On the day before our vacation ended, while eating at Carmine’s Steak House, our waiter quietly informed us that Greg Maddux, who had pitched for the San Diego Padres in St. Louis that weekend, was sitting at the bar, and that perhaps we should say “Hi” on our way out. My dad and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to speak to who a future Hall-of-fame Pitcher. As we left the restaurant we both quietly told Mr. Maddux how wonderful he was and shook his hand. He was reserved, trying to go fairly unnoticed, but responsive and appreciative of our praise nonetheless. My dad and I were star-struck, and exchanged a high-five upon exiting Carmine’s. Come to think of it, that might be the only time I’ve ever high-fived my father.
The next day was the last of our trip. Before we went to the airport for our flight home, we decided to go to Pujols 5, the restaurant owned by the Cardinals’ first baseman. Maybe you’ve heard of him. I use the term "restaurant" loosely, it was more like a sports bar/grille, so it was fairly empty when we went inside at 11:00 AM. Shortly after we ordered, a group of 8-10 elderly folks, accompanied by one middle-aged woman, strutted in like they were a group of football players walking into a high school.
With them was the tiniest adult human I had ever seen, and definitely will ever see. He couldn’t have been much more than four and a half feet tall. He was incredibly frail, too. His fingers looked like they could be snapped into pieces like uncooked spaghetti noodles. “That is the smallest, oldest person I’ve ever seen!” I whispered to my sister across the table, who enthusiastically agreed.
We received our food as the tiny man’s group was finally getting situated at a table near ours. The wondrous little fellow was easily seen from my seat, and after many careful glances I had decided that he was of normal proportion, so he was not, in fact, a dwarf. He was wearing a navy blue baseball cap that was much too big for his head, perfectly complimenting his child-like size. His hat had red lettering which piqued my interest, but I knew I wouldn't be able to make out the words without staring like a fool.
I managed to focus on my food and my family’s conversation for several minutes, and briefly forgot about my curiosity. Suddenly a voice startled me, and I looked to the end of our table where the middle-aged woman was standing, with an apologetic look on her face, as if she were about to break the news of someone's death.
“Hey, guys. He wanted you all to know who he is,” she said. Out from behind her came the tiny old man. “Hello!” he said in his high-pitched whispery voice. I almost felt obligated to applaud. My family responded with brief “hey”s, with the exception of my father, of course, who has a tendency to match people’s enthusiasm. “Hello!” he replied.
“This is Mickey Carroll,” said the woman, as though she were introducing her drunk husband. She went back to her seat, leaving us alone with Mickey.
Mickey put a black and white photo down on our table. He pointed at it and said, “That’s me.” After straining my neck across the table to get a view of it, my mother handed it to me. The photo was of the cast of The Wizard of Oz, and one of the Munchkin’s faces had been circled. I looked back up at Mickey, whose now-legible hat read “Wizard of Oz”.
“Wow!” “That’s cool!” We all said. My dad knew what Mickey wanted to hear.
“So you were really in The Wizard of Oz?” he asked. Mickey nodded with a grin. He said something like, “Sure was,” but his ancient voice was tough to understand, especially with short sentences.
“Really?” my dad said, “That’s my FAVORITE movie!” (which I knew was a lie).
“Well, you are young at heart,” said Mickey.
Mickey continued to talk with us a few more minutes, answering my dad’s local news-esque questions. “What was it like working with Judy Garland?” “What was your favorite part of working on the movie?” “Were you ever in any more movies?”
Mickey told us that he had indeed talked extensively with Judy Garland, and that she had in fact helped him to get the job, or something. Like I said, much of what he said was tough to understand.
He went back to his table, but not before showing us a few dances moves which he claimed had been taught to him by Elvis Presley.
My family and I finished our meal, and when our waitress had taken our bill, Mickey’s announcer came back to our table with four copies of the photo we had seen before, complete with the autograph of Mickey Carroll himself. “Mickey wanted to know if you all wanted to take a picture him,” she said, continuing her embarrassed-wife-persona.
Here’s the photo (Mickey told us to lean our heads forward):
On our way to the airport, a discussion arose about whether Greg Maddux or a former Munchkin was more exciting to meet. Maddux is an eight-time all-star, won a World Series with the Braves in 1995, and was on the famous starting rotation that included Tom Glavine and John Smoltz. Mickey Carroll, though indeed part of one of the most beloved family films of all time was just one munchkin out of 124. Surely Greg Maddux was much more interesting to meet, we all agreed. But Mickey would probably beg to differ.
