My favorite memory about Bobby Higginson was when I first moved to the big city here and the Tigers were in town playing the locals. I was the guest of a magazine group in their suite at the park (back when graft for media buyers was still ascendant). The rep was a pretty good baseball fan and we chatted about this player and that team and whatnot.
At one point, when Bobby came up to the plate, I mentioned to the rep that this guy was going to be one of our big stars for a long time to come. The rep asked me, what’s this guy’s name?, and when I said “Bobby Higginson”, he collapsed laughing for several seconds, and when he composed himself sufficiently, he put on a snooty butler-like persona mocking his name: “Ooooh, Bobby Higgins! Mister ‘iggins! OOOOOOH!” while lengthening his face, holding an air teacup with his pinky extended, and using an exaggerated English accent. And everyone within earshot just cracked up.
What could I do? I could only laugh and nod and say, OK, Sox fan, you’ll see. You’ll see. I opted against correcting him on the last name, of course.
I was mostly right for a few years, anyway.