, and always will.