If you knew my friend Pat Stadille, you wouldn't be surprised at his insistence that we "meet Hank again." In "Goodbye, Hank", I mentioned the first time we met him, and that was certainly a terrific experience, but this one was probably better.

At about 11:30 on Saturday, September 14, the two of us, joined by Pat's friend Cooper, a former student who's now about 18 and a nice young guy, headed for the mezzanine level, asking ushers to point us toward Paulette, another usher who's a friend of Pat's sister -- who told Pat, "Just tell her you're my brother, and she'll get you in to see Hank."

Well, one usher led to another, and to another, and to another, and finally we bumped into Shirley, who asked, "Is Paulette a friend of yours?"

"No," Pat said, "we just wanna see Hank, and she's our connection."

"Aw, heck," said Shirley, "I can get you in."

Shirley had us wait outside the broadcast booth. Pat, all giddy with anticipation, said, "Man, maybe they'll let us in the booth. It'd be cool if we could sit there during the game." (Pat's 33. Really!) And I said, "Dream on, pal," while secretly hoping for the same thing. (I'm 36. Really! All right, not quite, but on Thursday I will be.)

I told Pat that I felt as if I should be carrying a bunch of roses, because I felt like a stage-door Johnny. Or a Hank groupie, at least.

As we waited, a taller-than-you'd-think Ted Robinson sauntered by, with a nice "Hi, guys." His expression said, "Who are these guys, and why are they here?"

"Hey, Ted," Pat said, as if they'd been classmates.

Robinson disappeared into the booth, and Cooper said, "Was that Kuip?"

Then Shirley popped out of the booth and beckoned us in. Pat, of course, bolted toward her. In what I consider to be quite a gesture of magnanimity, I allowed Cooper to enter before me -- see, I'd met Hank before.

As graciously as you'd expect, Hank shook all our hands and thanked us for coming by. I said that we just wanted to let him know how much we've appreciated him and his work over the years, that we'll miss him, and that we wish him the best in his retirement. He thanked us, and said, simply, "Well, it's time."

("It's time for a change," I thought. "And when it's time for a change, think Speedy Oil Change and Tuneup...." Wisely, I didn't say anything.)

While hardly sobbing or anything, Pat was more outwardly emotional about Hank's departure than Coop and I chose to be. "I just don't know how they can replace you," Pat said. "Who're they gonna find with your interest in the game, your love for the numbers, the stories, the history?" Of course, I feel the same way, but I tried to appear cool and calm about the whole thing.

"Of course they're gonna replace me," Hank said. "But not everybody is confident enough to spout facts and figures to an audience, especially when he's brand new. It'll depend a lot on his personality." That had never occurred to me. Of course not just anybody can lay a historical anecdote on his listeners just like that, much less talk about certain pitchers of yore who won more games than they gave up walks. With some announcers, people'd turn the radio off without hesitation. With Hank, you listen -- but Hank eventually grew to have the confidence that his audience actually listened and learned from what he said."

Pat asked if Hank had read Jon Carroll's piece about him in the Chronicle -- a very good piece, albeit just like everything else you've read about Hank lately in that it talks about how much the writer will miss him.

"Yes," said Hank, "but you know something? Whenever I read something like that, I think, 'Who are they writing about?'"

"This is exactly why you have the following you do," I said. "Because you don't take yourself so seriously. When you downplay the positive things about yourself, people warm to it. And we appreciate it."

"And you've really taught us a lot about baseball over the years," Pat said.

"Oh," Hank said modestly, "I don't know that I've taught anybody anything."

"Well, you're familiar with the expression, 'to learn in spite of...'" I said, more or less.

I don't remember much else that was said. Pat and Cooper no doubt have very different impressions than I do. I remember Coop asking Hank what his plans were, and he said he'd be going to Europe for a few weeks before moving. "To Australia?" said Coop.

Hank seemed a little surprised. I was, because it was widely publicized that he'd and his family were moving to Florida. (In fact, Hank said they'd live in Naples, Florida, for half the year and in The City for the other half.) He said that they wouldn't go back to Australia (where he'd lived for a year or two, long ago) until 2000, when they'd attend the Olympics. (And to that end, the Giants bought him and his wife a pair of round-trip tickets.)

After wrestling with myself about whether I should even bring it up or not, I told Hank that there was a place in Walnut Creek that he might really enjoy. He cut me off and said, "I know the place you're talking about." But he mentioned something that sounded like a steak-and-brew house.

I said, "No, it's this place where a few guys get together and run this extremely elaborate model railroad a few days a month." Hank seemed underwhelmed. Feeling kind of silly, I continued, "I remember seeing pictures of you with model trains, and I know that trains are a big interest of yours...."

Lee Jones, the engineer, said, "I think I know the place," but I couldn't remember exactly where it was, so I felt as if I wasted about 90 seconds of our valuable booth time with Hank.

Finally I said to Hank, "You see the effect you have on your listeners? Here I am, somebody you don't even know, out somewhere on my own time, thinking, 'Boy, Hank Greenwald would really get a kick out of this." He at least got a chuckle out of that, so I managed to feel vindicated.

We all chatted a bit more, and then Hank said, "Well, guys, thanks for coming by. I really appreciate it." (That's how we knew the audience ended. It was kind of a relief for me, actually, because I was becoming increasingly concerned about wasting his time.)

He shook our hands again, and we wished him the best. We thanked Shirley on the way out, as well as any usher who happened to point us in the right direction.

"All right!" said Pat. "We met Hank! I told you we might get into the booth." He was like an eleven-year-old. We all were.

I don't know what Hank sees when awestruck fans visit him in his natural habitat (which, by the way, is much smaller than I thought it would be). I tend to think that, among adults, there's not enough childlike joy, amazement, wonder, call it what you will; I'll never know, but I like to think that Hank sees that in us, and in the other fans he meets, and that he feels pretty good about putting smiles on people's faces.

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